The morning light seeped quietly through the cracks in the den's stonework, pale and cold in contrast to the lingering heat of the fire that had burned through most of the night. The ash-glow still pulsed faintly, and the smell of smoke mingled with leather, wolf pelts, and skin.
Ragnar awoke to silence.
He did not jolt awake as he once had in exile days, hand reaching for a blade. Instead, he came to consciousness with controlled breath, a hand resting on the furs — the other braced lightly against the curve of a thigh draped over his hip.
Eivor slept against him, head nestled just below his collarbone, her breath steady and warm against his chest. They were not mated, but there was no mistaking the intimacy between them — not sexual, but claimed. There were no words to confuse: they had chosen each other now, publicly and irrevocably.
In the shifting morning quiet, Ragnar studied the faint light dancing on the scar tissue of his body. The Holt, the storm, the Jarls' judgment — all had passed. Honor was restored. Land reclaimed. The path had shifted. He was no longer surviving.
He was rising.
A soft, drowsy murmur at his chest broke his thought. Eivor stirred, copper hair brushing over his skin as she lifted her head. Her eyes, still clouded slightly with sleep, met his. Gone was the uncertain girl who once carried fear like a shadow. The woman before him now held his gaze with calm certainty.
They said nothing.
They didn't need to.
Eivor slowly uncurled from his lap but did not break contact abruptly. Her hand lingered briefly against his jaw before she rose from the furs. She did not cover herself in shame, nor did Ragnar look away in discomfort. The vow they forged in fire now lived under their skin like second heartbeats.
She reached for a fur wrap and pulled it around her shoulders loosely. Ragnar stood and pulled on his Jerkin, then rolled the cords of his bracers back around his wrists with slow deliberateness. Never rushed, never hesitant. From now on, every motion would be one made by a man who no longer crawled under judgment — but would soon be obeyed under oath.
They did not walk apart when they stepped out into the clearing.
The den's exterior was still damp with the storm's passing. Mist clung low along the clearing, ghostlike fingers drifting around rocks that had once sheltered them as exiles. A raven circled once overhead before perching on a high branch, watching.
Ragnar's eye lifted to it briefly. It watched back. He did not know if it was mere bird or more than bird, and he did not care. Let gods watch. Let fate take witness.
He was ready.
Behind him, Eivor stood not at his side, not behind him, but just half a step to his right — the place a shieldmaiden stands to guard a leader's sword arm… and the place a chosen Mate stands to watch the same future.
They waited in the morning calm.
It would not take long for the Pack to return.
For the era of survival was dying…
…and something much greater was beginning.
By mid-morning, movement broke the silence at the edge of the clearing. Hakon emerged first, braid slightly damp, shirt half-fastened, expression composed—but there was a certain loose ease now in his movements. Behind him, Brynja stalked into view with a wide, wolfish grin, hair tangled wildly around her shoulders, skin still flushed with the afterglow of spent energy.
She stretched, rolling her neck with great satisfaction.
"By the gods," she announced without shame, "I swear Hakon was trying to devour me whole last night. Thought I'd have to pry his jaws apart and escape before dawn."
Hakon made no denial—but he gave her a long, unimpressed look that said he'd tolerated worse from her.
Brynja only laughed louder.
Eivor didn't flush, avert her gaze, or stammer as she once had. She stood beside Ragnar—barefoot on the earth, shoulders loose with quiet confidence, head inclined slightly as if watching the Pack's return from higher ground. A faint, knowing curve touched the corner of her mouth, but she said nothing. The look alone made Brynja blink once, brows raising in curiosity.
Ragnar's gaze shifted just slightly toward Eivor, acknowledging the shift without a word.
As Hakon and Brynja came closer, another smell drifted into the clearing—fresh pine and distant woodsmoke. A short while later, Sigrun appeared, returning from Vargr Hold, her arms folded, expression solemn but satisfied.
Brynja finally snorted, hands on hips as if assessing them all anew. "You two have the air of wolves that have made a kill in the night," she muttered, squinting at Ragnar and Eivor.
No one replied, yet there was something in the way Ragnar stood—rooted, certain—and in the way Eivor remained by his side without shifting or shrinking, that told Brynja her instincts weren't wrong.
A silence settled.
Then Ragnar stepped forward.
He stood at the center of the clearing, eye traveling over the den—the crude roof, the battered stones, the old burn marks from storms and desperate nights. His voice carried through the morning chill, calm and resolute.
