The pyre had burned low when Ragnar finally turned from the embers.
His Pack stood close behind him, silent. No celebration burned in their faces — only solemn pride and expectation. They waited for his word.
Ragnar looked at each of them in turn: Brynja, still buzzing with restrained ferocity; Hakon, level and steady as a weighted axe head; Sigrun, unreadable beneath quiet wisdom; and Eivor… watching him with storm and certainty in her eyes.
"The Jarls summon me."
His voice was gravel deep, even now carrying the lingering echo of battle.
Hakon stepped forward. "We go with you."
Ragnar shook his head once.
"No. Return to the den."
That single command landed with the force of an oath.
Their den. Once a place of exile, shame, and survival. Now, by right of Thanehood, it lay within his granted territory. What was once a wound would now become his first stronghold.
Brynja flashed a grin — a hungry one. "Good. It missed us."
Hakon set a hand on Ragnar's shoulder briefly — warrior to war-leader. Sigrun gave a quiet nod, as if acknowledging that this, too, had been foreseen in blood and breath.
Only Eivor lingered.
The others began walking into the forest path that would lead them home. But Eivor remained a moment longer, rain-darkened braid trailing over her shoulder, her face upturned to meet Ragnar's gaze.
She said nothing.
She didn't need to.
Ragnar stepped closer — close enough that if he wished, he could have reached out and touched her cheek. He didn't.
But his silence answered hers.
Eivor's chest rose and fell once… then she turned and followed the others.
Ragnar watched until the trees swallowed her copper hair.
Then he went to the Jarls.
—
The path toward the hall carved a line through damp earth and hushed settlement. People stepped aside when they saw him — not with fear alone now, but with something heavier. Reverence from some. Unease from others. Questions in all.
They whispered when they believed he could not hear:
"The Wolf walks the Jarls' path."
"Will they make him a weapon… or fear him as a rival?"
"Storm chases him still."
Ragnar did not break stride.
The hall of Clan Vargr rose like a dark beast against the sky, carved pillars towering at its entrance, wolves' heads etched in snarling relief. The firelight within flickered through the open doors like breath from a slumbering thing.
Two guards stood to either side. They did not cross their spears before him. They simply stepped back, faces grim and watchful.
Inside, the hall was quieter than any feast night, quieter even than mourning.
Only two figures sat upon the high-seat platform:
Jarl Gunnar Vargr — broad-shouldered, frost-haired, his eyes like ice on riverstone.
Jarl Ivar Hrafn — leaner, darker, keen-eyed like a raven waiting on a spear-tip.
Ragnar stopped at the center of the hall, standing below them in the open. He did not kneel. Nor did he challenge.
He bowed his head — not in submission, but in formal recognition.
"Jarl Gunnar. Jarl Ivar," he said evenly. "I stand as summoned."
The hall held its breath.
Gunnar's voice was the first to rise, gruff as old oak and tempered fire.
"You stand not as exile, nor accused," the Jarl of Clan Vargr said. "But as Thane."
Ivar's dark gaze sharpened. "A Thane who has the eyes of the storm at his back."
"Or the eyes of gods," Gunnar added quietly.
Ragnar did not deny it.
Gunnar leaned forward slightly. "Tell us, Ragnar Vargrson… now that you have claimed blood and title… what will you do with them?"
Ivar watched like a raven measuring a corpse — or a future king.
And Ragnar lifted his head to answer.
Ragnar stood with his back straight, the stormlight still faintly gleaming along the leather of his war-gear. The hall around him was lit by long hearthfires, yet he looked as if he had brought his own shadow and flame from Hrafnvargr Holt.
Gunnar's question still hung in the air.
What will you do with what you have taken?
Ragnar spoke without hesitation.
"I will rebuild what exile left in ashes," he said. "The den where I and mine survived will be raised into a hall of warriors. My land will be defended. My Pack will be recognized under my banner as free and loyal. Any who challenge our right will face us lawfully."
He paused.
"I have taken blood only through law. I will keep that pattern."
Gunnar's face remained unreadable, but the faint lift of his chin showed approval. "You claim strength beneath rule, not above it. That matters."
Ivar's gaze sharpened. "But strength unchallenged grows. And Thanes have become Jarls by standing too high when others knelt too low."
Ragnar did not flinch. "If I rise again, it will be because law and war both allow it. I do not seek what is not yet mine."
Gunnar's fingers drummed once on his armrest. Ivar's stare remained critical, but something in it eased—a recognition that Ragnar's ambition was not careless.
Gunnar nodded. "Very well. By right of Holmgang and witnessed judgment, your title as Thane is sealed and recognized."
Ivar added, "And your land—formerly your exile ground—is now legally bound to you. Build as you will."
A long breath seemed to move through the hall. Ragnar could have ended there.
But he did not.
He stepped forward one pace — not insolently, but with purpose.
"There is one more matter to speak," he said.
Gunnar's brow rose. Ivar's eyes narrowed.
Ragnar continued, voice steady: "I now walk as Thane. My Mate walks beside me. I will not have Eivor Caldersdottir stand beneath me in blood or recognized worth. Her line has honor carved long before mine."
A hush grew in the hall.
"I petition Jarl Ivar," Ragnar said, turning slightly toward the Raven Jarl, "that Calder Bjornsson, of the blood of Ironside, and Runa Stormsdottir, shieldmaiden of proven legacy, be granted noble recognition under Clan Hrafn. Their deeds warrant it. Their daughter bears them forward in battle-spirit. And when she stands beside me, her name shall carry the weight it deserves."
Gunnar looked to Ivar, silent.
Ivar leaned back slowly in his seat.
Calder Bjornsson. Blood of Bjorn Ironside. A berserker untethered by low birth. Runa Stormsdottir, whose name many younger warriors whispered as legend. Elevating them would strengthen Hrafn's warrior reputation… and bind the Wolf more deeply into their blood and politics.
But refusing?
Refusing would deny glory to his own clan's strongest.
Refusing would spit on bloodlines of Ironside and Storm.
Refusing would insult the Wolf, who now had storm-witnessed victory at his back
— —and the gods' eye above him.
Ivar studied Ragnar long and long.
"The daughter of Calder and Runa…" the Jarl said slowly, "would you stand her beside you as Thane's consort?"
Ragnar did not blink. "No."
Silence sharpened like drawn steel.
"I will stand her beside me," Ragnar said, "as Mate. As equal. As future queen of whatever I build."
Something changed in the hall then—something deep.
The hearthlight seemed to burn brighter. Thunder rumbled faintly outside. Gunnar's eyes flickered with troubled respect.
Ivar exhaled once through his nose and gave a single nod.
"So be it," the Jarl of Hrafn said. "Calder Bjornsson and Runa Stormsdottir shall be named noble under Clan Hrafn. Their house will bear raven crest and sit in our councils. Their daughter stands risen in blood and in place."
Ragnar bowed his head once.
"Then it is done."
Gunnar rose. "You leave this hall as Thane Ragnar Vargrson—restored in name, sworn in land, and recognized in storm."
Ivar added, "But what you build now… will judge whether men call you hero, king, or monster."
Ragnar met his eyes without fear.
"That," he said, "will be decided when the gods finish watching."
He turned.
And left the hall alone.
But not as the man who entered it.