The salt-scoured wind that had pushed them across the Sea began to change. It was a subtle shift at first. Then it carried a new scent, one woven from damp earth, pine, and the familiar, reassuring tang of woodsmoke. It was a scent every man on board knew better than his own name: Home.
On deck, the boisterous celebration of their sucess had subsided into a focused, anticipatory silence. The crew stood by the rails, their gazes fixed ahead. Leif pointed a steady finger towards a dark shape piercing the morning mist. "The sea-stack. Another hour."
The words sent a ripple of activity through the crew. Men began checking their gear, ensuring that weapons were properly secured and that their shares of the plunder were safely stowed. The anticipation was palpable, but it was tempered by the knowledge that homecoming brought its own challenges. There would be stories to tell, accounts to settle, and the complex politics of the settlement to navigate.
Ragnar stood at the dragon-prow, his hand resting on its carved neck. The wind whipped his hair and beard, but his eyes were steady, scanning the familiar shoreline.
The raid had been successful beyond their wildest expectations. The Saxon monastery they had struck had been poorly defended but rich in treasure, its monks more concerned with their prayers than with the security of their gold. The plunder secured in the ship's hold would make every man aboard wealthy by the standards of their people.
But success brought its own complications. Word of their return would spread quickly through Kattegat, and with it would come the expectations and jealousies that accompanied sudden wealth. Some would celebrate their triumph, while others would calculate how the new balance of power might affect their own positions.
Beside him, Bjorn was a mirror of Ragnar's stillness. The ache of his loss was still there, but it was now shielded by a stoic mask, a resolve forged in grief. He looked at the approaching village not as a man returning home, but as a general surveying the staging ground for future wars.
"I can feel it in you," Ragnar said quietly, his voice a low rumble that didn't carry beyond his son. "The anger. The thirst for blood. It is a good fire, but a fire that is not controlled will burn the house down with the enemy inside."
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle before continuing. "Do not rush it, and more importantly, do not do anything stupid." The warning was gentle but firm, delivered with the authority of a father who had walked similar paths and learned their dangers."
Bjorn met Ragnar's eyes for a long moment, blue staring into identical blue, then gave a curt nod. "I know. No hasty moves." The words were less a promise of patience than a warning of controlled intent, a declaration that when he did act, it would be with deliberate purpose rather than blind rage.
Ragnar watched him a moment longer, reading the subtle signs in his son's posture and expression, but said nothing more.
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Ragnar's Return to Kattegat
In Kattegat, the day was like any other. Women sat on benches outside the longhouses, their fingers moving with practiced nimbleness as they mended nets.
"Did you hear that Asta's youngest fell into the creek again yesterday?" asked Hild, pulling a torn section of net taut.
"That boy will be the death of her," replied Ingrid, shaking her head. "Third time this month."
"At least he can swim now. Remember when Erik's son nearly drowned last spring?"
Their conversation mixed with the shrill cries of children chasing each other through the mud between the houses. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of an axe splitting firewood provided a steady beat to the village's daily life.
A boy named Sten, perched on the rocky outcrop that served as a lookout, was chewing on a piece of dried fish when he saw it. A single sail, dark against the grey water, rounding the far bend of the fjord. He squinted, his heart giving a sudden, hard thump against his ribs.
The sail was unfamiliar, a deep, brooding red. The figurehead on the prow was a dragon, but not one they'd seen before. The boy narrowed his eyes. This wasn't one of the Earl's ships. Not one that had ever sailed from these shores. And yet, it was coming towards them.
"Ship!" he shouted, his voice cracking with a mix of fear and excitement. "An unknown ship in the fjord!"
Heads lifted. The women's chatter stopped, their hands frozen over their nets.
"What did he say?" Asta asked, dropping her mending.
"A ship. Unknown ship," Hild repeated, standing up and shading her eyes with her hand.
The rhythmic chopping of the axe paused mid-swing. Men left their work, hands instinctively reaching for the axes tucked in their belts, and began to move towards the docks, their faces showing suspicion and curiosity.
"Whose ship could it be?" asked Gunnar, a blacksmith, wiping his hands on his leather apron.
"No one expected. Earl's ships are all accounted for," replied Andren, a fisherman who knew every vessel that frequented these waters.
The boy scrambled down the slope, his feet skidding over loose stones, lungs burning with urgency. His bare legs pumped as he tore through the outskirts of the village, weaving past startled goats and ducking under hanging fish racks. Breathless, he shouted again: "A strange sail! A dragon ship in the fjord!"
The alarm rippled through Kattegat, eventually reaching the great hall and the Earl himself.
After a while, they came. Not a panicked mob, but ten of the Earl's Skjaldmenn, his Shield-Men. They moved as a single unit. The only sounds were the soft slap of leather boots on wet stone, the muted creak of their leather jerkins, and the steady tap of spear-shafts resting on their shoulders. Round shields, painted in dark earth-tones of black and deep red, were slung on their backs, and heavy-bladed axes hung at their belts.
