Ragnar woke to pain.
Not sharp, but deep. The kind that lingered in the bones after violence. His body ached with every breath, reminding him that yesterday had not been a nightmare. His knuckles were torn. His ribs throbbed where a raider's fist had struck. Dried blood clung to his forearm like a second skin.
He sat up slowly in the dim light of the longhouse, surrounded by lowborn who had also seen blood that night. Some wept quietly. Others stared blankly at the rafters as though trying to make sense of their survival.
Beside him, Eivor sat cross-legged, binding her bruised wrist with cloth. Her face was swollen near the cheekbone, but her eyes were clear.
"You alive?" she asked flatly, not looking at him.
"Hurts to move," he muttered.
"Then you're alive."
He glanced at the dried blood on his arm. "It still feels… unreal."
She didn't respond right away. After a moment, she said, "You killed two grown warriors, Ragnar."
He said nothing.
"And you're still here."
She didn't say it as praise. She said it as fact.
Ragnar stood, stiff and quiet. They stepped outside into brittle dawn air. Smoke still lingered in the village. Bodies were being carried away, covered in furs. Some were raiders. Some were not.
Ragnar watched a pair of women drag a fallen Vargr guard toward the burial platform.
Last night, that man had been strong. Untouchable.
Now he was dead.
Death cared little for rank.
As Ragnar and Eivor walked, heads turned their way. Some lowborn kept their distance, whispering. A few nodded in quiet respect or fear. Warrior-born younglings paused in their sword forms, staring with expressions that mixed suspicion with something sharper.
Eirik Sigvaldsson, son of a seasoned warrior line, stood with a group of trainees polishing their blades. His hair was neatly bound, and he wore real leather armor over his tunic—something novices like Ragnar could never afford.
He scoffed openly. "Looks like even pigs slip sometimes. A farmer gets lucky, and suddenly the clan whispers."
One of his friends chuckled. "Maybe next he'll challenge the gods themselves."
More laughter.
Ragnar said nothing. But something cold twisted in his gut.
Eivor leaned slightly toward him. "Ignore them."
He didn't reply. Because he couldn't ignore it—not entirely.
---
Before long, a stern voice called through the square:
"Ragnar. Eivor. Come."
They turned.
Thane Viggo Stormhand stood there, arms folded. His beard was streaked with grey, and a jagged scar crossed his jaw like a reminder that steel was always hungry. His gaze assessed them with no warmth, but with something sharper than hostility—calculation.
Ragnar and Eivor approached. Neither bowed, but both lowered their heads slightly in deference.
Viggo studied Ragnar first. "You killed two Svin raiders."
Ragnar swallowed. "…Yes."
"At fourteen."
"Yes."
The Thane's gaze was unreadable. "Did you think," he said, voice even, "or did you simply stop being afraid?"
Ragnar hesitated, thinking of blood on his hands, of fear in his throat, of Eivor's body hitting the ground, of something howling behind his ribs. His voice came low:
"I was afraid…"
He met Viggo's gaze.
"But I was more afraid of losing."
A faint, fleeting flash of something—almost approval—crossed Viggo's eyes before it vanished.
He turned to Eivor. "And you. You did not flee."
Eivor's voice was unwavering. "Running would have left me dead."
"Or him," Viggo said simply.
Eivor didn't flinch. "A raven does not leave a wolf cub to be slaughtered."
The Thane's brow twitched again at the metaphor.
He stepped back and looked between them. Nearby, several warrior-born trainees had stopped training to watch.
Eirik Sigvaldsson stood among them, smirking faintly.
Thane Viggo spoke louder now, his voice reaching the circle.
"Two cubs tore down fully grown boars. Alone, it means little. But steel may come from strange ore."
He pointed to the sparring grounds. "Prove it."
A murmur rippled among the trainees.
Ragnar tensed. "How?"
Viggo jerked his chin toward the circle. "Trial. You will face a trainee. If you fall like wet bark, you are nothing but lucky vermin. If not…" His gaze sharpened. "…you will be permitted to train."
Eivor's expression didn't change, but Ragnar felt her muscles subtly coil beside him.
Eirik Sigvaldsson stepped forward, rolling his shoulders as if he'd expected the call. "Let me cull the farmer," he said loudly, "before he embarrasses himself in front of real warriors."
A few laughed.
Thane Viggo did not. "Very well. Eirik Sigvaldsson will test him."
Eirik smirked. Ragnar looked at Eivor. She gave a single nod.
He stepped into the ring.
