The Law-Speaker's voice faded into silence, leaving only the wind and the pulse of the crowd.
Ragnar stepped forward to the weapon rack set at the edge of the circle — an ancient stand of blackened oak set beneath the carved eighth pillar, the one bearing the intertwined wolf and raven. The Holt did not simply allow weapons inside; it demanded they be chosen here, beneath witness.
He reached out and chose his first weapon: a heavy, single-edged axe with a haft darkened by age and countless hands. It was not ornate, not decorated — but perfectly balanced, as if made for his grip alone. A round wooden shield followed, iron-banded, unpainted. Plain. Honest. Ready.
He did not look at Eirik.
He turned — and Eivor was already stepping toward him.
No words were spoken to announce her. She simply moved like she had always been meant to stand beside him in this moment, and no one tried to bar her way.
She took the shield from his arm with quiet certainty, resting it briefly against her thigh as she tightened the leather grip wrappings with precise care. He lifted his arm again, and she slid it firmly back into place, her fingers brushing his forearm — checking tension, not indulging softness… but feeling him all the same.
She then adjusted the bindings on his arm-wraps, ensuring Sigrun's runes were set flush against his skin. The moment lingered — intimate in a way no touch could ever convey.
When she secured his axe strap against his palm, her thumb paused just once against the calloused skin at the base of his thumb — not hesitant, but grounding. Claiming.
He met her gaze.
Not a word passed.
The wind stirred her copper hair around her face, brushing the wolf-tattoo around her eye.
She leaned in just enough that only he could hear her breath when she whispered:
"Hunt clean… and come back."
His response was not spoken — but his gaze said what words did not:
I am the storm. I will return drenched in truth.
Eivor stepped back, head held high, no fear in her face.
Some in the crowd thought the ritual small.
Some thought it intimate.
But the old warriors, those who had seen more than youth's battles, recognized it for what it was:
A binding.
Wolf and Raven, already joined by blood and fate.
Ragnar stepped into the circle.
Not quickly. Not slowly. Just with the inevitability of a thing that had already been decided.
The ground of Hrafnvargr Holt did not tremble—but many watching swore they felt the stone beneath their feet shift in some ancient memory, like the arena itself recognized its Wolf.
Eivor took her place just outside the boundary stone, a shieldmaiden's stance at rest but ready to tear apart the world if he did not return. Hakon stood still as carved granite. Brynja bounced ever so slightly on the balls of her feet, as though barely restraining an eager snarl. Sigrun's eyes remained half-closed, lips moving in a prayer too old for modern tongues.
Across the circle, Eirik finally entered.
His gait was rigid. His helmet clutched under his arm too tightly. His breathing too hard for a man who hadn't yet taken the first strike. His gleaming armor now felt like a cage.
He stepped into the sacred space ten heartbeats after Ragnar.
Those ten heartbeats were a lifetime.
As he crossed the threshold, a cold wind swept across the Holt.
Then—a distant rumble.
All eyes turned upward as clouds began gathering unnaturally fast, boiling across the sky like smoke pulled toward the arena. Blue-grey turned to black as thunder rolled once more, closer this time.
Some in the crowd gasped. Others whispered:
"Havi watches."
" Þórr calls the storm."
"The Wolf brings thunder with him."
Eirik's grip tightened around his shield until his knuckles blanched.
Ragnar lifted his axe in a single fluid motion, testing its weight. Calm. Centered. Unmoved by the storm.
He looked not at the sky.
He looked only at Eirik.
The Law-Speaker, Viggo Stormhand, stepped to the edge of the circle. His voice rang out with ritual force:
"By law and blood, first phase is Axe and Shield. Fight ends only in death, yield, or incapacitation. No man may interfere."
He raised his hand toward the sky as a jagged streak of lightning cracked across the clouds directly above the Holt, causing gasps to ripple through the onlookers.
Viggo lowered his arm.
His voice dropped to a tone heavy enough to crush air.
"Begin."
Eirik raised his shield in panic-tight reflex.
Ragnar did not charge.
He walked.
Slow.
Purposeful.
Each step echoed in silence almost louder than thunder.
And Eirik, already shaking, finally understood—
He was not just in a duel.
He was prey in a hunt.
Rain began not as droplets but as a sudden sheet — as though the sky had held its breath until Ragnar stepped into striking distance, and then exhaled with fury.
Within seconds, water slapped against stone, armor, and skin, soaking through cloaks and leather. The Holt became a place of thunder and storm.
Lightning cracked across the sky—not once, but twice—splitting the black clouds like the sky itself was at war. The runes carved into the ancient pillars flickered white for the briefest instant, as if memory woke within the stone.
And above… two ravens circled.
Their eyes blazed with lightning-blue luminance—unnatural, alive with a storm of their own. Some in the crowd fell to one knee. Others clutched talismans.
Whispers broke like terrified prayers.
"Huginn…"
"Muninn…"
"Havi watches…"
In the circle below, Ragnar kept walking.
Eirik could barely see through rain cascading across his face. His ornate armor, once proof of rank, now drank water like a burden of iron, weighing him down with each passing breath. His grip trembled around his axe and shield.
Ragnar stopped.
They faced each other.
Eirik let out a strained battle cry and charged, slamming his shield forward in a reckless rush—panic masquerading as courage.
Ragnar didn't retreat.
He stepped into the blow.
The impact rang out as wood struck wood—but Ragnar absorbed it, twisting slightly, redirecting the force. In the same motion, his axe carved outward and downward in a swift arc aimed not at flesh, but metal.
The strike landed like thunder.
Eirik gasped.
A jagged tear ripped through the decorative chest plating of his armor, shearing off a gold-inlaid plate and sending it clattering across the soaked arena floor.
The sound echoed.
Eirik stumbled back, breath catching, eyes wide.
The arena held its breath in shock.
Ragnar simply straightened, axe lowering, rainwater tracing down the runes on his arms like blood that had not yet fallen.
One man had struck wildly and was already shaken.
The other had barely begun.
Lightning struck the ground near the eighth pillar, illuminating Ragnar's stance in stark white brilliance.
And in that light — the One-Eyed Wolf looked carved from godhood.
Eirik finally understood:
He could not win.
The question now was how long he could survive.