"This place once kept us alive when the world tried to bury us," he said. "Now it will stand as proof that we returned."
Hakon nodded once, jaw set in approval.
"We'll rebuild it," Ragnar continued, not asking, but declaring. "Stronger. Larger. A hall that stands not for exile—but for a Pack with land, name, and future."
Brynja's grin sharpened. Sigrun exhaled slowly, as if releasing something old. Eivor did not step behind Ragnar, nor ahead—but precisely beside his right arm, where a shieldmaiden and an intended queen would stand.
Ragnar's single eye lifted to the treeline, as if seeing something far beyond it.
"We begin today."
The words fell like the first stroke of an axe against timber.
The Pack moved.
The den was no longer a hiding place.
It was becoming the first stone of something far greater.
---
The sun had climbed higher when Eivor turned from binding her hair and glanced toward Brynja, who was sharpening her axe with her usual feral focus — though the faint scent of sweat, fire, and passion still clung to her like warpaint.
Eivor smirked.
"Brynja," she called casually. "You smell like a boar in heat rolling in its own rut. River. Now."
Brynja froze mid-stroke, eyes wide. Then Eivor slapped her on the shoulder and sprinted off toward the riverbank.
For a moment, Brynja just blinked — then threw her head back and roared with laughter.
"Oh, THAT'S IT, YOU FUCKING TINY RAVEN!" she bellowed as she took off at full speed. "I'M GOING TO DROWN YOU!"
Hakon, who had just returned carrying fresh-cut wood, stepped aside with the long-suffering patience of a man who had seen this too many times. Ragnar looked up once, catching the blur of copper hair and the sound of Brynja's vile threats echoing through the clearing, and his single eye narrowed — not in disapproval, but in quiet amusement. He said nothing and continued working.
The forest echoed with curses, laughter, and snapping branches until both shieldmaidens burst out into the open riverbend. Eivor lunged into the cold water first with a hiss, turning just in time to see Brynja barreling after her like a charging bear. The splash that followed was enormous.
"What was that about a boar in heat?!" Brynja howled, splashing water straight into Eivor's face.
Eivor wiped her eyes, grinning wickedly. "I'd say prove me wrong, but I think the river's already bracing itself."
Brynja snorted, delighted. "Oh, so you can bite back now, little Raven?"
They scrubbed at their skin, laughter falling into comfortable silence for a stretch — two warriors washing the dirt of rebuilding and the echo of old battles from their limbs.
Then Brynja's grin turned sly. She leaned closer, voice dropping into the familiar crude humor that had once made Eivor flush crimson.
"So," Brynja drawled, "did our precious Alpha finally sink his teeth into you after that vow last night, or did he just stare into the fire looking like a brooding storm waiting to mount something?"
The words would once have left Eivor choking and stammering. Now, she simply tilted her head, amused, waiting for the perfect moment.
Brynja smirked, expecting fluster. She did not get it.
Instead, Eivor stepped closer, water gliding down her shoulders, and delivered her answer like a clean spear thrust to the gut:
"Brynja, my dear sister… if our Alpha had mounted me, you and Hakon would've come back to find us still going at it in the den — and you'd have had to wait your turn."
Brynja's face went blank.
Then red.
Then very red.
She made a noise Eivor had never heard from her before — somewhere between a bark, a gasp, and an aborted war-cry. Eivor held steady, smirking like a satisfied devil.
Then Brynja exploded into laughter — a wild, gleeful, feral scream of hilarity that shook her whole body.
"BY THE GODS—!" she wheezed, slapping the water so hard it splashed skyward. "OUR RAVEN GREW FUCKING FANGS!"
Eivor chuckled softly. "Didn't grow them. Just stopped hiding them."
Brynja lunged, grinning savagely — and Eivor met her head-on, splashing water in her face before Brynja could recover. The bigger girl screeched in outrage.
"You little shit!"
Eivor, triumphant, stepped out of the river first — but not before she delivered a final sharp slap to Brynja's backside.
Brynja yelped loudly.
Eivor walked away without looking back, victorious, as Brynja stood in the river, stunned for half a breath before cackling like a madwoman and splashing after her.
They returned dripping, laughing, and breathless — not as a dominant and a lesser, but as sisters walking the same path forward.
And when Brynja passed Ragnar, still snickering and rubbing her backside, he raised a brow just slightly at Eivor.
Eivor only met his gaze with that same quiet, wolfish confidence.
The Pack was changing.
And the Wolf's Queen had found her voice.