Drums beat like distant thunder as torches painted the night in flickering gold.
The longhouse at the heart of Clan Vargr's settlement had never shone so brightly. Banners of the wolf and raven hung side by side for the first time in history — the silver-fanged sigil of Vargr snarling against the black-feathered crest of Hrafn.
Tonight, peace was dressed in celebration.
Ragnar stood at the fringes of the gathering — not among the honored warriors or nobles, but with the other lowborn youth, close enough to see but far enough to be reminded of his place. His hands were clean for once, not caked in soil or training bruises. Eivor stood beside him with arms crossed, eyes sharp and unreadable.
"Strange," she murmured, watching the festivities. "To see wolves dance with ravens."
"Wolves don't dance," Ragnar muttered quietly. "They circle."
She smirked. "And ravens wait to see who bleeds first."
A group of warrior-born youths nearby laughed loudly over their mead, their eyes sliding past Ragnar and Eivor as though they were smoke. The class lines were drawn even in celebration — nobles and warrior lines near the front with furs and fresh meat; lowborn and laborers further back, holding wooden cups of thin ale.
At the center of it all sat Jarl Gunnar Vargr, broad-shouldered, scarred, his wolfskin cloak draped like dominance incarnate. He said little, but every movement radiated a barely contained ferocity, the kind that made even seasoned warriors hesitate.
Beside him, radiant in solemn grace, sat the bride:
Astrid Fair-Haired, daughter of Clan Hrafn's Earl.
Her hair, pale gold like frostlit dawn, was braided with raven feathers. She was beautiful, yes — but not fragile. There was quiet strength in the way she held her posture, neither mousy nor haughty. She moved like someone who understood both duty and danger.
She glanced toward the crowd — her gaze pausing only briefly when it met Sigrun.
Ragnar's mother stood not among the high seat holders but respectfully near them — an honored warrior, though still not of noble blood. When Astrid caught her eye, Sigrun gave a small nod. Astrid returned it with a warm smile that hinted at long-held mutual trust. They were not equals, but they were friends.
Eivor nudged Ragnar. "Think she notices you staring?"
"I'm not staring," he replied stiffly.
"You're thinking," she said. "And when you think too hard, your face goes blank. It's unsettling."
He gave her a sideways look. "You think too hard with your fists."
"And they listen better than people do."
He didn't argue. They fell quiet again as ritual chants began.
Priests from both clans stepped forward, invoking the gods with hollow invocations — calling on Havi the High One to witness the union, on ancient spirits to bless their alliance with strength, not ruin. Ragnar didn't feel anything from their words. Just smoke, mead, expectation.
When the bride and groom drank from the ceremonial horn, the crowd erupted in applause. Warriors slammed their axes rhythmically on shields.
Jarl Gunnar rose then, voice booming like a wolf's first howl before battle.
"Tonight, the wolf runs with the raven," he declared. "Our bloodlines stand not apart, but as one. May our enemies tremble to see us united."
Cries of approval followed.
Astrid remained calm, only her fingers tightening briefly around the cup before she lifted her chin. Her eyes scanned the gathering again.
And this time, she looked directly at Ragnar.
Not with judgment. Not with disdain.
Curiosity, perhaps. Or recognition — as though she'd heard of Sigrun's son and wondered if something of the shieldmaiden's fire lived in him.
It lasted only a moment before she looked away — but the air around Ragnar felt unexpectedly warmer.
Eivor elbowed him. "Careful. You'll start thinking nobles are people if they keep doing that."
Ragnar exhaled faintly. "She's not like the others."
Eivor shrugged. "Maybe not. But she won't bleed for you if you fall."
Ragnar glanced again at Astrid, then at Jarl Gunnar — fierce, untouchable, a symbol of power far above him — and he felt once more the familiar divide between the strong and the forgotten.
A spark of something bitter burned in his chest.
As the feast continued, mead flowed. Music rose. Children danced around fire pits. Warriors boasted of battles past and those yet to come. Sigrun stood watchful from afar, occasionally exchanging a few quiet words with Astrid as though sharing years of unspoken history.
Eivor remained still at Ragnar's side, gaze always scanning the perimeter, never fully relaxed. Even in celebration, she moved with the instincts of prey prepared to bite back.
After a while, Ragnar spoke softly without looking at her. "Do you ever think about being up there? At the Jarl's fire?"
Eivor snorted. "No."
He waited.
Then she added quietly, "But I think about not being down here forever."
Ragnar's grip tightened around his cup.
"…Me too."
A gust of wind swept through the open space, rustling banners of wolf and raven.
For a moment, Ragnar thought he heard it — a faint, distant howl.
He shook it off.
Just wind.
Or so he believed then.
The drums had faded into laughter. Flames flickered against smiling faces. The sacred night of peace felt eternal.
It ended in a single scream.
Not one of joy or drunken cheer—but a shriek, sharp and terrified, cutting through the music like steel through flesh.
Then came another. Then many.
The drums fell silent.
Ragnar froze, cup halfway to his lips.
Eivor's hand moved instantly to the wooden axe handle she kept strapped to her back. Her eyes narrowed, animal-sharp.
A roar erupted at the edge of the gathering—not a wolf's howl of challenge, but a guttural, savage bellow.
