The sky had burned to gold by late afternoon, casting long shadows over the cliffside where their den clung to the rock like an old scar. Once, it had been nothing more than a place of refuge — a hollowed cave in a broken cliff ledge where exile had forced them to sleep with one eye open. But no more.
Today marked the first day they returned to it not as hunted creatures… but as a Pack beginning to carve their future into the world.
Ragnar stood at the edge of the ledge, overlooking the drop toward the forest and river far below. The wind cut across his braids and fur, carrying with it the scent of pine, river-cold air, and distant woodsmoke. Behind him, the sounds of thudding footsteps, grunts, ropes creaking, and beams being dragged up from lower ground had already begun.
Hakon was the first to speak, calm and practical even as he surveyed the rough terrain. "The rock here is solid," he observed, crouching to run a hand along the stone. "We can wedge beams into the carved notches once the front is widened. The den's entrance will hold… once reinforced."
Ragnar gave a single nod. "Mark where the supports will go." It wasn't a query — it was direction.
Hakon rose without hesitation and began calling two laborers forward — not Pack, but hired hands from a nearby settlement who had been brought by Sigrun. They flinched slightly at Ragnar's presence even when he was silent. They obeyed Hakon's instructions immediately.
Further down the ledge, Brynja cracked her neck and grinned savagely at the sight of younger men struggling to haul a heavy timber beam up the slope. "Move your arses like the ground's on fire!" she snarled, kicking one in the backside when he faltered. "If you drop that beam, I'll use you as the next one!"
One stumbled, swore, then moved faster.
Her laughter boomed across the ledge. "That's right — haul it like you're dragging a shield ripped from your enemy's corpse!"
Ragnar watched her without a word. Brynja had always been chaos — now she was chaos with purpose.
Below, strapped in thick rope and hauling stone from the base, Hakon's commands were calm but sharp as drawn steel. "Anchor that there. No slack. If the rope snaps, you'll be joining it off the cliff."
They obeyed without argument.
Eivor moved at Ragnar's side, her gait steady, eyes assessing the ledge as if already imagining where the longhall would rise. Her arms were still damp from the river, her hair braided back tightly, a hint of the raven tattoo peeking from beneath her furs. Workers glanced at her with uncertainty — then glanced again when they realized she walked beside the Wolf without question or fear.
"What do you see?" Ragnar asked quietly, not looking at her, but watching the land.
Eivor studied the space. After a moment, she said, "The den becomes the hall's heart. We carve outward, build wooden framing at the cliff's mouth. The hall opens forward, facing the forest. There will be a great door. A firepit here." She gestured. "Posts along the edge for torches or banners."
"Banners," Ragnar repeated, his tone unreadable — as though the word meant something deeper than cloth on wind.
She nodded once.
Hakon approached, pointing further down the ledge. "There's room below for smaller huts — a starting ring of houses. Enough for workers now. For families later."
"Later…" Ragnar echoed.
Brynja stomped up from the incline, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her arm. "We'll need a place to train. Somewhere to hit each other without knocking someone off the cliff."
Eivor smirked. "Would that be a loss?"
Brynja barked a laugh. "Only if it's one of us."
Ragnar finally turned to face all three of them — Hakon calm and plotting structure, Brynja grinning like a wolf in blood, Eivor steady and sharp by his right.
"The den once sheltered the broken," he said, voice even. "Now it will become the hall of those who return stronger. We build not a camp…"
He glanced back to the cave — once cold and shadowed, now carrying a pulse of something alive.
"…but the first stone of what will stand long after our bones are dust."
Even the laborers paused at the quiet power in his words.
Brynja grinned widely, her teeth flashing. Hakon nodded once. Eivor said nothing — but the faint curl of her lip matched Ragnar's certainty like an oath.
Then they moved.
Stone was marked. Timber hoisted. The cave's mouth was carved wider. Hakon etched measured lines into the cliff. Brynja threatened anyone who slowed. Eivor hauled and directed. Ragnar's hands touched both stone and timber — not as a laborer, but as one who returned each time to oversee not progress, but legacy.
By twilight, the first beams had been set against the cliff face, forming the skeleton of something not yet a hall…
…but no longer a den.
Night fell gently over the cliffside as the workers departed with sore arms and uneasy glances. The den-turned-hall-to-be lay half-formed—timber beams now jutting from the cliff face like ribs of some beast being born. A low fire flickered within what had once been a refuge for survival and now pulsed with the warmth of beginning.
Ragnar had left silently at dusk, descending toward the river below. No one questioned it. Some leaders barked orders until they slept. Ragnar was the kind who vanished for a time and returned quieter... but heavier.
