Rain hammered the Holt like war drums, drowning breath and thought alike—but not the moment Eirik Sigvaldsson finally chose to stop running.
He staggered back from Ragnar's first strike, armor torn, chest heaving. The weight of fear still clung to him—but beneath it, something else flickered.
Rage.
Not petty rage. Not fear-rage. Something older. Something that demanded: If I must die… let me die a warrior.
His eyes roamed wildly, searching for anything but Ragnar's looming form. Searching for an excuse, an escape, a savior. Instead, lightning split the sky, momentarily flooding the Holt with silver brilliance—
—and in that searing flash, he saw him.
A one-eyed figure, tall as legend, cloaked in stormlight, pacing between the stones as though inspecting the battlefield of gods. His face could not be seen through shadow and glare—but the presence was undeniable.
High One.
Havi.
Odin.
For a heartbeat, Eirik could not breathe.
…but then he could.
Not because he was saved.
Because he was seen.
By king or god or nightmare, it didn't matter. His fear became fuel. His cowardice—unacceptable. His pride, his ambition, his hunger for story, for legacy, snapped back to life with brutal clarity.
Eirik Sigvaldsson would not crawl.
He would stand.
He ripped off the last gilded plate from his pauldron and cast it aside. Rain soaked him through, the chilled weight of shame replaced with something hotter—fury sharpened by purpose.
He lifted his axe and shield, and his voice came out raw but alive:
"I will not die for you to be remembered."
Ragnar paused—wet braids hanging over his shoulder, axe relaxed at his side. His expression did not change, but something in the air around him acknowledged the shift.
Eirik came at him.
This time, he fought like a man who had nothing left to lose and everything left to prove.
He struck hard. Precision blooming under adrenaline. Ragnar caught and redirected, blocking with controlled economy. But Eirik did not fold this time. He pressed harder, shouting with each strike like he was trying to drown out the storm.
Clash.
Scrape.
Strike.
The crowd shifted from fear to awe.
Even Torva and Sigurd felt their breath punch out of them.
For just a moment… it was a duel.
Not a slaughter.
Eirik swung high—then pivoted low in a deceptive feint that surprised even the Wolf. Ragnar caught the blow on his shield—but the force behind it was full-bodied, fueled by terror turned into conviction.
CRACK.
Ragnar's shield splintered.
He stepped back one pace. Looked at the broken wood strapped to his arm.
Another strike came down—
SHATTER.
The shield exploded into wet fragments as Ragnar dropped the ruined handle and shifted his grip on his axe.
Lightning struck.
It slammed directly into the eighth pillar—the one carved with the spear pointing skyward.
Stone glowed white under the shockwave.
In the glare that followed, Havi stood again—one-eyed, cloaked, silent. Watching.
This time, the Pack saw him.
Brynja's grin split into something primal as she threw her head back and roared with animalistic joy:
"THE HIGH ONE WATCHES! LET HIM SEE WHOSE FANG TEARS FATE!"
Hakon stiffened beside her, jaw tight, eyes narrowed—not in fear, but in chilling awareness that fate was being written now.
Eivor's fingers clenched around the boundary stone so hard her knuckles went bone-white, eyes fixed on Ragnar with a mix of pride and dread.
And Ragnar…
Ragnar turned slightly, just enough to meet the god's gaze across storm and shadow.
There was no fear.
There was no reverence.
Only acknowledgment.
A warrior greeting another watcher of battle.
Then he faced Eirik again.
The Law-Speaker raised his voice through thunder:
"Shields broken! First phase ends! Second phase begins! — SWORDS ONLY!"
Axes dropped to the ground in unison.
The Sword Phase had begun.
And now it was no longer just a duel.
It was a reckoning beneath a god's stare.
Ragnar dropped his shattered shield and paced slowly toward the sacred weapon stand. Eirik remained in the circle, panting, soaked through from rain, armor discarded in jagged fragments around his feet. There was fear in his eyes — but now, there was also something else.
Resolve.
Ragnar took a plain iron sword from the rack — no gold, no jewels, just honest steel. Eirik already had his blade drawn. The storm crackled above them like a drumroll of gods.
No one spoke.
No horn sounded.
They simply stepped back into the fight.
Eirik struck first — fast, sharp, every blow thrown with the desperation of a man trying to carve his name into fate before he was erased. Ragnar blocked the first strike with ease, the second with slight effort, and parried the third with a shift that betrayed quiet respect.
The fourth slash grazed Ragnar's cheek — a thin red line appearing as blood mixed with rain.
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Ragnar's head tilted slightly — like a wolf acknowledging a prey that had finally turned and bitten back.
Eirik's breathing grew ragged, but he did not stop. He roared through clenched teeth, pouring every scrap of strength, pride, and broken fear into a flurry of sword arcs. His movements were raw but honest now — warrior, not deceiver.
Ragnar met him blow for blow. Purposeful. Grim. Rain ran down his face in rivulets, tracing the tattoos carved into his skin like veins awakening with prophecy.
For a brief, breathless exchange, the clash of their blades sang through the Holt like music composed in blood and thunder.
Clang. Clash. Step. Parry. Slash.
Lightning flashed overhead, and for an instant, their silhouettes were illuminated in stark contrast — one towering and unyielding, one smaller but burning with frantic determination.
Eirik's final charge came not from arrogance, but from something painfully human — a scream ripped from the soul of someone who refused to vanish forgotten.
"RAGNAR!!!" he roared, raising his blade high for a last, reckless overhead strike.
Ragnar stepped in beneath it.
One pivot.
One controlled sweep.
Steel cut clean.
Eirik's momentum carried him one more half-step before the world separated at the neck.
His head fell first.
The sword in his hand remained clenched as his body collapsed onto its knees, then toppled sideways into the mud with a soft thud drowned by the storm.
Above, the ravens cried once — sharp, echoing through rain and silence.
Ragnar stood still, sword held loosely at his side, rain washing the blood from the blade. He looked at Eirik's fallen form — not with pity, not with triumph, but with a cold, quiet acknowledgement:
Eirik had died as a warrior.
Not worthy of remembrance beside gods… but no longer deserving to rot as a coward.
Ragnar lowered his sword.
The storm lingered—
—but its fury had already spoken.