The raids did not end with the fishing outpost.
They multiplied.
One settlement turned into three. Three into six. Some were defended by hardened warriors. Others fell quickly, their screams cut short, but none fell quietly. The air grew thick with the scent of burning thatch, spilled blood, and the coppery tang of fear.
Each battle left a mark—not only on the villagers who died, but on those who spilled their blood.
On Ragnar's pack.
---
Ragnar grew far more dangerous with every strike. His dual axes carved through shieldbearers with chilling precision, each swing an economy of motion. He never roared mid-battle like the frothing berserkers who craved the frenzy. He killed silently, his breath misting in the cold air even when drenched in blood that steamed from his skin. The absence of his eye seemed to give him a preternatural focus, his remaining gaze missing nothing.
The veterans took note.
"He does not need two eyes. He sees through fear."
"When he moves, there is no waste. Only death."
"The One-Eyed Wolf does not chase prey. He corners it."
And as winter approached the foreign shores, Ragnar began to lead small flanking teams during raids. Warriors followed his calls without questioning, their bodies tensing to obey the low commands. They never admitted he led them—but no one else issued orders when he did.
---
Eivor's shield became a weapon as sharp as any blade. She struck without hesitation, her footwork adapting perfectly to Ragnar's movement, a deadly dance they had perfected in blood. She learned to use the curve of her shield to hook ankles, to drive its edge into throats.
In one raid, she sliced a defender's hamstring and decapitated another before they realized she'd moved behind them. The spray of arterial blood painted her cheek, a warm, familiar mask.
A veteran muttered afterward, watching her wipe the blood away with her thumb:
"She fights like a raven that already knows where you'll fall."
Whispers named her Raven-Eyed.
But her eyes returned, again and again, to Ragnar's back—watching, guarding… and feeling something stronger each time he stood victorious, something that tightened her chest and made her own pulse hammer in her ears.
---
Hakon killed rarely—but precisely. He did not rush, roar, or boast. Yet each time Ragnar seemed in danger, Hakon's spear was there—sliding through an enemy's throat with a soft, wet gasp, pinning a leg to the ground with a crunch of bone, saving a life with a calculated thrust. He was the shadow at Ragnar's back.
Warriors began leaving gaps open for Hakon without speaking, instinctively trusting his calm presence. They knew he would be where he was needed most.
"He speaks only when the spear must."
They whispered his name alongside Ragnar's: The Silent Spear.
---
If Ragnar was cold steel, Brynja was the storm that broke shields.
In one brutal raid, she leapt atop a shieldwall, her weight crashing through their defense, cutting through the captain before landing in a spray of blood and gut-wrenching laughter. She reveled in the chaos, her axe a blur of motion.
Warriors began shouting "Storm-Axe!" when she entered battle. Some feared her. Others loved the raw, untamed power she brought to the fight. She didn't care either way.
---
Eirik Sigvaldsson fought well. He was skilled, clean, precise. But each time Ragnar stepped forward and men followed… Eirik's grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles were white.
He tried to prove himself by winning duels among warriors—but eyes still drifted to Ragnar, to the magnetic pull of the man who had become more than a leader.
He started sleeping lighter. Watching the pack with a mix of hate and dread, his own reflection in the polished steel of his blade a pale imitation of the warrior he wanted to be.
And Brynja, grinning as she sharpened her axe, once muttered loud enough for him to hear:
"Careful, Sigvaldsson. Wolves smell fear before blood."
Eirik said nothing. But his jaw clenched until it hurt.
---
By the third month, Ragnar no longer felt like a trainee among warriors.
He was something… separate.
Eivor moved in instinct beside him. Hakon watched his angles. Brynja drew strength from his lead.
Veterans who once called them "the young ones" now gave them nods before battle, a sign of respect earned in blood.
Other raiders, blood-soaked and panting after fights, sometimes glanced at Ragnar before delivering killing blows—as though asking silent permission.
He did not speak much.
But death often followed his steps.
