The Antler River moved quietly beneath a thin skin of ice.
Ivar crouched at the river's edge, boots half-buried in snow that refused to melt no matter what the elders called the season. Summer, they said, but the land did not care for names. Snow still clung stubbornly to the banks, and every few days a sudden storm would roll in, brief but sharp, as if winter itself were reluctant to loosen its grip.
He reached into the shallow water and checked the trap with practiced movements.
Empty.
Ivar exhaled softly and reset it anyway, adjusting the stones and woven twigs that guided fish into the narrow opening. The current tugged at his fingers, numbing them even through skin long since hardened by cold, labor and practice. He barely noticed it anymore.
Two years.
That was how long it had been since the forest.
Since blood had soaked into the snow.
Since his first kill, or rather, his first kills.
The memory never truly left him.
He had been punished for disobeying his mother's words and appearing at her fight.
The moment the shock had faded, Astrid's fear had turned into fury. She had struck him again and again, hands shaking, voice breaking as she shouted at him to never do something so foolish again. It hadn't been cruelty that drove her, it was terror. Terror at how close she had come to losing her life. Terror at the thought of losing her son.
Bjorn's reaction had been very different.
When Bjorn returned from his first raid south and learned what had happened, he had gone silent. He listened to every detail, Astrid's account, the children's broken retellings, the state of the bodies, without interrupting once.
Then he looked at Ivar.
Long and hard.
There had been pride in his eyes. Ivar had seen it clearly. Pride that his son had acted. Pride that he had struck without hesitation when it mattered most.
But there had been something else as well.
Rage.
Bjorn had not shouted. He had not raged openly. That would have been easy. Instead, he had acted.
The families of the two men were banished from the clan, along with others who had challenged Bjorn's authority in the past. He had learned then that it was unwise to keep such families close. What had nearly happened to his wife, Astrid, could happen again when he was not around.
Bjorn would not allow that risk.
Ninety people had lived in the clan then.
Afterward, there were seventy-five.
Bjorn had confided with Astrid, Freya and Ylva that he had been thinking how to dismiss or abandon some of the members of their clan as food had been scarce lately and the situation presented a viable excuse without damaging his reputation within the clan.
Not long after, they moved.
Bjorn decided the land they occupied was no longer suitable for a settlement. Food had been growing scarce in their surroundings, and he feared that those he had cast out might reveal their location to other clans with ill intent. Better to leave first than to wait for danger to arrive.
So they followed the Antler River and settled near one of its forks.
They had been here for two years now, and much had changed.
The sword Ivar had used to kill one of the assailants belonged to him now. His Ma had been adamant about taking it away, but he had refused. Weapons were scarce in this land, and he had no way of knowing when, if ever, he might acquire another. More importantly, he had taken the lives of the men himself. By the laws they lived under, the blade was his by right.
Bjorn hadn't even reacted when the matter was brought before him. He had simply allowed Ivar to keep the rusted sword without comment. His Ma resisted for a while longer, but in the end, she had given up.
Ivar had cleaned the blade thoroughly with whatever materials he could find. The rust was gone now, scraped and scoured away through patient effort. The edges remained rough and imperfect, but it would do.
He glanced briefly toward where it rested nearby, wrapped carefully in oil-darkened cloth and tucked beneath a flat stone. The blade was short and poorly balanced by any proper standard, but it was iron, real iron.
The first weapon he had ever held in this world with the intent to kill.
That had been the end of it.
Ivar still played with his so-called friends in this world when he could. Haldor, Torren, and Ulf had grown taller and stronger, their voices rougher, their movements less clumsy. They played at hunting and fighting like all children did, but sometimes, those games turned into practice.
They preferred axes. Heavy-headed, crude things that suited their strength and the way their fathers fought.
Ivar preferred the sword.
It felt right in his hands. It was the weapon he had used in his second life, faster, cleaner, demanding precision rather than brute force. He practiced alone more often than not, repeating the same motions again and again until they settled into his body. His qi moved with him now, faint but steady, reinforcing muscle and tendon in small, incremental ways.
Slow progress.
But real progress.
He cultivated whenever he could, and it would not be long before he advanced to the second level of body cultivation. It wouldn't add much to his current strength, but even a small increase was worth taking. Strength was the foundation of this world, no different from his second life, and he intended to claim every bit of it, no matter how little it seemed.
