Dawn in Clan Vargr felt different than it had a year ago.
Once, Ragnar had woken to cold air biting soft, untested flesh. Now the frost greeted scarred hands, hardened muscle, and a body carved by steel and struggle. At sixteen, he stood taller, heavier with earned strength—not bulky, but shaped like a young wolf nearly grown into his power.
He stood quietly beside the old training yard fence, watching pale light spread over the packed dirt that had swallowed countless drops of sweat and blood. His own included.
One year, he thought.
One year since Viggo Stormhand had told them only pups with teeth would remain.
Many had left.
More had broken.
Some had died in harsh drills meant for warriors twice their age.
Ragnar had endured.
So had Eivor.
She now stood a short distance away, tightening the straps of her leather bracers. At fifteen, her once-round features had sharpened; her gaze now carried a cold focus that unsettled even older trainees. There was something coiled beneath her calm—something that stirred during rage drills, turning her eyes distant and fierce before she dragged herself back from the edge with clenched fists and slow breathing.
The instructors no longer referred to her as "the raven girl."
They called her Skjaldmeyja in training—shieldmaiden in the making.
She never responded to the title.
Behind her, Brynja Skalladottir yawned like a bear waking from hibernation, rolling her shoulders with a crack that made two nearby warrior-born trainees wince. "Gods, if Viggo tells us to run hills again today, I might start killing just to break the pace," she grumbled, though the slight grin on her face suggested she'd enjoy it.
"You complained less when your legs were thinner," Eivor said without looking back.
Brynja snorted. "I complain because I'm stronger. Bigger lungs to fuel louder curses."
Slightly beyond them, Hakon Stillspear tested the balance of his spear with meticulous precision, silent as ever. He had grown leaner but faster, eyes always scanning angles, distance, threat. His presence had become steady enough that many lesser trainees began gravitating near him during formation drills—for safety, if not camaraderie.
Though no one declared it, Ragnar, Eivor, Brynja, and Hakon had long since become a recognized cluster.
Some called them "the pack."
Not fondly, perhaps—but with caution.
Across the yard, Eirik Sigvaldsson finished strapping on his helm. His leather armor was etched with faint gilding—markings of warrior-born rank. His skills had sharpened too, his technique now precise and deadly. But though he killed wood and straw effortlessly, there was tension in his gaze whenever it landed on Ragnar.
Not fear.
Not yet.
But the fear of one day needing to fear him.
The gap between noble-born and lowborn had narrowed.
And for some, that was unacceptable.
—
Ragnar flexed his fingers.
He remembered when he first struggled to hold a stance for more than minutes. When he bled from his palms after splintering wooden posts. When Eivor had shouted at him to "get up" as if her voice alone held him together.
Now he led drills without realizing it.
Now others followed his positioning.
Now Brynja laughed only after Ragnar stood victorious in a spar, not before.
Now Hakon coordinated with him without needing words.
Ragnar was not Jarl, Earl, or Thane.
But he was no longer just a trainee.
He had begun to feel like a warrior-in-waiting.
And warriors, he knew, were not made only in the yard.
They were proven in blood.
Just as that thought settled, a war horn sounded from the great longhouse.
Not the short call of drills.
The long, deep call of assembly.
Eivor looked at Ragnar. Ragnar looked at Brynja and Hakon. None of them spoke.
They didn't need to.
They walked.
The trainees clustered toward the longhouse courtyard, whispers rising like sparks. Jarl Gunnar Vargr himself stood at the raised platform beside Thane Viggo, his wolfskin cloak rippling in the breeze, his gaze hard as carved stone.
Silence fell as more warriors gathered.
Ragnar felt the air shift.
He already knew—
Something was about to change.
Forever.
The courtyard fell still as Jarl Gunnar Vargr stepped forward.
He did not shout to command silence. He never needed to.
He stood like a cliff formed by battle, scarred and steady — the kind of man whose mere presence quieted storms.
When he spoke, his voice was deep, deliberate.
"Clan Vargr has sharpened its claws long enough."
A murmur ran through the courtyard.
"Across the sea," he continued, "lies a coastal stronghold of Clan Eldfjall — the Fire Mountain Clan. Rich in iron. Arrogant in power. They believe distance protects them."
He paused, eyes sweeping across every warrior and trainee.
"They are wrong."
Ragnar felt Eivor shift slightly beside him, silent but tense.
"We sail in two moons."
A ripple of reaction — excitement, fear, hunger — spread through the trainees.
"But only those who prove themselves worthy of the shieldwall will go," Gunnar finished. "We do not feed pups to the sea."
His gaze was hard as winter when it landed briefly on Ragnar's group.
He turned slightly, allowing Thane Viggo to step forward.
The Thane's expression was unreadable — but his eyes had sharpened, like a smith ready to test newly forged steel.
"In the coming days," Viggo announced, "your training will change. No longer to break you… but to refine you."
A hush of dread mixed with anticipation fell over the crowd.
