No one marched ahead of Ragnar.
The path to Hrafnvargr Holt wound through the old forest like a scar carved by time. Warriors, elders, and common folk followed in a long, silent procession, but none dared walk before the Pack that led them.
Roots coiled through the earth like sleeping serpents. Moss clung to broken stone. Frost bit gently at the edges of breath, though dawn had barely claimed the sky. Even the wind seemed to hold its tongue.
No drums beat.
No horns sounded triumph.
Only the sound of footfalls. Many — but it felt like there was only one.
Ragnar.
He walked with the inevitability of a storm advancing over open sea, each measured step carrying him closer to the place destiny had been waiting. His single eye was fixed forward, unblinking, unreadable.
Beside him, Eivor matched pace, quiet but coiled, her fingers brushing occasionally near her spear haft like a lover's reminder. Behind them, Hakon moved with steady purpose, Brynja with a smile that promised delight in the violence to come. Sigrun walked last of the five, her gaze heavy with the weight of fate recognized.
As they neared the tree line's end, murmurs rose like fearful prayer among those who followed.
And then the Holt revealed itself.
Hrafnvargr Holt.
An ancient arena laid bare in a circular clearing, ringed by eight towering stone pillars blackened with age. The carvings etched deep into the stone were half-swallowed by time, yet still visible in the morning light:
A wolf devouring the sun.
A raven perched upon a dying king's helm.
The coiled serpent encircling the roots of Yggdrasil.
A shield cleaved in two.
A burning sword raised in oath.
A lightning-struck spear pointing skyward.
A twisted knot of blood and bone.
And on the eighth pillar, a wolf and raven entwined in mid-hunt — a symbol some swore had never fully taken shape until now.
The arena floor was flat stone and packed earth, worn smooth by centuries of combat. Around it stood the ring trench — shallow, but stained a deep, eternal brown where blood had once flowed freely enough to fill it.
This was no place of sport.
This was a place where kings were tested, and pretenders were buried.
The crowd fanned out to take their places: Earls in designated seats carved from stone, nobles standing near them, housecarls forming a perimeter, and commoners and trainees filling every vantage point allowed to them.
Torva and Sigurd were pressed among the younger watchers near the edge of the clearing. Neither blinked as Ragnar emerged into full view of the Holt, his braids moving faintly in the breeze like the banners of old warlords.
A stir rippled through the assembled like a field disturbed by wind.
No horn announced him.
No herald cried his name.
But there, in the hush of the Holt, people whispered it anyway:
"Ragnar…"
"…Vargrson…"
"…The Wolf…"
Ragnar did not look to either side.
He stepped across the boundary stone and stood at the edge of the circle without hesitation.
He did not bow.
He did not raise his arms.
He simply stood.
And already, the stones remembered him.
The murmur of the crowd shifted as another party approached the edge of the sacred grounds.
Eirik Sigvaldsson did not step forward immediately.
He arrived—but arrival did not equal entrance.
He was surrounded by six housecarls, each armored in polished steel, their shields shining with the fresh paint of his crest. Eirik himself wore ornate, newly-forged armor chased with gold—a Thane's pride hammered into metal. Too many layers, too much weight. It looked more like a desperate shield against fear than a warrior's second skin.
His sword hung at his hip, jeweled hilt gleaming unnaturally. His shield, reinforced and spotless, had never seen the kind of blows Ragnar had survived.
Some in the crowd admired it at first glance.
Others, seeing Ragnar standing bare-armed save for runed wraps and simple duel leathers, began to question whether all that polish might shatter under something raw and ancient.
Eirik's jaw was clenched too tight. His eyes flicked toward the circle, then to Ragnar.
Ragnar hadn't moved.
Did not even seem to register him.
It was as though Eirik were not even an opponent, but simply… the obstacle fate placed in Ragnar's path.
Eirik swallowed.
It felt loud.
He forced his feet to carry him forward, his entourage matching step. But the closer they came, the more the Holt pressed upon them. The stones did not welcome him.
When he finally came into clear view beside the circle, Ragnar still hadn't turned his head.