His half-brothers had grown as well over the past two years. They could hold conversations now, each in their own clumsy way, and they were more than eager to challenge him whenever they found the slightest excuse. Words turned into shoves, shoves into scuffles, and inevitably, scuffles into tears.
They never won.
Ivar was faster, stronger, and far more experienced. He beat them down not out of cruelty, but with certainty. Each loss carved the lesson deeper into them, that he stood above them. That trying to best him would only end the same way.
He would crush their hopes of being his equal early while they were still young.
This world did not reward hesitation or equality. People followed strength, or they were discarded by it. If his half-brothers chose to follow him one day, then good. If they didn't, that was their decision.
He had plans.
And being at the top was one of them.
Ivar straightened and wiped his hands against his furs, eyes scanning the water.
He didn't know much about fishing when they'd first arrived. Here in this place, most food came from hunting, elk, goats, the occasional desperate raid. Fish were unreliable, hidden beneath ice and fast-moving currents.
But he knew the basics.
Traps worked best in shallow water where fish followed predictable paths. Spears required patience and a steady hand. Nets would have been ideal for a river like this, but they didn't have them, and making proper nets with what little resources they have was nearly impossible.
So he adapted.
Traps and spears were enough.
He picked up his crude fishing spear from where it leaned against a rock, its prongs sharpened carefully over months of trial and error. The wood was straight. The balance felt right. His grip was steady.
Qi stirred faintly beneath his skin as he settled into stillness, not flowing freely like it once had in another life, but present. Obedient. Slow. Body cultivation suited this land. It always had.
The river rippled.
Ivar's eyes narrowed as he enhanced his senses.
Summer or not, life endured here in small, stubborn ways, beneath ice, beneath snow, beneath the endless white. And so did he.
Ivar adjusted his stance, angling the spear just so, his breathing slowing as he waited.
When the fish passed beneath him, he struck, and struck true. The fish writhed at the tip of his spear, thrashing wildly for a brief moment before he slammed it against a nearby stone. The movement stilled, life leaving it quickly. He picked it up and placed it into the crude basket beside him.
His first catch of the day.
There had been times when his Pa and the others returned empty-handed for days, sometimes even weeks. During those stretches, the clan survived on whatever they could gather, leaves, roots, and other edible plants that had been tested and passed down through generations as safe. At first, Ivar had tolerated the diet well enough. But as the days dragged on, it became harder to endure.
He had seen some of the clansmen attempt to fish in the river, though success was rare. Their methods were crude and inefficient. Some days they caught something; most days they didn't. And when they did catch a fish, it was kept close, shared only with their own families. Hunger did not encourage generosity in this place.
Ivar never understood why his father had not turned to fishing more seriously, but he didn't ask. Instead, he tried for himself.
At first, he brought back a single fish each day.
Then two.
Then three.
Bjorn had noticed and said only that Ivar had the hands for it. From then on, the task had fallen to him, and he accepted it without complaint.
The river also gave him something he rarely found elsewhere.
Solitude.
Time to think. Time to practice his swordsmanship away from prying eyes. Time to consider the future.
He often wondered what more he could do for the clan. After all, he would be failing as a reincarnator if he would not at least contribute anything meaningful from his first life. In his second life, he had introduced small innovations, simple, modern ideas that had earned him coin and influence. But here, beyond the Wall, resources were scarce, and even simple materials were hard to come by.
There was little he could change outright.
So he would start with what he could do.
Fishing, food and survival.
For now, that was enough.
Ivar stepped back into the river, water biting at his legs as he raised his spear once more. His focus narrowed, senses sharpening as the current flowed around him.
Another ripple.
He aimed.
And struck again.
By the time his crude basket was nearly full, he finally stopped. He crouched at the river's edge and began cleaning the fish where he stood. He had learned that lesson early, once, he had brought the fish back uncleaned, only for Freya to cook it without bothering to remove the entrails.
After that, he'd made sure to clean them himself.
He might have accepted that he lived among barbarians now, but he still preferred his food as clean as possible.