"SVIN!"
Boar banners crashed through the night—tusks carved into the snarling mark of Clan Svin, the Boar Clan. Warriors armed with heavy cleavers and crude axes surged through the outer settlements, ignoring sacred rites, ignoring divine law, cutting down anyone in their path.
Jarl Gunnar was on his feet in a heartbeat, eyes blazing. "To arms! Warriors, with me! Defend the bride! Defend Vargr!"
The elite warriors near the high seat surged forward like a pack of enraged wolves—but Ragnar and Eivor were nowhere near them.
They were on the outer edge.
Which meant they were in the boars' path first.
People scattered. Some ran. Others screamed. A few froze where they stood, disbelief turning to death too slowly to matter.
A Svin warrior crashed into the crowd nearby, his tusk-carved helm dripping blood. He swung his cleaver, splitting a man open with a wet crack.
Eivor shoved Ragnar hard. "Move!"
They scrambled backward, but more raiders were flooding in from the treeline. Ragnar spun, heart pounding, only to come face to face with another Svin warrior—massive, reeking of mead and murder, eyes wild with the thrill of forbidden kill.
He grinned beneath his helm when he saw them—unarmored, young, lowborn.
"Ripe," he growled.
Eivor moved first, swinging her wooden training axe with a roar. The blow struck the raider's shoulder with a crack—not strong enough to kill, but enough to enrage.
"Little raven bites!" the warrior snarled, backhanding her with a gauntleted fist.
Eivor hit the ground hard, coughing, dizzy.
The warrior turned toward Ragnar.
Ragnar had no weapon.
His heart thundered. His hands shook. His ears rang with screams. His mother's voice thundered in his memory—He had one eye… and the sky felt afraid of him.
The Svin warrior grabbed Ragnar by the tunic and raised his cleaver—
No.
Ragnar's gaze shot sideways—there, in the dirt, a broken antler-handled sickle dropped by a fallen fieldhand.
He didn't think.
He lunged.
His fingers wrapped around the sickle's handle.
The cleaver swung down—
Ragnar slammed the sickle upward with a cry torn straight from panic and desperation.
The curved blade sank into the raider's throat.
For a breath, neither of them moved.
The warrior looked shocked. Then he gurgled, blood bubbling from his mouth as he staggered back, claws clutching his neck.
Ragnar didn't let go.
He couldn't.
He yanked the sickle free with a scream, warm blood splattering across his chest, face, eyes. The raider choked, staggered, then fell heavily to the earth, lifeless.
Ragnar was heaving, staring at his blood-soaked hands, his breath ragged.
He'd seen death. But he'd never delivered it.
"Ragnar!" Eivor's voice was sharp. Urgent. Alive.
She dragged herself up, bruised but breathing. Another raider was coming—a leaner one this time, wielding a club, stepping over his comrade's corpse with a snarl.
This time Ragnar didn't freeze.
He stepped in front of Eivor.
The warrior laughed. "Little wolf thinks he has fangs now?"
Ragnar raised the sickle, still dripping.
His pulse hammered. Fear was still there—but something else stirred beneath it. Something hot. Something primal. Something that didn't want to run.
He remembered the dream: a field of bones… a blade that howled… a voice that asked, Will you kneel or devour?
The warrior charged.
Ragnar moved.
The fight was clumsy. Brutal. Real.
The raider knocked Ragnar's arm aside and slammed a punch into his jaw. Ragnar saw stars. Pain shot through him—but he didn't go down. He ducked under the follow-up swing, roaring like a cornered animal, and slashed wildly.
The sickle carved into flesh again.
The raider screamed, stumbling back.
Eivor was already there, grabbing the fallen club and slamming it into his knee. The raider buckled with a shout—and Ragnar finished it.
Wood cracked against skull. Once. Twice. Three times.
By the fourth, the raider stopped screaming.
Ragnar dropped the club, chest heaving, sweat and blood mixing in muddy rivulets down his face.
Silence didn't follow—battle still raged all around them—but something inside Ragnar had gone quiet.
Or… no. Not quiet.
Listening.
To something that felt like a distant… howl.
---
They weren't safe yet. They had to move. Eivor grabbed Ragnar's wrist, her eyes intense—not frightened, but burning with adrenaline and something like fierce pride.
"You're not dying here," she said through gritted teeth. "Move!"
They ran—toward the main defensive lines forming under Jarl Gunnar's command. Ragnar's heart still pounded. His legs moved on instinct. His mind spun with too many thoughts to understand.
He had killed.
Not for glory. Not for honor.
For survival. For her.
For himself.
He looked down at the blood on his hands.
It felt heavy.
It felt real.
It felt like a beginning.
Somewhere behind his ribs, that faint wolfish echo stirred again.
Hunger. Rage. Destiny.
---
By dawn, Clan Svin had been driven off, leaving corpses on sacred ground. But nothing in Clan Vargr would ever be the same.
Especially not Ragnar.
He did not know yet that others had seen him fight.
He did not know that some would whisper, "That lowborn boy fought like something waking."
He did not know that this night had marked him more deeply than any wound.
But he did know something had changed.
He was no longer just a farmer who wanted to rise.
He was a boy who had tasted blood and found that he did not choke on it.