At their head rode Hrafn Gormson. Once the captain of the Guard, the Hirðstjóri, he had been demoted after his humble defeat against Bjorn. Now he was Miðstjóri, right-hand man to the new captain, Torvald Ketilsson.
Hrafn sat easily on his horse, a privilege of his rank. He wore no helmet, just a simple leather cap, its edges hardened with oil. A thick, grey wool cloak was pinned at one shoulder. His tunic and trousers were patched in places, but meticulously cared for, proof that a leader needn't shine in steel to command respect.
"Form up along the dock," Hrafn commanded, his voice carrying the authority of years of command. "Shields ready, but keep them on your backs unless I say otherwise."
"Should we send word back to the Earl?" asked Olaf, one of the younger warriors.
"He already knows. Our job is to secure the dock and assess the threat," Hrafn replied, dismounting smoothly.
The warriors fanned out, forming a loose arc along the dock's edge. It was not a welcome line, but a ring of wary guardianship.
A younger warrior beside him, Leif, whispered, "No banners, and no clan markings on the sail."
Hrafn's gaze was unflinching as it stared out over the water. "Then they sail without the Earl's name on their prow," he stated, the words flat and cold.
"Could be raiders," suggested another warrior, his hand resting on his axe handle.
"Could be. Or traders. Or worse," Hrafn replied. "We wait and see."
They waited. The fjord lay hushed, its mist curling. Then the longship appeared from the fog, sliding forward on the shallow water. As the mist parted, they saw him. Ragnar Lothbrok.
He stood at the bow, his sea-stained cloak whipping behind him, his eyes as calm as the sea he'd just crossed. His crew fell silent behind him, a wall of weathered faces and watchful eyes. There was no sign of panic, only the quiet, coiled tension of men ready for whatever came next.
"By Thor's hammer," breathed someone. "It's Ragnar."
"I can see that," Hrafn replied, his voice tight.
Hrafn's lips pressed into a thin, hard line. Ragnar had vanished west in secret, defying the Earl's direct orders, and now he returned without a word.
A grizzled warrior next to Hrafn shifted, his hand unconsciously brushing the haft of his axe. "What are your orders, Hrafn? Do we arrest him?"
Hrafn shaked his head.
"So we let them pass?"
"We escort them. Let the Earl decide their fate." Hrafn's voice was low, but every warrior heard the iron authority in it. Behind them, the gathering crowd of villagers held its breath, waiting for the first move in this quiet standoff.
The longship eased beside the dock, its oars dipping one final, synchronized time. It bumped the timber gently, a soft, final groan.
Ragnar stepped down first. No ceremony, no hesitation. His boots hit the dock with a thud. Bjorn followed a heartbeat later, then Rollo, and Floki, his movements jerky and bird-like. The rest of the crew began to follow, hauling heavy chests bound in iron and leading five bewildered, pale-faced slaves in strange cloth.
"Look at those foreigners," whispered one of the villagers who had gathered. "Never seen people so pale."
"And those robes. What kind of warriors dress like that?"
"They're not warriors. Look at their hands. Soft. Like women's hands."
Hrafn dismounted, letting the reins fall without a word. He didn't posture or puff out his chest. He was a soldier. Orders brought him here, and duty would take him back. He approached slowly, his men parting for him, his eyes locked on Ragnar.
"Ragnar Lothbrok," he said, his voice steady and formal. "The Earl has been expecting your return. He'll want to hear everything about your... unauthorized journey."
Ragnar met his gaze, a faint, unreadable smile touching his lips. "I'm sure he will. I have much to tell him, Hrafn. Of coin and rich land, of a new god, and of what truly lies beyond the western sea."
"A new god?" Hrafn's eyebrows rose slightly. "You bring back more than treasure, then."
"Much more. These lands are richer than anything we've seen. And poorly defended."
Hrafn lifted a hand, gesturing toward the path that snaked up to the great longhouse. "That is for Lord Haraldson to judge. My duty is to guard this dock and ensure you reach the hall safely. Yours is now to explain your defiance to your Lord."
Hrafn's eyes flicked to the chests being unloaded, noting the glint of gold visible through a crack, then swept the length of the weary crew, then to the slaves, the monks. "So you truly found the west. And it was worth the risk."
"More than worth it," Ragnar replied. "But I suspect the Earl won't see it that way immediately."
"Earl Haraldson doesn't like surprises. Or disobedience." Hrafn's gaze stopped when it reached Bjorn. For a moment, the world seemed to quiet. Then he nodded as greeting. "Bjorn."
"Hrafn," Bjorn replied evenly.
