The wind cut like a blade across the lightly snow-covered slope.
Bjorn tasted iron in his mouth as the crow in front of him forced him to kneel, driving the pommel of his sword into Bjorn's jaw. Pain exploded through his skull, and he spat blood into the snow. His whole body ached, wounds torn open from days of fighting and fleeing. For a fortnight they had run, hunted like beasts, never allowed a moment's rest.
They had almost made it to the ice wall. Almost.
The crows had stalked them relentlessly, black shapes against endless white, never far, and never losing the trail. No matter how carefully Bjorn tried to cover their tracks, no matter how many times they split paths or doubled back, the crow clung to them like winter itself.
And now they were caught.
His band warriors lay scattered across the slope, some groaning, most still. Bjorn forced his head up despite the hand gripping his hair. His vision blurred, then steadied. He searched for one face. He found her. Astrid lay not far from him, bound moments ago but now motionless in the snow. Her dark hair fanned around her head, stained red at the edges. Her eyes stared sightlessly at the sky.
"Astrid…" he muttered hoarsely.
"You f*cking wildlings thought we couldn't catch you, eh?" the crow sneered. Another blow struck the side of Bjorn's head, sending his world spinning again.
Bjorn growled low in his throat, trying to rise, but boots forced him down. Steel pressed cold against the back of his neck.
"Raiders," another crow said flatly. "Murderers. You crossed south and spilled blood. Now you answer for it."
Bjorn did not beg and plead. He lifted his head as far as the grip on his hair allowed and looked once more at Astrid's body. Rage burned in him, but it was fading, swallowed by exhaustion and loss.
He had failed. Failed to bring them home. Failed to protect her.
"Do it," the crow muttered. The sword rose.
Bjorn drew one last breath, tasting blood and snow, and let out a hoarse, defiant snarl until it stopped.
Steel bit through flesh and bone. His head tumbled into the snow beside Astrid's body, blood spreading in dark ribbons across the white.
—-----
Ivar watched Freya and Ylva as they packed whatever they could, moving with restless urgency while their children played in the corner, blissfully unaware of the tension hanging in the air.
Earlier, the elders of the clan, including the two women in front of him, had gathered to discuss what had happened to him, Ulf, Torren, and Haldor. When Ulf and the others recounted how Ivar had killed more than four of Jorund's warriors while they were fleeing, the elders had struggled to believe it. They accepted that the boys had been attacked, that much was undeniable. But the claim that a boy like Ivar had struck down grown men every time he stopped and fired his arrows? That was harder to swallow than his fight two years ago.
Ivar couldn't really blame them. Who would believe that a boy his age could loose arrow after arrow and have each one struck true? It sounded like an exaggeration born from fear.
And truthfully, it suited him just fine. He couldn't be bothered explaining things he had no intention of revealing to these people. If it ever came to that, he would simply say the old gods favored him, just like before.
"What ye doin' there, Ivar? Go pack what ye can carry. We move at dawn," Freya said as she tightened the bundle of things she had packed. From the crude pots they used for cooking to the furs used for sleeping.
Ivar lifted the small bundle beside him and said. "'Already did."
The elders had discussed what to do in their current situation, some had suggested they join Jorund's clan on their own accord to survive and not wait for them to attack, but it was immediately shut down by most of them.
Jorund "Snow-Fox" and his clan carried a peculiar reputation. They struck only at those they believed weaker than themselves, avoiding any clash that promised real resistance. Bjorn and several other clan leaders had challenged Jorund before, yet not a single duel had ever taken place. Among the Free Folk, where strength was currency and courage a measure of worth, such caution was seen as craven and even spineless.
Yet survival, Ivar thought, did not always belong to the bold.
Those with cunning and wit, even those branded as craven, could endure just as long, if not longer. Because the dead did not boast. The brave who charged headlong into hopeless battles became stories told around fires, their names spoken with pride… and then with past tense.
Ivar had seen what blind courage earned a man. He had seen warriors who laughed at danger one season and were buried beneath cairns the next.
Jorund's only mistake was attacking him. Ivar had already marked Jorund as dead in his reckoning. The only question that remained was when.
Freya frowned as she glanced at the small bundle at his side. "That's all?" she asked. "What 'bout yer ma's things? If she comes back and finds out ye didn't pack her furs too, she'll tan yer hide."
"I'll tell her it's her fault for bein' gone too long," Ivar replied. He paused for a moment before continuing. "When they come back and we're not here… How'll they find us?"
Freya adjusted the bundle in her arms before putting it down and carrying her daughter to her furs and laying her down gently.
"We've a place we always hide when Bjorn and his warriors take too long t' return from a raid," she said. "There's not much game near th' place, but we can live on roots and leaves. It ain't much, and we'll starve fer a time, aye, but th' place keeps us hidden. They'll find us der."
She straightened slowly, her expression hardening.