They camped beside a river the color of steel, its waters cold enough to sting the skin into wakefulness. The fires burned down to embers, and most warriors slept heavy with exhaustion, bellies full of stolen meat and ale, their bodies sprawled in sleep.
Ragnar sat sharpening his axes, the rhythmic scrape of whetstone on steel a soothing sound in the night. The firelight caught the golden wolf on his eyepatch like a silent warning. Hakon lay nearby with his spear across his knees, silent as always but awake, listening to the night, his gaze fixed on the darkness beyond their small circle of light.
Eivor and Brynja left the camp quietly.
They moved without words through the trees and slipped into the river where the current was gentle and shallow enough to sit. The cold struck first, a sharp intake of breath—but after three months of blood and smoke, the water felt like rebirth, even if temporary. It washed away the grime, the dried blood under their fingernails, the lingering scent of death.
Steam curled faintly from their bodies as heat left them in exhale, rising like ghosts in the moonlight.
For a while, they simply sat in silence with only river-sounds and breath between them, the water lapping at their breasts.
Then Brynja broke the quiet.
"Feels strange to have water wash blood off instead of drinking it in my mouth during battle."
Eivor huffed, not quite a laugh—but close.
Brynja watched her a moment, her own gaze intense. "You're quiet."
"We just survived our seventh raid," Eivor said, her voice low. "Quiet feels earned."
Brynja smirked, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. "Or… you're thinking again."
"About what?"
Brynja turned her head slightly, eyebrow raised. "The Wolf."
Eivor stiffened—but only for a moment. "I watch his back."
"Mm." Brynja leaned against a smooth river rock, her breasts rising slightly above the water's surface. "You watch him, all right. With big, serious raven eyes like you're afraid he'll fall… or afraid he won't."
Eivor said nothing but looked away, jaw tight, the muscles in her throat working.
Brynja let that hang a moment before continuing, voice softer but unflinchingly direct. "He's different now. You see it."
Eivor swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet. "We all are."
"But Ragnar more than most," Brynja said. "The more he kills, the more controlled he becomes. That eye he lost? Took the boy he was with it."
Eivor's grip tightened slightly against the rock, her knuckles scraping against the wet stone.
Brynja's next words were unexpectedly steady, almost thoughtful. "If you love something like him… it will either devour you… or force you to learn how to howl beside it."
Eivor slowly turned to her, wide-eyed—not expecting the sudden seriousness, the raw truth in Brynja's words.
The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken things—
Then Brynja grinned wickedly and added:
"Honestly, if he looked at me the way he looks at you in battle, I might let him devour me."
Eivor choked on breath and splashed water in Brynja's direction, the droplets clinging to her skin. "Brynja!"
Brynja burst into roaring laughter that echoed off the riverbank, her head thrown back. "There it is! Knew that would get a reaction out of you, little raven!"
Eivor turned away, cheeks warming despite the cold water, a flush that had nothing to do with the fire. "You're disgusting."
"Oh, I absolutely am," Brynja said proudly, her voice a low purr. "But you're not denying it."
Eivor didn't answer.
Her silence said enough.
After laughter faded, Brynja watched the river drift, her expression softening. "For what it's worth… if anyone could stand beside a wolf like him without losing themself… I think it'd be you."
Eivor blinked, her chest aching with a sudden, sharp emotion.
Brynja stood, water falling in rivulets down scarred skin, her body a testament to their brutal life. "Come. Before Ragnar sends Hakon to find us like a silent mother hen."
Eivor lingered a moment longer, water swirling around her waist, her fingers trailing in the cold current.
Her chest felt too tight.
Devour me… why does that not frighten me as much as it should?
She rose, the water streaming from her body as she followed Brynja back to the camp, back to the fire and the one-eyed man who waited in the darkness.
---
Later That Night
As they returned, Ragnar looked up from his axes. His one good eye met Eivor's for half a heartbeat, a spark of something hot and dangerous passing between them in the dim firelight.
He said nothing.
But something in her stomach tightened, a coiling heat that