For a long moment, the Holt did not breathe.
Rain continued to fall, heavy and cold, plastering hair to faces and turning the ground beneath Eirik's body to dark mire. The head lay several feet away, eyes still open, mouth parted in what might have been defiance… or release.
Ragnar did not kneel. Did not roar in victory.
He simply lowered the blood-washed sword, released it, and let it fall into the mud with a muted thud.
His chest rose and fell slowly. Controlled. He had ended a life — and fulfilled a promise — without excess movement. The battle had not exhausted him. It had merely happened.
Across the boundary stone, Brynja exhaled as though she had been holding her breath. She grinned with savage pride, rainwater mixing in her teeth like blood. "Clean kill," she whispered. "Worthy kill."
Hakon bowed his head faintly — not in mourning, but in acknowledgment of a necessary end.
Sigrun closed her eyes and murmured something under her breath. Perhaps a prayer for the dead… or a warning to Hel to brace herself.
Eivor said nothing for a full heartbeat… then let her grip on the arena boundary stone loosen. Her shoulders relaxed—only slightly—as she fixed her gaze on Ragnar, watching for even the smallest sign of harm.
There was none.
He had survived.
He had won.
He was coming back.
She inhaled slowly, a quiet, relieved fire warming beneath her fear.
Up in the stands, reactions were divided:
Some nobles stared, bloodless, shaken by the raw dominance displayed beneath the storm.
Some younger warriors looked at Ragnar as if seeing what true strength meant for the first time.
Many lowborn stood in stunned reverence—Sigurd's mouth hung open, Torva clutched the boundary rail until her fingers hurt.
A few crossed themselves with warding runes, whispering that the Wolf walked with gods.
Others whispered that maybe… he was one.
Only then did the Law-Speaker move.
Thane Viggo Stormhand raised his arm with the gravity of a judge hammering a verdict into stone.
"By the witness of storm and blood," he declared, voice ringing clear despite the rain, "Eirik Sigvaldsson has fallen in honorable Holmgang! Ragnar Vargrson stands victorious!"
A roar rose—not of celebration, not in full—but of release, awe, fear, belief. Cheers, gasps, prayers, curses — all at once.
Viggo continued, louder now, so even the gods might hear:
"By law of blood-forfeit:
The accused is cleansed.
The challenger is restored.
Ragnar Vargrson's honor stands unbroken.
His Pack is declared free and loyal under witness.
The title and land of Thane pass now to Ragnar Vargrson by right of victory.
Eivor Caldersdottir Of Clan Hrafn is recognized as his chosen Mate, beyond contest or claim."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some looked to Eivor now with fear, others with respect — her raven tattoo gleaming fiercely in the wet light.
"And," Viggo finished, "as demanded and granted — Ragnar Vargrson shall have private audience with Earls Gunnar Vargr and Ivar Hrafn in due time."
Ragnar stood still a moment longer, the words settling on his shoulders like a mantle he had already been wearing in spirit.
Then he turned.
He walked out of the circle.
Back toward his Pack.
Toward the future he had already begun carving.
Eivor met him halfway.
She didn't speak.
She only placed her hand on his chest — right over the space where his heart beat slow and steady beneath the runic tattoos — as if confirming he was real, still breathing, still here.
Ragnar met her gaze.
He did not smile.
He did not need to.
The storm eased to a drizzle — as though the sky itself was exhaling.
Behind them, Eirik's headless body still lay in the mud.
Before them, something far more dangerous than vengeance now waited:
Ascension.