The wind howled like a wounded beast across the fjord.
It clawed at the wooden huts, rattled the bone charms hanging from doorways, and carried with it the bitter scent of salt and snow. The sea below was restless—dark waves crashing against jagged rocks as if trying to swallow the land whole.
Sten stood alone at the edge of the cliff.
Ten winters old.
Barefoot.
Unmoving.
Most boys his age would have been wrestling in the mud, shouting, laughing, proving themselves with bruises and broken pride. But Sten did not laugh. He did not shout.
He watched.
Always watching.
His pale grey eyes followed the horizon, distant and heavy—as if he were waiting for something that had not yet arrived… or something he had lost.
"Sten."
The voice came from behind, sharp as steel.
He didn't turn immediately.
Only after a moment did he shift his gaze, slow and deliberate.
His father stood there.
Magnus.
Chief of their tribe.
A man carved from war itself—broad shoulders wrapped in fur, scars running across his face like old stories etched into stone. His beard was thick, dark, touched with frost, and his eyes… his eyes were the kind that made grown warriors lower their heads.
"Why do you stand here like a ghost?" Magnus asked.
Sten said nothing.
Because he didn't know how to answer.
Because I don't belong here.
The thought came again.
Unwanted.
Unnatural.
Familiar.
Magnus stepped closer, boots crunching against frozen ground. "A storm is coming. Even fools know to take shelter."
"I am not cold," Sten replied.
His voice was calm. Too calm for a child.
Magnus studied him.
Long.
Hard.
There had always been something strange about this boy.
His son.
Born under a red sky ten winters ago—the night wolves howled without pause, and the village seer whispered that Odin's gaze had lingered too long upon their land.
At first, Sten had been like any other child.
Crying. Clinging. Laughing.
But then—
He changed.
At five winters, he stopped playing with other children.
At seven, he began speaking less.
At nine… he started looking at people like he understood things he should not.
Magnus grabbed the boy's shoulder.
Firm.
Grounding.
"You are my son," he said. "Not some wandering spirit. Remember that."
Sten met his gaze.
And for a brief moment—
Something ancient flickered behind the boy's eyes.
Something… wrong.
"I remember," Sten said.
But the truth was—
He remembered too much.
At night, when the fires burned low and the tribe slept beneath thick furs, Sten would lie awake.
Listening.
Not to the wind.
Not to the sea.
But to echoes inside his own mind.
Flashes.
Fragments.
A world that did not belong to this one.
Towering structures made of glass and steel.
Voices speaking in strange tongues.
Fire… not from torches, but from weapons that roared louder than thunder.
And blood.
So much blood.
He would see himself—
Older.
Colder.
Standing over bodies.
Not with an axe.
But something else.
Something he could not name.
Then he would wake.
Heart steady.
Not afraid.
Never afraid.
Just… confused.
"Eat more."
His mother's voice was warm, soft—like a hearth in winter.
Astrid placed another piece of roasted meat into his wooden bowl.
Unlike Magnus, she carried no scars.
But there was strength in her eyes.
A quiet kind.
The kind that held families together while men went to war.
"You grow thin," she said, brushing his hair back gently. "You think too much."
Sten looked at her.
Really looked.
And for a moment—
The cold inside him softened.
"I am not hungry," he said.
"You are always not hungry," she replied with a small smile. "One day, you will regret ignoring your mother."
"I do not think so."
She laughed lightly.
Magnus, sitting across the fire, did not.
"He must learn," Magnus said, tearing into meat with his teeth. "A chief's son cannot be weak."
Astrid frowned slightly. "He is ten."
"He is my son."
"That does not make him a man."
Magnus slammed the bone onto the table.
The hut fell silent.
Even the fire seemed to shrink.
Sten watched them both.
Not as a child would.
But as something… detached.
Analyzing.
Understanding.
Power. Control. Emotion.
Words drifted through his mind like ghosts.
"I will not be weak," Sten said quietly.
Both parents turned to him.
Magnus narrowed his eyes.
Astrid softened hers.
"Strength is not only in the arm," Sten continued. "It is here."
He tapped his head.
"And here."
His hand moved to his chest.
Magnus snorted. "Pretty words."
"But true."
The chief stared at him for a long moment.
Then—
A slow grin spread across his face.
Not warm.
Not kind.
But proud.
"Good," Magnus said. "Then prove it."
The next morning, before the sun rose, Sten was dragged from his bed.
The air bit at his skin like knives.
Frost clung to the ground.
The tribe gathered.
Warriors.
Hunters.
Children.
Watching.
Always watching.
In the center stood Magnus… and beside him—
A boy.
Older.
Stronger.
One of the warrior's sons.
"He will fight," Magnus declared.
Astrid stepped forward immediately. "Magnus—he is too young—"
"He is my heir."
Silence fell again.
No one dared argue further.
Sten stepped into the circle.
Barefoot.
Calm.
The other boy smirked. "Try not to cry."
Sten said nothing.
Because deep inside—
Something cold… awakened.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Something else.
Something familiar.
The boy lunged first.
Fast.
Aggressive.
A punch aimed straight for Sten's face.
But—
Sten moved.
Not like a child.
Not like someone guessing.
But like someone who had seen this before.
A thousand times.
He stepped aside.
Grabbed the arm.
Twisted.
The older boy stumbled.
Shock flashed across his face.
Before he could recover—
Sten struck.
Precise.
Clean.
A hit to the throat.
The boy collapsed, gasping.
Silence.
Heavy.
Unnatural.
Magnus did not speak.
Astrid covered her mouth.
And Sten…
Sten stood there.
Breathing evenly.
Eyes empty.
This is not my first life.
The thought came, clearer than ever.
Not a dream.
Not confusion.
Truth.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
He looked at his hands.
Small.
Young.
But steady.
Too steady.
Then he lifted his gaze toward the distant sea.
Toward something only he could feel.
"This world…" he whispered.
"…is too simple."
The wind howled again.
But this time—
It sounded like a warning.