The morning sun over Castle Valerius was cold, a pale eye peeking through the gray shroud of the Southern mist. In the training yard, the air tasted of wet stone and oil.
Ragnar stood at the edge of the sand-pit, feeling the claustrophobia of the helmet once more. He had spent the dawn hours in Alaric's private armory, practicing the "Southern draw." In the North, you drew your weapon to kill; here, you drew it to posture. Every movement had to be fluid, elegant, and—most importantly—predictable.
Clang. Clang.
Sir Julian stepped into the pit. He was taller than Ragnar, his armor polished to a mirror finish. Unlike the battle-worn men Ragnar had seen in the mud, Julian was a creature of the court. His movements were precise, born from thousands of hours of sparring with friends, not fighting for scraps.
"You seem stiff, Alaric," Julian said, his voice echoing inside his visored helm. "The Northmen must have hammered you harder than we thought. Or perhaps you've just forgotten how to hold a proper sword while rolling in the dirt with savages."
Ragnar didn't answer. He was busy calculating.
Observation: Julian favors his right side. His stance is wide—classic Southern dueling style. It's perfect for the "point and thrust" but terrible for a sudden shift in terrain. He expects me to play by the rules: block, parry, riposte.
"Begin!" the Master-of-Arms bellowed.
Julian lunged. It was a beautiful move, a silver flash aimed straight at Ragnar's chestplate. In the North, Ragnar would have dropped low and gutted him with a seax. Here, he had to be Alaric.
Ragnar raised his shield. Thwack. The impact sent a jar through his shoulder. He stepped back, deliberately fumbling his footing.
"Is that all?" Julian taunted, circling. "You've grown slow, cousin. Where is that 'Gale' you were so proud of?"
Julian attacked again—a flurry of strikes meant to test Ragnar's defense. Clang. Spark. Clang. Ragnar parried, but he did it "wrong." He used too much force, making it look like he was struggling to control the weight of his own blade. He was baiting Julian into overconfidence—the most common weakness of the "noble" warrior.
Now.
Julian saw an opening. He stepped in for a finishing thrust, putting his full weight behind the blow. This was the moment Ragnar had been waiting for.
Instead of a standard parry, Ragnar performed a "stumble." He let his lead foot slip in the sand, dropping his shoulder. To the spectators, it looked like a clumsy accident. In reality, it was a calculated repositioning.
Julian's sword hissed through the air where Ragnar's neck had been a second before. Because Julian had overextended, he was now off-balance.
Ragnar didn't use his sword. He used his shield.
He drove the edge of the heavy heater-shield into the back of Julian's knee. It was a "dirty" move, hidden by the flurry of their cloaks. Julian's leg buckled. As the knight fell forward, Ragnar rose, bringing the hilt of his sword down on the back of Julian's helmet with a sickening crunch.
Julian hit the sand, face-first.
Silence fell over the courtyard. The Master-of-Arms stepped forward, stunned. No one "won" a duel like that. It wasn't elegant. It was... efficient.
Ragnar stood over the fallen knight, his breathing heavy but controlled. He didn't offer a hand to help him up. He simply looked toward the Baron, who was watching from the balcony.
"The North doesn't fight with 'grace,' Father," Ragnar said, his voice amplified by the steel of his helm. "The North fights to end the conversation. Sir Julian was talking too much."
The Baron's face was unreadable. Then, slowly, he began to clap.
"Brutal. Unrefined. But effective," the Baron called down. "It seems my son has traded his poetry for cold steel. I like this new Alaric. He might actually survive the coming war."
As Ragnar walked out of the pit, he passed Julian, who was being helped up by squires. Julian's eyes, visible through his visor, were filled with a new emotion: Fear.
Ragnar didn't care about Julian's fear. He cared about the weapon rack at the edge of the yard. He had noticed a set of throwing knives—small, balanced, and easily hidden.
I am the Wolf, Ragnar thought, his mind already moving to the next move on the chessboard. And I have just learned that in this world, 'accidents' are the most effective way to kill.