He didn't know if he would win.
Only that he would not back down.
Not now. Not ever.
The sparring ring was nothing more than a patch of hardened earth, but to Ragnar, it felt like the edge of a cliff.
Eirik Sigvaldsson entered casually, rolling his shoulders, wooden training blade in hand. His stance was sharp, disciplined — the stance of someone who had been trained since childhood. His smirk didn't reach his eyes.
"Try not to cry when I knock you down, farmer," he said low enough for only Ragnar to hear. "They say pigs squeal — I wonder what wolves do."
Ragnar said nothing, but his fingers tightened around the wooden training sword he'd been given. It was lighter than the sickle from the battle, but it felt heavier.
Eivor stood at the edge of the ring, eyes sharp, jaw set.
Thane Viggo watched, arms folded, gaze cold and measuring.
"Begin," he commanded.
Eirik didn't rush. He circled. Testing. Waiting.
Ragnar did what instinct told him — he stepped forward and swung clumsily.
Eirik's block was effortless.
WHAM.
A strike slammed into Ragnar's ribs. White-hot pain exploded through him.
He staggered back — breath gone.
Laughter rippled among the warrior trainees.
Ragnar clenched his teeth, pushing air back into his lungs. Eirik tilted his head.
"That's all?" he said mockingly. "Maybe you should've stayed in the fields."
Ragnar tried again — this time feinting high and aiming low.
Eirik dodged easily. Another hit — across Ragnar's back this time.
Pain flared again. Ragnar's knees buckled, but he didn't fall.
"Stay down," Eirik said with smug authority. "Know your place."
Ragnar's breath trembled — but anger burned through the fog of pain.
Know your place.
Lowborn.
Farmer.
Dirt beneath warrior boots.
No.
He lifted his head. Met Eirik's gaze.
And stood back up.
Eirik's smile faded slightly.
Ragnar raised his sword again.
His arms trembled.
But they held.
Eirik came again — this time sharper, annoyed. Ragnar tried to block, but Eirik twisted past and struck his shoulder. Ragnar stumbled… but didn't go down.
A murmur spread through the watching trainees. Even when a finishing blow to the stomach made him collapse to one knee, Ragnar slammed his fist into the earth and forced himself upright with a growl that barely sounded human.
Eirik's brows furrowed.
He struck harder now — perhaps frustrated. Ragnar's defense broke again. His body was screaming to stop, to yield, to collapse.
His mind remembered blood in dirt. Eivor gasping as a Svin raider dragged her away. The sickle in his hand. The feeling when he decided that being prey was worse than dying.
He raised his sword again.
His vision blurred — but Eirik took a half-step back.
Not in fear. But in… wariness.
Ragnar held his stance until Thane Viggo finally said: "Enough."
Eirik stepped back, breathing only lightly. Ragnar remained swaying on his feet for a moment before his legs gave out and he collapsed to his knees in the dirt.
Not unconscious.
Not broken.
Just… done.
Eivor stepped forward as the watching crowd murmured with confusion, contempt… and a hint of unease.
Eirik looked at Ragnar like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or frown. He turned away with a controlled exhale — victory meant less when your opponent refused to break.
Thane Viggo walked forward.
He stood over Ragnar, who forced himself to his feet again — barely.
The Thane's eyes lingered on the blood at Ragnar's lip, the sweat on his brow, the resolve still burning behind his pain.
"You are not skilled," Viggo said flatly.
Ragnar said nothing.
"You are not disciplined."
Silence.
"You are… not weak."
Ragnar blinked slowly.
Viggo turned to Eivor. "You will spar next."
Eivor stepped into the ring like a predator unchained.
Her fight was faster. Savage. Unlike Ragnar, she moved with animal instinct — snarling as she countered blow after blow. She lost in the end, but she left her opponent bleeding and shaken, his nose broken.
When it ended, Viggo stepped forward once more.
He surveyed them both with a cold, calculating stare.
"Two cubs killed raiders by instinct," he said, voice low but carrying. "Today, they bled and stood. One refused to fall. One fought like a storm trapped in a girl's skin."
He paused.
"You may train. Among the lowest warrior ranks. You will be tested. You will probably fail. You may die."
He turned away.
"Report at dawn."
Ragnar exhaled shakily.
Eivor gave a blood-streaked grin. "Told you we weren't staying down here forever."
Ragnar looked at the training grounds ahead — bruised, battered, humiliated… but recognized.
For the first time in his life, he wasn't just surviving.
He was climbing.