"Those who prove adaptable in formation, who show instinct under pressure, who do not shatter when blood is drawn… will earn a place on the raid," Viggo said. "The rest will remain behind to train another year… if they survive it."
Ragnar felt his pulse quicken.
A year ago, he had only wanted not to kneel.
Now he wanted — needed — to rise.
"To bleed on foreign soil," Viggo continued, "is to become more than trainees. It is to begin walking the path of warriors."
He stepped aside again.
Jarl Gunnar's final words fell like a warhammer.
"Those who sail with me," he said, "will not return children."
Then, colder:
"Some will not return at all."
Silence.
Then the horn sounded again — not as a call to gather, but as a command to prepare.
The crowd broke apart in tense urgency.
Ragnar remained still for a moment.
Eivor's voice cut through the noise, low and certain. "We're going."
It wasn't a question.
Brynja cracked her neck. "I'd like to meet someone else's axe with mine for once."
Hakon gave a small nod, adjusting the spear on his back. "Better to face death on a boat by choice than wait for it here."
Ragnar's gaze lingered on Jarl Gunnar, who had already turned inward with his generals to discuss logistics and targets.
He didn't know if they thought he was ready.
He only knew that he would be.
His hand curled into a fist.
Two moons.
They had two moons to sharpen fangs.
Sabotage began like a whisper—felt, not seen.
It started during afternoon drills, when Ragnar's pack was ordered into formation for line-breaking exercises. Ragnar led their unit from the front, shield against shield as they practiced advancing under pressure. Eirik's unit was opposite them.
The first clash was standard—shields grinding, bodies pushing, instructors watching for weaknesses. Ragnar gritted his teeth and anchored against the force, muscles burning as Hakon flanked and Eivor swung to disrupt openings. Brynja roared with berserker energy, pushing their line forward.
Then it happened.
On the second clash, Ragnar's shield felt off. The weight distribution was wrong—heavier on one side, unbalanced. A weighted shield.
He stumbled only a moment, but it was enough.
Eirik's second-in-command—a tall warrior-born trainee named Rorik—took advantage and slammed into Ragnar with an illegal hook motion, shield angled to crush the collarbone.
Eivor reacted first—shoulder-checking Ragnar sideways just before the impact. Instead of shattering bone, the blow clipped Ragnar's ribs. He grunted in pain but remained on his feet.
Hrodric barked, "Illegal strike! Reset!"
Rorik shrugged, feigning innocence. Eirik wore a carefully neutral expression.
Ragnar shot him a look that promised reckoning.
Eirik's lips barely moved, his voice no louder than a breath.
"Fall now… or fall harder later."
No one else heard it.
But Ragnar did.
—
That night, the tension didn't fade. It thickened.
Ragnar sat outside the trainee lodge, cleaning his bruised ribs, watching the moonlight silver the yard. Hakon sat silently nearby, sharpening his spearhead with slow, precise motions. Eivor leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed but ever-watchful. Brynja laid on her back under the open sky, humming a funeral tune as though boredom and death walked alongside her.
None of them said it aloud.
They all expected retaliation.
It came.
—
The shadows moved first—three figures, quiet and hooded, slipping from behind the well. They weren't clumsy. They were practiced.
Hakon stood first. "We are not alone."
Brynja grinned savagely. "About time."
One of the shadows lunged toward Ragnar with a wooden training blade reinforced for damage. Ragnar barely rolled aside before the strike shattered the ground where his head had been.
Eivor moved like a released arrow—quick, vicious, her knee slamming into one attacker's gut before she twisted and elbowed him in the jaw. The crack was loud.
Hakon stepped forward with spear haft reversed, sweeping another raider's legs out while Brynja charged like a storm, tackling her opponent to the dirt with a laughter that was more threat than joy.
Ragnar found himself face-to-face with Rorik.
"So noble-born has sent hounds," Ragnar growled.
Rorik spit blood. "We just want to remind you of your place."
He struck again—but Ragnar had grown in the past year. He parried with his forearm, ignoring the pain, then drove his head into Rorik's face. Bone crunched. Rorik fell back howling, nose broken.
The fight wasn't long.
Ragnar and his pack weren't just trained—they were tempered.
When it ended, Rorik and his two allies lay groaning and bloodied in the dirt.
Brynja knelt beside one, tapping his cheek lightly. "Next time, bring more friends. Or a coffin."
Hakon said nothing, but his spear remained raised until Ragnar lowered his chin in silent approval.
Eivor watched Ragnar quietly.
He had a cut along his shoulder and blood trailing from his temple, but his breathing was calm.
Dangerous.
Controlled.
Alive.
He turned toward her, and for a fleeting moment, something unspoken passed between them—something raw, unsteady, real.
But then boots approached in the distance. They quickly scattered back into the shadows, leaving their attackers groaning but alive.
No instructor saw what happened.
No proof would be spoken.
But a line had been crossed.
And Eirik Sigvaldsson would not forgive being repelled.
—
Later, kneeling at the riverbank to rinse the blood from his arm, Ragnar stared at his reflection.
For the first time in months… he saw something in his eyes that frightened even him.