Without another word, Hrafn turned on his heel and started walking, the warriors parting to let Ragnar and his men pass through their ranks.
As they marched up the path, surrounded by the silent guard and the whispering villagers, Hrafn glanced back at Ragnar. "If the gods favour you today, you'll find Haraldson in a good mood. If not, well... you know the Earl's temper when he's crossed."
"I've prepared for both possibilities," Ragnar replied, his eyes fixed forward on the imposing roof of the great hall.
Hrafn then slowed his pace slightly, falling in beside Bjorn. His voice was lower now, meant only for him. "I still remember our fight in the circle. You fought like you had everything to prove and nothing to lose. There was fire in your eyes. Like you expected good things from the world. It's for the best maybe."
Bjorn looked at him, his face impassive. "The world did bend, just not in the way I expected. And it seems you got demoted, Hrafn, since you are the one who greets returning ships instead of commanding from the hall."
Hrafn blinked, then let out a low chuckle, a sound of dry, weary amusement. "Well spoken. It seems that the boy is dead, and a man walked back in his place. Yes, I was demoted. Torvald Ketilsson commands the guard now."
"For losing to me?"
"For losing to you. And for other... failures in judgment." Hrafn's voice carried no bitterness, only acceptance. "The Earl values results, not explanations."
He turned slightly, walking beside them now. His voice dropped lower still, just enough for Ragnar and Bjorn to hear over the tramp of boots. "Whatever happens in that hall, remember it's not personal. I follow my Earl's orders. That's my duty and my burden."
Ragnar didn't break stride. "We all do what we must, Hrafn. A man's honor is in keeping his word, even when it costs him."
"Even when it costs him everything," Hrafn agreed quietly.
Bjorn backed up a little to one of the crew, Alf. "Do you remember what I told you before we landed?"
Alf looked at his friend Alvis, then back to Bjorn, meeting his eyes directly. "Yes, every word."
Bjorn nodded and tapped him on his shoulder, "Thank you."
As they approached the great hall, the massive wooden doors began to open, and the sound of voices and the crackle of a great fire could be heard from within. Earl Haraldson waited inside, and with him, the judgment that would determine whether Ragnar's defiance would be rewarded or punished.
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Through the carved wooden doors of the hall they passed, leaving the chill of the fjord behind for the heat of the longhouse. Inside, torches cast dancing light on shields and weapons hanging from the walls. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of burning wood mixed with the scent of roasted meat and ale.
At the high seat, on a throne of dark, polished wood carved with intricate knotwork, sat Earl Haraldson. He was draped in wolf and bear furs, and his piercing gaze was already fixed on them as they entered. To his right sat Siggy, his wife, her fingers tight around a beaded pouch of amber, her face a mask of controlled curiosity.
To his left sat Jorund Rekk, the local goði and law-speaker. He sat upright on a bench beside the ceremonial law-staff, both hands resting on his knees, spine straight as a spear. His wool cloak was unadorned, befitting his role as an impartial keeper of tradition and law.
Brandr Galti, the lore keeper and storyteller, was standing near the high seat, positioned slightly back from the main proceedings. His grizzled hair caught the firelight as he watched Ragnar and his crew enter with keen interest. His role was to remember and record what transpired here for future generations.
Along the dais were lined members of Haraldson's inner circle: chieftains of neighboring farms, wealthy traders in furs and amber, and the Earl's finest bodyguards, their helms tipped forward, hands resting on their weapons.
Svein, Haraldson's chief enforcer and most trusted man, was already examining one of the open treasure chests that Ragnar's crew had brought, his experienced eyes assessing their worth with practiced efficiency.
"Look at the craftsmanship on these pieces," Svein muttered to one of the other men. "I've never seen goldwork like this."
"Foreign make, clearly," replied one of the other men. "But the question is, where exactly did they find it?"
At last, Earl Haraldson rose from his throne. Every sword-arm and spear-shaft in the hall shifted slightly, as if waking from a long, uneasy slumber. The Earl was a man who commanded attention without needing to demand it. He let his gaze sweep down the line of his finest bodyguards, then to Svein, then settled briefly on the seer, whose presence was unusual as he often stayed in solitude. The ancient man was sitting slightly apart in a shadowed corner, his nonexistent eyes seeming to see more than they should.
"So," the seer whispered to himself, barely audible, "the threads of fate begin to weave together."
Turning back to Ragnar, Haraldson allowed the silence to stretch. He raised one arm, letting the torchlight dance across the braided silver ring on his wrist, a symbol of his authority and the bonds of loyalty that held his realm together.
"Tell me, Ragnar Lothbrok," he began, his voice carrying clearly through the hall, each word measured and deliberate, "what is this?" He gestured to the silver arm-ring.
Svein, ever quick to serve his lord and demonstrate his knowledge, raised his voice. "An arm-ring, my lord. A symbol of authority."