And that wounded Eirik more than any insult could.
A small ripple of whispers traveled through the stands:
"He looks… smaller."
"That armor weighs him down…"
"Why does he not step forward?"
"Even his men seem uneasy…"
One of his housecarls glanced sideways, making the sign meant to ward off evil spirits. It did not go unnoticed.
Eirik stepped closer… and Ragnar still did not face him.
Then, slowly, Ragnar turned his head—not fully, not sharply, but just enough that Eirik found himself locked in the single, storm-cold eye of the man he swore had died long ago.
A chill raced down his spine.
And in that moment, beneath the sky, surrounded by carved stone gods and bleeding history…
Eirik Sigvaldsson finally understood:
He had not come to fight a man he once wronged.
He had come to stand before the living consequence of his lie.
A horn sounded—not a warhorn, but a single, somber note carved for judgment.
The crowd quieted as Earls Gunnar Vargr and Ivar Hrafn stepped forward to stand before the ancient stone arch marking the entrance to the circle.
Between them stood Thane Viggo Stormhand, now not as warrior, but as Law-Speaker — his voice bearing the authority of tradition older than both earldoms.
His weathered face was stern, carved deeply with lines from war and wisdom. When he spoke, his voice carried like a hammer across stone:
"By right of our ancestors, by rune and oath, this Holt awakens to witness truth. Two men stand: one accused, one challenger. One trusted, one doubted. Before gods and clans, blood shall decide which is false."
He turned toward Ragnar.
"Name yourself before the Holt."
Ragnar stepped forward one pace.
"I am Ragnar Vargrson," he said, voice ringing steady. "Born of Clan Vargr. Accused of crimes I did not commit. I return with lawful claim of Holmgang against Eirik Sigvaldsson."
Then Viggo turned to Eirik.
Eirik swallowed hard. "I… am Thane Eirik Sigvaldsson," he answered stiffly. "Holder of land, title, and honor—"
"There is no honor here until blood judges," Viggo cut flatly.
Eirik flinched.
The Law-Speaker continued:
"By ancient law, Ragnar Vargrson has named Holmgang for false witness, attempted murder, and sabotage of trial. This challenge was issued before his disappearance and remains unanswered. Do you accept the circle, Thane Eirik?"
Silence stretched. Eirik's lips thinned.
He could not refuse.
To do so would instantly brand him coward in every ear present. He would lose title, respect, everything. His only hope lay in steel.
"I… accept," he forced out. His voice tried for strength but came out too sharp, too brittle.
Viggo nodded.
"Terms have been set by Ragnar Vargrson as challenger. By law, they are to be spoken now for all to hear, so the gods may mark them."
Earl Ivar motioned, and a scribe stepped forward with carved slate to record the terms into stone.
Viggo's voice deepened:
"Upon victory, Ragnar Vargrson claims:
The life of Eirik Sigvaldsson by lawful right of Holmgang.
Restoration of his name and honor.
Legal recognition of his pack as free warriors, not oathbreakers.
The title, land, and station of Thane taken from Eirik.
The right to publicly name Eivor Caldersdottir of Clan Hrafn as his chosen Mate without challenge.
And private audience with both Earls after blood is settled."
The crowd's reaction came not as shouts—but as a rumbling hush thick with disbelief, fear, and breathless awe.
Viggo turned to Eirik.
"Do you accept these terms should you fall in defeat?"
Eirik hesitated. His throat bobbed. He could try to negotiate… but to do so would look weak. And everyone was watching.
"I… accept," he managed.
The Law-Speaker then turned to Ragnar.
"And should you fall, Ragnar Vargrson, you forfeit life and legacy, and your pack shall be declared oathbreakers and cast out."
Ragnar nodded once. "Agreed."
"And so," Viggo declared, raising his hand toward the sky, "we bind these oaths before gods and stone. Let no man interfere. Let no god deny."
A soft wind moved through the Holt, threading itself through the ancient carvings. Torva shivered. Sigurd swallowed, eyes wide with reverence and fear.
The Earls stepped back, taking their places as witnesses of rank.
The circle was now open only to truth—and death.