"And if they don't come back fer moons…" She exhaled through her nose. "Then I reckon it'll be time t' join another clan, if they'll have us. Else we won't last."
The elders, especially the women, had decided to wait for their warriors to return. Joining another clan, aside from Jorund's, had been discussed. The Frostborne and the Howlers, both nearby and on decent terms with them, were possible options. But in the end, it seemed none of them were ready to abandon hope just yet. They would wait. For now. Though he still didn't know where they were going.
Ivar had considered going solo from now on. The thought had crossed his mind more than once, slipping away before the situation worsened, carving out his own path without being tied to a weakening clan. But he dismissed it as he had not grown enough yet.
Ylva, who'd been packin' her own things nearby, looked up and said, "Was it true what Ulf and the others said, Ivar? That ye killed four men with Freya's bow?"
"Aye." Ivar nodded, having already settled on his answer before she even asked. "Th' Old Gods gave me strong arms an' true aim fer th' bow."
Freya laughed from the side. "That's horseshit. I'd believe it if ye killed one, but more than that…" She shook her head, not bothering t' finish.
Ylva, though, didn't join in the laughter. Instead, she looked at him carefully.
"Truly?" she asked. "How?"
Ivar shrugged lightly. "Aye. Can't rightly say. Things happened too fast."
"See?" Freya shook her head again. "Can't even defend what they said."
Ylva lingered on him a moment longer, eyes narrow and thoughtful, before turning back to her packing.
Ivar didn't bother answering this time. He crossed the hut and dropped down onto his Ma's furs instead. He'd let 'em think about it on their own. He'd already said as much as he meant to say about killing more than four warriors with the bow. That was as far as he was willing to explain things.
He leaned back slightly and let his gaze drift to his half-siblings playing in the corner, their laughter small and careless. A faint frown tugged at his face.
Might as well train with 'em, he thought.
He checked himself first. The strain from the run had mostly faded, though his qi was nearly spent. He couldn't rightly sit and cultivate now, not with everyone moving about inside the hut. So he rose.
He crossed the space in a few quiet steps and stopped in front of Asgeir and Eirik. Without warning, he reached down and grabbed each of 'em by the' top of their heads, steadying them in place.
Both boys froze at once, their game forgotten as they tilted their faces up at him.
"Wut?" Asgeir asked, brows scrunching together.
"Go fetch yer wooden swords an' axe, whatever ye prefer, and meet me outside. Might as well swing yer wooden weapons than playin' with stones," Ivar said. He let go of their heads and turned without waiting for a reply.
Just before pushing aside the fur door, he added, "If I don't see ye both outside at once, I'll tan yer butts so hard ye won't sit proper later." Then he stepped out into the cold and disappeared beyond the flap.
Both boys scrambled up at once, nearly tripping over each other as they rushed to grab their wooden swords and axes. They bolted for the fur door without so much as a word to their Mas'.
From inside, Freya's voice followed sharp an' loud, "Don't wear 'em out too much, Ivar! We've a long walk come dawn!"
"Aye!" he called back while swinging his own wooden sword.
When he turned, he saw Asgeir and Eirik already standing in their stances. Bjorn had often made them spar before, and Ivar had beaten them black and blue each time. They feared him, that much was clear, but there was something else in their eyes too. Will. A stubborn little fire that refused to die. They wanted to best him one day. Wanted to stand over him the way he stood over them now. Bad luck for them. That would never happen in their lifetime.
"Come," he said, crooking his fingers in a small gesture.
Eirik let out a yell at once. "Ahhh….!"
He charged straight at Ivar, raising his wooden axe high above his head, running in a line so straight like a pig begging to be slaughtered. When Eirik closed the distance, he swung wildly.
Ivar stepped aside with ease, the wooden axe cutting through empty air. At the same time, he lifted his leg and gave Eirik a light kick to the gut, careful not to put too much strength behind it.
"Ugh…!" Eirik gasped.
The breath left him in a rush, and he doubled over before dropping to one knee in the snow.
Ivar didn't bother with Eirik after that. He knew the boy would recover soon enough. Instead, he focused on Asgeir, who was trying to sneak behind him. Ivar didn't turn. He simply waited for him to strike. And strike Asgeir did.
"Ahhh….!" Asgeir yelled as he lunged forward, thrusting his wooden sword straight at Ivar's back.
Ivar moved without looking. His arm shifted, wooden blade angling just enough to knock the thrust aside. He let the sword and his wrist do the work, redirecting the strike cleanly. The moment he felt the force glance off, he turned.
Asgeir, unable to stop his own momentum, stumbled forward from the failed thrust.
Ivar caught him by the head mid-step and shoved him aside.
Asgeir tumbled into the snow with a grunt, arms flailing as he tried to catch himself.
