The morning after the stone-hauling trial broke cold and sharp across the lower camp. A thread of mist hung low to the ground, clinging to aching limbs and unspoken pride.
Inside the lodge assigned to Clan Ormr, twelve shields lay stacked against the wall—each bearing the worn, curling sigil of the serpent devouring its own tail. The women stirred slowly, bruised muscles protesting as exhaustion clung to their bones like frost.
Thrya Vídrisdottìr, daughter of the slain Jarlskona Víðris, sat silently on the edge of her bedding, golden-brown braid trailing over her shoulder. Her throat was still faintly bruised where Ragnar had lifted her from the ground. She touched the mark only once, not in pain… but in memory.
A pulse of shame—and something darker—rolled through her.
She tore her hand away.
Around her, the others rose.
Rota was the first to fully stand. Tall, sharply cut with lean muscle, short dark hair shorn at the sides, a scar running along her jaw like a knife's whisper. She strapped leather over her forearms without looking at Thrya.
"You stared toward the hall three times in your sleep," Rota said quietly. "You whispered once."
Thrya froze.
Rota did not turn. "Your head cannot slip from your shoulders for a wolf you barely know. We follow you because you carry Víðris' blood—not because you're lost in storms."
Freya approached quietly, strong arms bearing a strip of cloth soaked in cool water. She tucked a loose auburn strand behind her ear and gently began binding Thrya's raw hands from yesterday's rope work.
"Our lady walked through exile without shattering," she said, soothing, firm. "She will not lose herself now."
Rota did not argue—but her shoulders remained tense.
In the dim corner, Svala knelt cross-legged, eyes half-lidded, whispering low in a voice too calm.
"You knelt to the storm already, child of Víðris," she murmured. "Your heart bowed when your neck did not."
Thrya's breath hitched.
Rota glared. "Enough of your cryptic filth."
Svala only smiled faintly, fingers tracing a serpent pattern on her thigh. "Wolves rule storms, and storms shape fates. Best we learn how to kneel properly when the lightning demands it."
Eydis tightened the laces of her boots silently. Raven-black hair slicked tightly back, her gaze followed Thrya with the quiet precision of a hunter sizing a target.
"You watch the Wolf," she said plainly. "So I will watch you. Until you either stand beside him… or get us all killed."
She said no more—but the warning was understood.
Jora—broad-shouldered, freckled, hair bound in a rough braided knot—laughed from where she stretched her shoulders.
"Always knew our Thrya would find someone to burn for eventually," she jeered. "Didn't think it'd be a wolf towering over her like a storm-fucked mountain. Tell me, did your knees shake in fear or in wanting?"
Inga flinched. Freya scowled. Rota nearly rose to strike her.
Thrya's fingers clenched.
But she spoke nothing.
That was worse.
Jora's grin faded just slightly.
Inga's voice trembled as she rolled linen around her own bruised palm. "We cannot split now. We are all we have left."
Her eyes darted to Thrya—seeking an anchor.
Thrya did not provide one.
Silence fell like a drawn blade.
Each woman felt it—the shift.
Thrya's focus… was no longer entirely on them.
And that terrified them all in different ways.
A knock struck the wooden frame of the lodge—sharp, controlled.
Eivor Caldersdottìr stepped inside.
Her copper hair was pulled high, braided back from a stern face that held neither warmth nor cruelty—only cold, measured command. She wore hunting leathers beneath lightly fur-lined armor, a spear strapped to her back, and a short seax at her waist.
Her blue-grey eyes swept over the twelve women like she was measuring their worth in heartbeat intervals.
"On your feet," Eivor said. Her voice was low, even—but the authority in it cut like winter wind. "Today, you hunt."
Jora sneered. "With you, Raven?"
Eivor's gaze fixed on her. "With me," she said simply. "If you cannot keep pace, you are dead weight. If you disobey command, I leave you for the beast."
Rota stiffened. "What beast?"
Eivor turned her back toward the treeline without pausing.
"HëlBjörn."
The word landed like a curse.
A ripple of unease passed through the Ormr women—even Jora's bravado faltered.
Eivor did not stop walking. "Half of you will follow," she said. "The rest will remain under Hakon's orders. Thrya Vídrisdottìr, choose six."
Thrya stood. Her heart thundered—not with fear of the bear…
…but because Eivor had spoken her name with the tone of testing another pack's alpha.
She nodded once.
Six would stand with the Raven today.
And HëlBjörn would decide whether the serpent survived the storm.
The forest wind had not yet stirred when Thrya Vídrisdottìr stepped out of the lodge, feeling the cold morning bite at her bruised throat. Eivor stood a short distance ahead, waiting with the stillness of a drawn bow. Behind her, the treeline loomed like a silent jury.
Thrya's shieldmaidens formed up behind her, half-alert and half-brooding—watching, waiting. Every one of them knew what came next.
Eivor did not turn as she spoke. "Choose five. They hunt. The rest remain under Hakon's command."
A single command—but it hit like a warhammer. For Thrya, this was not mere selection. Each name she spoke would draw lines between loyalty and doubt, strength and weakness, those she risked and those she did not.
She drew in a breath. Turned.
"Röta."
Röta stepped forward instantly, shoulders squared. She offered no smile, no nod—just cool acknowledgement that this was expected.
"Jöra."
The broad-shouldered berserker cracked her neck with a grin and muttered, "About time the Raven let someone bleed."
No one laughed.
"Eydìs."
The scout stepped forward softly, a predator's grace in her movement. Her dark eyes flicked to Eivor briefly—reading her like terrain before a hunt.
"Frëyä."
Loyal, solid Frëyä moved to Röta's side, calm and purposeful. She threw a single look back at Thrya—a silent vow: I will shield what you stand for.
Five already stood beside Thrya.
But she had named only four.
That last space weighed heavier than all the others.
Her gaze passed over the remaining women. Svala's eyes gleamed with eerie expectation, lips parted as though she were already whispering fate into being. One of the unchosen warriors shifted, hungry for battle but uncertain. Inga stood toward the back, shoulders still tense from yesterday's exhaustion, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her belt.
Thrya looked at her for only a moment—
—and chose.
"Ingä."
The name cut the silence open like a blade.
Inga startled—almost stepping back before catching herself. Then, with slow, shaky breath, she stepped forward to join the others, face pale but head lifted.
Behind them, Svala's lips parted in a soft, almost delighted whisper.
"Five steps toward storm and shadow… one to break first."
Eivor turned.
Her gaze swept over the chosen like a cold wind, measuring not pride, not strength—but use.
She stopped on Ingä.
The air seemed to tighten. Ingä tried not to tremble, but her fingers curled involuntarily. Thrya's breath caught in her throat.
Eivor stepped closer to the youngest serpent, inspecting her the way one might consider a blade: sharp enough to pierce, or too brittle to survive the first clash.
At last, her gaze shifted to Thrya.
"You take a weak link," she said quietly.
Thrya did not flinch. "She needs to be tempered."
Eivor's eyes were unreadable. "If she breaks, she dies. That is on you, Vídrisdottìr."
"I accept it," Thrya answered.
Ingä swallowed hard, but nodded as if bound to that fate.
Eivor turned away. "Then follow. HëlBjörn does not wait."
She began toward the forest without another word.
The chosen six moved after her in silence.
Behind them, the remaining Ormr warriors watched with a mix of envy, resentment, and fear. Among them, Svala smiled like someone who had already seen the ending written in stormfire.
As Thrya followed Eivor beneath the towering shadow of the trees, she could not shake the certainty that this hunt would be more than a test of flesh.
It would decide whether the serpent would one day walk beside the Wolf…
…or be trampled beneath his Pack.