Within the den, Hakon slept the way he fought—steady, one hand always near a blade. Brynja sprawled like a satisfied wolf after a long hunt, half-smiling in her dreams. Eivor sat awake by the fire a while longer, sharpening a spearhead with slow, practiced strokes, the flicker of flame catching the raven tattoo at her collarbone. Eventually, she lay back, still as a coiled bowstring, though her eyes were closed.
All seemed quiet. Safe.
But shadows moved.
Two figures crept along the edge of the encampment—small, wiry, careful. Torva, short and fierce-eyed, head wrapped in a cloth to hide copper hair, moved first. Behind her, Sigurd, taller but slighter, tried to imitate stealth while nearly tripping on every loose stone. They were no older than twelve winters.
They had never been in a wolf's den before. Not a true one.
But this was different. This was his den.
"The boy died in exile," someone had said days earlier, "and came back a Wolf who howled at gods."
"They say he still carries rage in his missing eye," someone whispered.
"The RavenFury sleeps beside him. They say she shares his breath now."
"They built their war-hall into a cliff so no coward can reach them."
Legends echoed louder at night.
Sigurd hesitated at the entrance, whispering, "We shouldn't—"
Torva glared at him. "You promised. You said you wanted to see how he stands."
Sigurd swallowed. He had. He had tried mimicking the Wolf Stance every night since hearing about it—never sure how it truly looked. But something in the tale had ignited something deeper than fear.
Inside, the fire still glowed, casting long shapes across the cavern walls. They moved softly.
They passed the sleeping shape of Brynja. Even curled in furs, her grin was vicious, as though ready to leap into battle mid-dream.
Hakon slept like a stone, undisturbed. Nothing would wake him unless danger truly struck.
Torva stopped near the fire's edge. Her eyes snapped toward Eivor.
The RavenFury.
Even in rest, her posture was coiled, hand near her spear. Her hair spilled like flame onto the furs. Her chest rose and fell in a calm rhythm, the faint curve of the raven tattoo visible where fur shifted. She was not soft in sleep. She was merely silent. Torva stared, breath caught—not out of fear, but raw, shaking admiration. This was no framed tale. This was a warrior who had bled and risen.
Sigurd looked around nervously, half-expecting a monstrous figure to be waiting. Trying to guess the Wolf Stance just from how Ragnar might have rested against a wall or lay upon a pelt if he were here. But Ragnar was nowhere.
Torva's fingers brushed Sigurd's sleeve, urging him on. Another step. Just one—just to stand within his presence. Just to feel the space he claimed.
And then—
A heavy stillness fell.
As though the night itself inhaled and held its breath.
The fire shivered.
Both children felt it before they heard a sound.
A slow, dripping step.
They turned.
A broad, shadowed figure stood in the den's entrance, backlit by moonlight, wet braids trailing over his shoulders, a faint cold-blue glint catching in the one eye that remained. Water slid down bronzed skin. His wolf-etched eyepatch was darker than the night behind him.
He did not snarl. He did not roar. He simply was. A presence that filled the space like the moment a wolf locks eyes with prey to see if it will run or kneel.
Sigurd froze.
Torva, who thought herself brave, felt her heart slam against her ribs harder than any training blow ever had.
They had not expected to be swallowed whole by legend.
Ragnar's voice broke the silence like distant thunder. Calm. Low. Not angry—only absolute.
"A wolf's den is not for cubs who do not know what they seek when they enter."
Sigurd's throat worked. No words came.
Torva's voice came out smaller than she meant. "We… wanted to see if it was true."
Ragnar stepped forward slowly, the firelight painting sharp angles across his face. He walked past them—not even looking fully at them—yet his presence weighed on their backs like a pelt made of fear and awe.
He paused beside Eivor, who had opened one eye. She met his gaze briefly. She said nothing. But something in the corner of her mouth hinted at recognition—not of the children, but of what they represented. Memory.
Ragnar crouched slightly, not to their level—but enough to let his voice fall more closely to them.
"Staring at a legend will not make you wolves."
Sigurd trembled, eyes wide. Torva clenched her fists, ashamed of her fear.
Ragnar's gaze drifted back to the doorway, toward the storm-dark horizon.
Then he said quietly:
"Wolves rise by bleeding on stone until it remembers them. Leave… and do not return until you know whether you came here to run…"
"…or one day, to stand beside the fire as one who can remain."
They didn't fully understand the words.
But they felt them.
Torva's heart pounded like a war drum. Sigurd's breath came sharp and shaky, but something in his chest now burned different than fear.
They fled—not crying, not broken—fueled by something they could not yet name.
Eivor watched them go. Ragnar sat beside the fire, silent. The den was still again.
But somewhere, down the cliff path, two young souls were already trying to decide…
…whether they would be the kind who ran from the den forever—
…or the kind who bled until the stone remembered them.