The old den was quiet now.
Brynja's laughter had faded into the forest, trailing after Hakon as she dragged him toward the river with shameless intent. Sigrun had already set off toward the Vargr hold to begin speaking with woodcutters about timber. Only embers from a new fire crackled in the den's hearth, throwing amber light across fur-covered stone walls and shadows from hanging wolf pelts.
Ragnar sat alone before the flames.
His leather cuirass lay discarded beside him, rain-dampened from the earlier storm. His boots and bracers were set to the side. Scars across his chest caught the firelight, old and new wounds both speaking quietly of battles lived and survived. But there was tension still coiled in him, as if the duel, the pyre, the Jarls, and the weight of what came next still pressed beneath his skin like a buried howl.
He did not turn when he heard soft footfalls behind him. But the shift of air told him exactly who it was.
Eivor stepped into the fire's halo with quiet purpose.
She was not armored now. Only a fur-loincloth hung low on her hips. Her chest was Heavy, bare, unhidden, unashamed, marked faintly with fading scars of the raids long past. In the flickering glow, the Wolven ink around her eye seemed alive, Snarling wolf curling toward her temple like black flame.
She moved behind Ragnar without a word.
Her hands came to rest on his shoulders—first gently, then with slow, firm pressure as she kneaded hardened muscle. His breath left him in a quiet exhale he hadn't known he was holding. She leaned forward as she worked, the warmth of her Breasts brushing his back in growing intervals until she let more of her weight rest against him. Her breath touched the side of his neck.
Ragnar's hand rose—not to push her away, but to cover hers briefly. A silent acknowledgment.
She took that permission like breath to fire.
Eivor slid around him, slow and sure, and Ragnar's gaze rose to meet her as she stood before him. She didn't speak as she eased down onto his lap; he drew her fully into place with one hand at her hip. She straddled him easily, legs coiling around his waist in instinctive claim. Skin met skin—her warmth against his scarred chest, her heartbeat rapid but steady.
His hands dropped lower, anchoring her by the backs of her thighs, Underneath her Posterior, holding her there not possessively, but securely—as though promising he would not let her fall from this choice.
They stayed like that for a moment.
Breathing the same fire-heated air.
Eyes locked, close enough that her copper hair brushed his cheek.
Eivor's voice came low. Not soft, not hesitant—but steady, heated, almost reverent.
"You came back to me, Wolf."
He said nothing—but his eye, storm-grey and rimmed faintly now with an unnatural blue glow in the firelight, held hers like a tether.
She leaned closer, lips hovering a breath from his.
"But hear me now," she whispered, voice deepening with vow. "I will not only stay at your side if you remain as you are… I will walk with you no matter what you become."
Her fingers traced the scar that crossed his cheek.
"If you rise as Thane only, I will be your shield-maiden and hunt beside you."
Her voice dropped lower, more primal.
"If you rise as Jarl, I will be your consort and tear down your enemies before they reach your hall."
She pressed her forehead to his, their breaths mingling, her voice almost feral now.
"If you rise as god-killer and set flame to the high seats of Asgard, I will feed the ravens with you and laugh in the smoke."
Her lips brushed his, barely.
"And if the world calls you monster…" she breathed, eyes burning into his, "…then I will become your monster with you."
Ragnar's breath thickened, slow and heavy, as if something deep inside him had been waiting to hear those words.
Eivor did not break gaze as she finished:
"I bind myself to your fate, Ragnar Vargrson. As your Mate. As your soon-to-be-wife. As the Raven who flies with the Wolf—no matter where his hunt leads."
There was no hesitation in her, no fear. Only hunger, conviction, and something dangerously close to worship.
Ragnar's response came not in words.
His grip tightened at her Posterior, pulling her closer as he closed the final inch between them and claimed her mouth with his—a fierce, hungry, possessive kiss that tasted of fire and storm. She answered with equal ferocity, fingers tangling in his braids, breath catching as their vow sealed itself not in ceremony, but in instinct.
It was not tenderness they shared by the firelight.
It was acceptance.
It was recognition.
It was two predators choosing to hunt as one.
When the kiss finally broke, Eivor stayed pressed to his chest, eyes still on him, breath quick.
Ragnar spoke at last, voice roughened into something deeper.
"Then let the world witness," he said, "that the Wolf does not walk alone."
Outside, a distant raven called once into the night air, its cry sharp and sure.
Inside the den, the fire crackled brighter—
—as if fate itself had marked the moment when Ragnar and Eivor ceased to be merely Packmates…
…and became King and Queen in the making.