When he finished, he hoisted the basket onto his back and secured the rope he had fashioned across his shoulders. The weight settled comfortably, familiar by now. With one last glance at the river, Ivar turned and made his way back toward the settlement.
The settlement came into view not long after, low huts and tents huddled against the white, thin trails of smoke rising into the gray sky. Ivar slowed as he approached, the familiar sounds of voices and movement greeting him as he crossed into the open space.
"Oi!"
A shout rang out from his left.
Ivar turned just in time to see Haldor waving both arms wildly, Torren and Ulf beside him. Their eyes immediately dropped to the basket on his back.
They had begun to see him in a different light after what happened in the forest two years ago.
They had seen blood on the snow. They had seen grown men fall. And they had seen who struck the killing blows. Even though they had already seen men fall when someone fought in their settlement. It was different that time, as it was their friend who had struck the killing blow.
At first, it had been fear.
But after fear had settled, fear had shifted into something else.
Respect.
Sometimes, when they thought he wasn't looking, Ivar caught it in their eyes, Haldor's admiration barely concealed behind loud bravado, Torren's grudging acceptance tempered with wariness, Ulf's calm, thoughtful regard. They listened more now. Argued less. And when Ivar spoke, they paid attention.
He hadn't asked for it.
But he hadn't rejected it either, in fact, he welcomed it, it just made life easier for him with little chicks always following his lead.
The same couldn't be said for the rest of the clansmen and women when they heard what had happened two years ago. They had been skeptical about him killing two grown men and believed it had truly been Astrid who did it. He couldn't really be bothered to correct them. They could believe whatever they chose, so long as they left him alone. And fortunately, they did.
"Ye went fishing without us?" Torren demanded, already jogging closer. "Not fair."
Haldor squinted at the basket. "Ye got a big haul again th's time?"
Ivar shifted the weight on his shoulders and nodded once. "A few."
Ulf tilted his head. "Why didn't ye bring us with ye?"
Ivar paused, then shrugged lightly. "I looked for ye when I left. Ye weren't there, so I went on me own."
Haldor crossed his arms, clearly dissatisfied. "Ye could've waited."
"Maybe," Ivar said evenly. Then he added, "I'll come back later."
That caught their attention.
"Really?" Haldor asked at once.
Ivar nodded. "After I drop these off, we'll head back t' th' river an' catch more fish."
He had been teaching them how to fish whenever he could. They didn't have the heightened senses his cultivation granted him, but practice and familiarity could get them there if they have the hand for it. They were learning to read the water, to stand still, to strike without rushing, even if they couldn't catch as many fish as he did.
He had also shown them how to set traps, though those were always a matter of luck. Sometimes they caught something. Sometimes they didn't, just like today, when he'd checked the traps and found them empty.
Whenever he could, he steered them away from the crude mindset of these barbarians. He couldn't influence the grown ups from their already set mindset of raids and stealing so he'll start with them.
Ulf smiled faintly, already satisfied. Torren huffed, but the edge of his frustration dulled.
"Fine," Haldor said, grinning. "We'll wait fer ye here."
Ivar's lips curved slightly. "Aye."
With that, he turned and continued toward his family's hut, the weight of the fish steady on his back, his friends' voices fading behind him. For now, duty came first.
Ivar reached their hut and pushed aside the fur flap, letting the warmth and smoke roll over him.
Inside, the fire crackled low and steady. Freya sat close to it, hunched protectively over her newborn, her broad shoulders curved inward as she cradled the tiny bundle against her chest. The child was still unnamed, too new and too fragile, according to their customs. Names were given only after the gods had been given time to decide whether a child would stay in this world.
Freya's long struggle with his father had finally borne fruit, much to Astrid's dissatisfaction. Where Astrid had failed to conceive, Freya had succeeded. The unspoken rivalry between them had sharpened since the birth, and Ivar had noticed the change easily enough. His mother's temper had grown shorter these past weeks, her words edged with irritation she made little effort to hide. It wasn't hatred, just the quiet bitterness of comparison and the fear of being left behind.
Freya's gaze lifted the moment Ivar entered, sharp at first, then softening when she recognized him.
