Dawn crept slowly over Clan Vargr, grey and cold. The air was sharp enough to sting the lungs, and frost clung stubbornly to the ground as though refusing to let go of night.
Ragnar walked beside Eivor in silence, both of them moving stiffly from bruises not yet healed. Neither had slept much. The memory of blood and sparring still echoing through Ragnar's thoughts felt heavy, but not as heavy as the day that now lay ahead.
It was their first official morning as warrior trainees.
Or as Thane Viggo had called them — "cubs in a den they have not yet earned."
Ragnar's fingers curled unconsciously around the rough leather of the training tunic slung over his shoulder. Eivor had already donned hers, sleeves rolled to her elbows, bruises openly visible rather than bandaged. She walked with the same focused calm she had during battle — no jittering, no hesitation. If she felt fear, she had buried it deep.
Ragnar finally spoke first.
"Do you think we made the right choice?" he asked quietly, eyes scanning the distant training yard where warrior-born youths were beginning to gather.
Eivor didn't look at him, though her jaw flexed slightly. "Choice?"
He hesitated. "Joining training."
"You think there was a choice?" she said.
Ragnar frowned. "We could have stayed where we were. In the fields. Hunting small game. Living quietly."
Eivor's voice was steady. "Until someone stronger decided our quiet ended."
He didn't respond, but something about that truth struck deep. She continued:
"We killed to live, Ragnar. We were seen. Warriors saw. That will not be forgotten. Strength brings eyes. If those eyes decide we are threats…" She let the thought hang in the air. "Then being stronger is the only answer."
They walked a few more paces before Ragnar muttered, "I still don't know what that means for us."
Eivor glanced sideways at him, her expression softer for a moment. "It means we keep going. One day, we stop being chased."
He looked at her. "And then?"
Her gaze returned forward. "Then we start chasing."
They reached the edge of the training grounds.
The warrior trainees were already there — boys and girls a little older than them, some younger, all born into lines with iron in their blood. They wore better leather, had cleaner posture, and carried themselves like the world already had a place waiting for them.
When Ragnar and Eivor stepped onto the grounds, conversation around the ring dipped. Many of the trainees turned to look. A few sneered. Others simply watched, unreadable.
And then came Eirik Sigvaldsson, leaning casually against a wooden post with a smug half-smile.
"Well," he said in a mock-pleasant tone, "the farmer cub and his little raven survived the night after all."
A few nearby warriors chuckled.
Eivor didn't respond. Her silence was like a blade returning to its sheath only because it chose to, not because it was defeated. Ragnar met Eirik's gaze steadily. They said nothing to each other, but the unspoken tension was clear.
Eirik pushed off the post and walked away, muttering just loudly enough, "Let's see how long before they crawl back to the dirt."
Ragnar's blood heated, but Eivor spoke quietly before he could react. "Save it. He wants you to lash out before you're strong enough to survive it."
He nodded once. Slowly.
Then the air shifted.
A hush fell across the training grounds as Thane Viggo Stormhand approached.
He did not shout to command silence. He didn't need to. His presence was enough.
His eyes swept across the trainees until they fell on Ragnar and Eivor.
"You are here because death tested you and found you worth sharpening," he said, his voice not loud but carrying. "Do not mistake that for praise. A dull blade that survives the forge is not a weapon. It is potential."
He stepped forward.
"You are all potential. Some of you will become warriors. Some will become corpses."
His gaze lingered briefly on Ragnar. "Let us see which you are."
He raised his hand.
The first command fell like a hammer.
"Form lines. Stance drills until your legs burn. If you fall, you get up. If you cannot get up, you crawl. If you cannot crawl—leave."
Ragnar swallowed hard.
Eivor simply stepped forward.
He followed.
As they moved into formation among the trainees, the cold ground beneath Ragnar's feet felt less like dirt and more like an anvil.
Today, he would either begin being forged—
—or crack under the hammer.
The first drill was simple.
Horse stance. Knees low. Arms raised. Hold.
It sounded simple, at least.
After only minutes, Ragnar's thighs burned like fire. His shoulders trembled. Cold morning air turned every breath into a wheeze.