Not weakness.
Not uncertainty.
A burning undercurrent of something deep and furious.
He looked up to find Eivor standing silently nearby.
"You should rest," she said.
"You too."
"I will."
She hesitated, then spoke more quietly. "They'll try again."
Ragnar didn't look away from the river. "Let them."
He rose to leave.
Eivor watched him go—something tight and unfamiliar twisting beneath her ribs.
She didn't understand it yet.
But she felt it growing.
—
The night passed without further attack.
But the next morning was not merciful.
And fate had not finished sharpening Ragnar Sigrunsson.
The next morning hit like a hammer.
There was no time to speak of the ambush. No time to breathe. The bruises had not faded. Ragnar's shoulder still throbbed from Rorik's strike. Eivor's knuckles were cracked. Hakon had a bruise forming near his rib. Brynja had slept with a grin.
They stepped into the training yard at dawn.
The air was too still.
Thane Viggo stood at the edge, watching with arms folded — not instructing, just observing.
That meant today would hurt.
"Shieldwall drill," barked Hrodric, voice low and dangerous. "Live formation. You fall, you rise. You break, you bleed."
Ragnar's pack lined up: Ragnar at front left, Eivor beside him, Brynja anchoring the right, Hakon guarding rear flank.
Eirik's group stood opposite.
Eirik's eyes met Ragnar's.
There was no mockery today.
Only intent.
"Begin."
Shields locked.
The drill started.
Bodies collided.
Shock. Pressure. Roars.
Ragnar held the front, his shield taking blow after blow. Hakon anchored the wall behind him with disciplined precision. Eivor struck like a raven in flight, swift and vicious. Brynja laughed as she slammed opponents back with wild force.
It was brutal. It was normal.
Until Eirik made his move.
A subtle formation shift — one Ragnar barely registered.
A warrior-born trainee from Eirik's right flank stepped forward and struck Ragnar's shield high — forcing him to lift his guard just an inch too far.
Just enough.
Then Eirik himself came in low, not with the flat of his wooden sword like drills required—
—but with the weighted iron pommel wrapped in cloth.
It slammed with sickening precision into Ragnar's right eye.
CRACK.
White exploded into agony.
The world vanished in a flash of blinding fire.
Ragnar's scream tore through the yard like something dying—or being born.
He dropped to one knee. Blood poured down his face. His right eye was gone — he felt it, saw blackness swallowing vision.
The yard fell still for a heartbeat.
Eirik stepped back, terror briefly flickering in his eyes.
Everyone thought Ragnar would collapse.
Instead—
He ROARED.
It wasn't human.
It was the sound of every held-back fury. Every humiliation. Every slap of caste. Every drop of blood spilled. Every moment he pretended to be less than he was. A wolf's howl ripped from a burning throat.
He rose.
He should not have been able to.
But he did.
One-eyed. Blood-blind. In agony. Still breathing.
Still fighting.
He rushed Eirik like a storm unchained.
The drillmasters shouted, but he didn't hear.
Eirik tried to block—Ragnar broke through. He slammed his shoulder into Eirik's chest, throwing him back violently.
Another trainee lunged. Ragnar struck him so hard the boy spun and collapsed, gasping.
Brynja screamed in savage delight and charged alongside him. Eivor didn't move to stop him.
Hakon flanked silently, steady as ever — not fueling Ragnar's frenzy, but guarding him from being overwhelmed.
It took Thane Viggo himself stepping forward and slamming the shaft of his spear into the ground with authority to stop Ragnar's advance. The ground seemed to shake with the force of it.
"ENOUGH."
The word hit harder than any blow.
Ragnar stopped—not because he wanted to, but because instinct obeyed a stronger predator.
He stood there, chest heaving, face torn and bleeding, vision narrowed to rage and red. His right eye socket leaked blood like melted ember. His left eye, still intact, blazed with unbroken fire.
Silence swallowed the yard.
Someone whispered:
"…He lost an eye and still fought."
Another voice, barely breath:
"…like a wolf gone mad…"
A third trembled:
"…The One-Eyed Wolf…"
The name spread through fear and awe.
Ragnar didn't care.
He staggered back a step—
And Eivor was suddenly there, closer than anyone, as if drawn by gravity she didn't understand.
She didn't touch him.
But she stood beside him.
She wasn't afraid.
In her chest, something twisted violently.
Gods… this is dangerous, she thought.
But why… why does it feel harder to breathe when he bleeds and stands like that?
I should fear what he is becoming… but instead, I…
She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, forcing the thought away.
Ragnar looked at her.
Her expression was steady—but her eyes held something she didn't dare name.
He didn't understand it.
But he understood one thing:
He would not fall.
Not now.
Not ever.
Thane Viggo stepped forward, looking Ragnar dead in his remaining eye.
"You are broken now," he said quietly. "Which means we see if you rise as a blade… or remain a shattered thing."
Ragnar said nothing.
He stood with blood dripping down his face, still breathing.
Still fighting.
Still alive.
The One-Eyed Wolf was born.