Nearby, Ylva knelt beside the fire, carefully boiling strips of freshly cut fur in a battered pot. The sharp, acrid smell filled the hut as she worked the hides with practiced patience, preparing them to be scraped and softened later. Kara sat beside her, newly named and already sturdy for her age, clutching a piece of smoothed bone and gnawing on it with single-minded determination.
Ylva glanced up and smiled faintly. "Ye're back early."
Ivar nodded and slipped the basket from his shoulders. He set it down near the fire and untied the rope, then lifted the cleaned fish one by one, their silvery bodies dull in the low light.
"The river was kind today," he said simply.
Freya shifted the newborn slightly and leaned forward to inspect the catch. Her brows rose, then pinched together.
"We've been eatin' fish for moons now," she muttered. "At this rate, we'll turn inte fish ourselves."
Ylva glanced up from her work and shot her a look. "Ye should thank the old gods we have something to fill our stomach, Freya. Stop complaining." Then she turned to Ivar, her expression softening. "Ye're getting better at this, Ivar."
Ivar smiled faintly and added, almost as an afterthought, "I already cleaned them."
Freya snorted as she carefully set her daughter down on a pile of furs and reached for the fish. "Why do ye bother removing the entrails? We can eat them just fine. Ye're wasting food."
"I like me food without 'em," Ivar replied calmly. Then he glanced around the hut. "Where's me Ma?"
"She went out with yer Pa," Ylva answered. "They're hunting for game.".
"Oh." Ivar nodded, absorbing that. After a moment, he added, "I'll head back t' th' river an' see if I can pull more from it."
He turned toward the door.
"Don't go far," Freya called after him, already turning back to the fire.
Ivar lifted a hand in response without looking back. "Aye."
The fur flap fell shut behind him, letting in a brief rush of cold air before the warmth reclaimed the hut once more.
The settlement was alive with quiet movement, voices drifting between huts, the distant ring of stone with whatever they were doing with it, and the soft crunch of boots over snow.
It didn't take long for Ivar to find them.
Haldor was the loudest, as usual, arguing animatedly with Torren near a stack of half-cut logs while Ulf listened with half an ear, eyes following the sky instead.
"Oi," Ivar called out.
All three turned at once.
"There he is," Haldor said, grinning. "Ye done already?"
"Fish're dropped off," Ivar said. "Ye still keen t' go?"
Torren's eyes lit up. "Of course."
Ulf nodded once, already moving. "Before the light fades, let's go."
They set off together toward the river, boots crunching in uneven rhythm as they left the settlement behind. The land opened up as they walked, trees thinning before thickening again closer to the water. Snow lay lighter here, trampled and broken by animals and people alike.
Conversation filled the way, easy and familiar.
Haldor boasted about how he'd nearly caught a fish with his bare hands the other day. Torren immediately called him a liar. Ulf pointed out, quietly, that nearly didn't count. Ivar let them argue, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he listened.
As they walked, a shape emerged ahead through the trees.
A heart tree.
Its pale bark stood out starkly against the darker trunks around it, its carved face twisted into a silent, watching expression. Red leaves clung stubbornly to its branches, vivid even against the white of snow and sky. The air around it felt… heavy. Still.
Ivar noticed it instantly.
His steps slowed, but only for a fraction, before he subtly shifted direction.
"So," he said casually, raising his voice just enough to pull their attention, "if we set th' traps farther downriver today, th' current might drive more fish into 'em."
Haldor blinked. "Downriver? But we always…."
"Upstream's been empty lately," Ivar cut in smoothly, already angling their path away from the tree. "Too shallow. Fish don't linger there when th' water bites like this. We need somethin' in hand today, case our Pas come back empty again."
Torren frowned, then shrugged. "Makes sense."
Ulf followed without question, trusting Ivar's lead as he always did.
None of them noticed how the heart tree slipped out of view behind them and Ivar didn't look back.
He never did.
He didn't know for certain whether the stories he had read and watched were true, whether the old gods truly watched through those trees, or whether some ancient power lingered beneath its bark. One thing was for certain though, he wouldn't bother to find out whether it's true or not. Some things were better left untouched and untested. He had learned that lesson more than once from his second life already.
Heck, he didn't even know the timeline he was currently in. Or if the white walkers had already stirred from their long sleep.
So he walked on, leading his friends toward the river, toward something known and manageable, fishing.
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