Ivar couldn't help but shake his head as he watched them sprawled on the ground. Shouting like fools when they had the element of surprise in the first place. What was the point of sneaking around if you gave yourself away before even striking? The thought stirred an old memory of him. He remembered several young masters he'd encountered in the cultivation world, boys born into power, raised on praise and empty pride. They would shout the names of their techniques before executing them.
"Wind Slash!"
"Elephant Palm!"
And other nonsense besides.
He had laughed then as he crushed them all the same.
Only later, when they grew into true experts, did they realize how foolish they had been. By then, they no longer wasted breath announcing their strikes.
Strength did not need introduction. And neither did a killing blow.
When he saw Asgeir and Eirik struggle back to their feet, he spoke at once.
"What did I say before 'bout shoutin'?" he demanded. "Next time I hear either of ye yellin' before a strike, I'll knock ye both black an' blue. Again!"
Both of them nodded reluctantly, and the training continued. Ivar sparred with them easily, careful not to hurt them more than needed. He didn't knock them down after every clash. Instead, he let them swing their swords and axes a few times, watching their footing, their grip, and their balance. Then he struck. Not hard, just enough to send them stumbling. Each time, he pointed out what they'd done wrong. Where their stance was weak. Where their guard opened. When they rushed. And when they hesitated. Only when he was certain they understood and when they nodded properly did he resume.
And so their afternoon passed just like that, the sound of wooden blades knocking together echoing across the snow, and the two boys swinging again and again under his watchful eye.
When he saw them gasp for breath, he waved a hand and dismissed them. "I reckon that's enough fer today. Make sure ye eat well tonight, we've a march come dawn."
They still had the fish he'd caught yesterday for their meal.
"Ahhh…" Both of them let out relieved sighs before letting themselves fall back into the snow.
Ivar chuckled softly at the sight and walked over to set his wooden sword aside near the hut wall. He was just about to head inside when someone called out to him.
"Ivar!"
He stopped at that and looked back. He saw Ulf and Torren walking toward him, with several other children from the camp trailing behind them.
What is it this time? he thought.
With a quiet sigh, he walked toward them and stopped a short distance from his hut. When they drew near, he looked at Haldor and smirked. "Have ye changed yer pants yet, Haldor?" he asked. "If not, don't come near me and stay over there."
Haldor stopped in his steps, face burning, while Ulf and the children behind them laughed at Ivar's words.
"Course I did. I only shit a little," Haldor muttered under his breath.
They all heard him anyway, and burst into even louder laughter.
Ivar just shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Then he turned toward Ulf, who had called out to him earlier. "What're ye lot doin' here?"
Ulf stepped closer and jerked his chin toward the others. "These lot said they want t' join us," he said. "Haldor's been runnin' his mouth non-stop, tellin' 'em how ye killed warriors bigger than us."
Haldor stepped forward as well, his embarrassment gone, replaced by a proud grin spread wide across his lips. "Well?" he said. "What d'ye think? I just brought ye followers, came on their own askin' t' stand with ye."
Ivar looked at Haldor, then at the children standing behind him, tongue-tied. He hadn't thought about expanding his circle. Not yet. Not now. He hadn't even decided whether he would remain with the clan once he grew strong enough to stand and fight on his own. And now this. He rubbed at his temples and let out a slow breath. Then he looked at Ulf, who was watching him closely, waiting for an answer.
After a long moment, he finally spoke softly, careful to not be heard by the children not far away from them. "What're ye lot talkin' about? I didn't ask fer this." Then he turned sharply toward Haldor. "Send 'em away. Now. Or I'll have yer hide."
"What?" Haldor replied, his proud grin vanishin' at once, replaced by a puzzled look. "I thought ye'd like this. Ye didn't even have t' ask 'em t' follow ye, they came on their own."
He gestured toward the other children behind him. "Ain't this good? Won't be long now an' we'll have our own raiding party."
"What raiding party?" Ivar snapped. "It's still a long way t' go an'...."
He was cut off when Ulf stepped in. "He's right, Ivar," Ulf said quietly. "My ma told me I've got t' find my own food from now on. She can't feed me an' the babe both. Said I've to hunt fer her now too."
He lowered his voice even more. "We've got t' make our own band. No one's goin' t' feed us now. Even Haldor's Ma said th' same thing."
Haldor nodded at the side.
Ulf glanced aside before addin', quieter still, "Don't know 'bout Torren yet… but once he's healed, his own Ma might cast him out too." He hesitated, then continued. "I heard Yrsa's plannin' t' form her own band. Gonna gather the warriors' widows, women like her. She even tried t' recruit me an' Haldor but we refused." Then he looked straight at Ivar. "We want ye t' form yer own band instead. We'll stand with ye." He jerked his chin toward the other children waitin' behind them. "Includin' them."