A warrior-born trainee two spots down laughed out loud as Ragnar's stance faltered. "Look at the farmer," he jeered. "Back to dirt already?"
Before Ragnar could respond, a staff cracked across the boy's calf.
The instructor — a scarred warrior named Hrodric, appointed by Thane Viggo — glared at him. "Mock others again and you will train with your tongue tied to your foot."
The trainee grit his teeth and stiffened.
Ragnar kept holding.
His legs shook, but Eivor was worse — sweat already trickled down her jaw. Still, her face never broke. Her eyes were fierce, not panicked.
Minutes stretched into a lifetime.
When Hrodric finally barked, "Rise," Ragnar nearly collapsed instead.
But he didn't.
Because Eivor didn't.
And he refused to fall first.
Then came push-ups. Then running sprints across frost-hardened ground. Then striking posts with wooden weapons again and again until palms split.
By midday, Ragnar's breathing was ragged, his arms numb. Eivor had split her knuckles open again, blood trickling down her wrist. She ignored it.
Others didn't.
Some warrior-born trainees were beginning to show cracks of exhaustion. One pale, soft-fleshed boy retched into the dirt after collapsing for the third time.
Hrodric barely looked at him. "Off the field. Drink from the trough. Do not come back until you are either recovered or ashamed enough to die trying."
The boy fled.
Ragnar swayed slightly, hands on his knees. Everything ached. But he was still standing.
Eivor was breathing hard, sweat flattening her hair—but she stood straight.
Warrior-born trainees cast them uneasy glances now.
Eirik Sigvaldsson was silent, jaw clenched. He hid it well, but Ragnar saw it: the irritation that lowborn hadn't broken yet.
They were given thin broth and little bread — "good enough for cubs." Ragnar devoured his portion in seconds, every muscle trembling from fatigue.
Eivor sat beside him, spine straight despite everything. She looked at her bloodied knuckles with mild annoyance.
"You should wrap those," Ragnar muttered.
She glanced at him. "Will you stop bleeding if I do?"
Ragnar didn't answer. Eivor didn't wrap them.
Across the courtyard, Eirik and his circle spoke quietly. One of them sneered toward Ragnar and Eivor. Another muttered something with a laugh.
Eivor didn't look their way — but Ragnar saw her fingers flex around her wooden axe like a wolf twitching in its sleep.
After the break, training shifted.
This time, the drillmasters paired them against wooden posts painted with crude warpaint symbols. The task: hit until ordered to stop.
Simple.
Until they added:
"Strike as if the post murdered your kin. Strike until anger burns through muscle. Then keep striking without losing form."
Eivor stepped into position like she had been waiting for this command.
Her first strikes were deliberate. Then harder. And harder.
Her breathing changed. Deeper. Sharper.
Her strikes lost precision for a moment, flaring wild — then snapped back into control through sheer force of will.
Her eyes were feral.
Some trainees stopped striking to watch. Even Hrodric paused.
Ragnar hit his own post with steady strength, but his movements were slower. More controlled, less savage. He felt the ache in his shoulder from where Eirik had struck him in the spar. Every hit was a contest between pain and resolve.
Across the yard, Hrodric murmured something to Thane Viggo, who had returned to observe silently.
Viggo watched Eivor's relentless assault and Ragnar's stubborn endurance with unreadable eyes.
When the drill ended, Eivor's post was splintered. Her hands were raw and bleeding.
Ragnar could barely lift his arm—but he had not stopped.
Hrodric dismissed them for the evening, voice rough. "Those who are still here at dawn tomorrow may continue."
Many collapsed. Some limped away. A few wept quietly.
Ragnar stood, shaking, sweat and pain dripping from him like water.
Eivor exhaled once, slow. "Day one," she said simply.
Ragnar looked toward Thane Viggo.
The man's gaze met his.
No praise.
No smile.
Just a slow nod—so subtle it could have been imagined.
But Ragnar saw it.
So did Eivor.
They walked away together.
Step by agonized step.
Forged by frost.
Tempered in blood.
And far from finished.