Ivar opened his mouth, then closed it again. For a moment, he didn't know what to say after what Ulf said. It would be hard to gather food once they left. Freya and Ylva had just spoken of it inside the hut. But to cast aside their own sons… to tell them to fend for themselves, and then still expect a share of what they caught? He could only shake his head inwardly. Individual's survival it seemed was still the priority even at the cost of their own blood. And he couldn't really blame them. Life here was harsh, so harsh that he heard some clan even ate their own kind just to survive. Just the thought of it sent shivers down his own spine. If he had been reincarnated in that kind of tribe. He shook that thought from his head immediately. He couldn't stomach the thought of eating humans.
Freya and Ylva hadn't asked him to hunt for food himself and cast him out of their hut. At least, not yet. And he knew why. He was the one bringing food to their pots. While his Pa and his own Ma were gone hunting, it was him who kept their stomach from going empty. He fed them and their children. They couldn't very well cast out the one who fed 'em.
"Ivar?"
He was pulled from his thoughts by Ulf's voice. After gathering himself, he looked at them and said, "I'll need t' think on this first."
Then he narrowed his eyes slightly. "Ain't ye ashamed, wantin' me t' lead when ye're both older than me?"
Both of them had the guts to grin at him without a hint of shame.
It was Haldor who answered, bold as ever.
"Ain't no shame in followin' someone stronger," he said. "They haven't seen ye hunt, kill, an' move like we have. So aye, maybe the others would feel ashamed, but not us."
He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "We've seen ye kill already. We know we'll have food as long as we stand with ye."
"Aye." Ulf at the side nodded in support.
Ivar let out a long sigh. It seemed his recent deeds had stirred their confidence in him, even though he was younger than all of them. "I'll give ye an answer on the morrow, when we march," he said at last. "Now go on. I've to eat, I'm starvin' from all that runnin'."
"Can we eat with ye?" Haldor asked shamelessly.
"Get lost!" Ivar shoved him lightly with one hand and shook his head.
Ulf laughed from the side. "We'll find ye first thing on the morrow," he said. "Don't march off without us."
Ivar gave a small nod. "Aye."
Haldor and Ulf were about to turn away when they saw Yrsa striding toward them. They stopped at once.
Ulf edged closer to Ivar, leaned in, and whispered, "Bet she's here t' ask Freya an' Ylva t' join her band."
Ivar said nothing. He only watched the woman approach.
When Yrsa reached them, her sharp gaze swept over the gathered brats first, measuring, and weighing them. Then her eyes settled on Ivar. "I'm formin' me own band o' warriors, Ivar," she said plainly. "Heard tales o' yer little exploits."
She studied him a moment longer. ""Didn't know if the tales were true. But I've seen ye practicin' with yer bow an' sword. Ye're already good with 'em… better than most brats here. Ye can join me band, if ye've the stomach fer it."
Ivar had just opened his mouth to reply when Haldor beat him to it.
"Ivar won't join yer band," Haldor said boldly. "He's formin' his own."
He gestured toward the children behind them, himself and Ulf included. "And we've already said we're standin' with him."
Yrsa narrowed her eyes at Haldor, who immediately stepped back. Then her gaze shifted to Ivar. She scoffed. "Brats playin' at huntin'," she said coldly. "Suit yerselves. But when ye start starvin', don't ye dare come beggin' me fer food."
She paused, then asked, "Freya an' Ylva inside?"
Ivar gave a short nod. "Aye."
With that, she brushed past them and pushed toward the hut.
When Ivar saw she'd gone inside, he turned toward Haldor and gave him a sharp slap in the head.
"Ow….!" Haldor yelped, clutchin' his skull. "What was that fer?"
—----
Ivar woke up the next morning feeling refreshed. His qi had recovered through the night, and the strain in his thigh muscles was gone entirely. His body felt light again and ready. He ate what little they had left from last evening's meal with Freya, Ylva, and his half-siblings. No one spoke much. The air inside the hut was tight with quiet thoughts.
Afterward, he stepped outside with his already packed belongings and sword at his side. The camp was already stirring. Some were dismantling their tents, hands moving quick and practiced. Others sat in small clusters, weapons across their laps, waiting for the march to begin. A few children lingered near their Mas, eyes wide and uncertain.
He walked beyond the edge of the settlement and climbed a small rise. From there, he scanned the land in silence. After a while, he let out a slow breath of relief. He had been on edge all night, expecting Jorund and his warriors to strike under cover of darkness. But they hadn't. Thankfully.
He lowered himself into the snow and waited for the march to begin. It didn't take long before he heard boots crunching behind him. Ulf and Haldor came running, their breath fogging in the cold air.
"So?" Haldor demanded the moment they reached him. "What is it?"
Ivar didn't answer right away. He let them catch their breath first. Only when their panting eased did he speak.
"Aye," he said simply. "We'll form our own band."
"Yeh!" Both of them raised their hands in triumph.
Ivar couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of them.