Haraldson did not look at him. He kept his eyes on Ragnar without blinking, his gaze intense and unwavering. "And what," he continued, his voice dropping to a more dangerous tone, "does it signify?"
Svein's tone grew more formal now, sensing the shift in his lord's mood and the gravity of the moment. "Sworn fealty, my lord. A sacred bond of loyalty between lord and man. An oath that cannot be broken."
A beat of silence, and the air grew tighter. Several of the warriors shifted uncomfortably.
"Exactly," Haraldson said, his voice carrying approval for the answer but menace for what was to come.
Haraldson tilted his head just slightly, his movement predatory and calculated. His voice dropped further, becoming dangerously calm. "Then tell me, Ragnar Lothbrok... do you bear such a ring of mine? Have you sworn your faith to me?" He raised his hand and pointed directly at the silver arm-ring on Ragnar's wrist.
The silence that followed was no longer quiet, it was oppressive and suffocating. Ragnar stood perfectly still, his eyes on the Earl, his expression unreadable. He said nothing, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Answer him," hissed one of the Earl's men from the side.
"The Earl asked you a question," added another, his hand moving to his sword hilt.
A hush spread across the hall as the implications of the Earl's words sank in. Every person present understood the weight of what was being discussed.
Haraldson's jaw flexed, a sign of his growing anger. "You were told not to sail west. You were explicitly forbidden from taking a ship, or even making one." His voice began to rise, carrying the authority of absolute power. "These were not suggestions, Ragnar. They were commands."
"My lord," began one of the chieftains, "perhaps we should hear what he has to say about—"
"Silence," Haraldson snapped, not taking his eyes off Ragnar.
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the assembled crowd. The whole hall was waiting for what everyone knew was coming.
"Yet you defied my word," Haraldson continued, his voice building in intensity. "The word of your Earl. Your sworn lord."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing to slits. "You stand before me, Ragnar Lothbrok... a traitor."
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some of Ragnar's men shifted restlessly, hands moving instinctively toward their weapons.
"Easy," Bjorn whispered to Rollo, who looked ready for a slaughter.
Haraldson turned, just slightly, to where Jorund Rekk, the Law-Speaker, sat with his ceremonial staff upright beside him. "What does the law say," Haraldson asked, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall, "is the punishment for betrayal of one's lord?"
Jorund's voice came clear and without hesitation, carrying the weight of centuries of tradition. "Exile from the lands, if the lord is merciful. Death, if he is not. The law is clear on this matter."
"And what of his family?" asked Siggy, her voice cutting through the tension. "What of his holdings?"
"All forfeit to the lord," Jorund replied solemnly. "As is the custom."
A deeper hush fell over the hall. You could feel the weight of those words press against every chest in the room. Several of Ragnar's crew members exchanged worried glances.
Haraldson looked back at Ragnar, and now his cold composure was beginning to crack, revealing the anger beneath. "So tell me, Ragnar Lothbrok... which do you believe I am? Merciful... or not?"
The hall held its breath. Even the crackling of the fire seemed to quiet.
"My Lord," Ragnar said finally, his voice calm despite the suffocating tension in the room. "It is true that I went against your wishes. I will not deny this. But I did not do so out of defiance or disrespect, but out of the belief that there was a better future for our people than continuing to scratch at the poor lands to the east."
Haraldson sneered, a twisting of his lips that was more contemptuous than any shout could have been. "A belief? You risked the lives of these men on a belief? On a wanderer's tale?"
"And my own life," Ragnar replied, his voice hardening slightly with conviction. "And my son's." He gestured toward Bjorn.
Ragnar nodded to his men. Leif and Thorstein came forward, carrying a heavy closed wooden chest between them. They set it down before the fire with a solid, echoing thud that seemed to reverberate through the silent hall.
"We risked our lives for this," Ragnar said simply.
With a gesture from Ragnar, Leif threw back the heavy lid with a creak of old wood and iron hinges.
A collective gasp swept the hall. Even the hardened housecarls shifted on their feet, their eyes widening at what they saw.
In the dim, smoky light, the contents of the chest seemed to possess a light of their own. It was a hoard unlike any they had ever seen. Golden goblets decorated with images of strange beasts and foreign symbols, silver plates thick enough to stop a blade, intricate crosses studded with polished, glowing stones, and books bound in rich, red leather crusted with gems that caught the firelight.
"By the gods," breathed Gunnar, one of the Earl's advisors. "I've never seen such wealth."
"Look at the craftsmanship," whispered another. "These aren't made by any smith I know."
The Earl's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, a flicker of raw avarice warred with his anger. Beside him, Siggy leaned forward, her mask of indifference momentarily cracking as she stared at the treasure.
"My lord," Ragnar said, pressing his advantage and speaking to the room as much as to Haraldson. "It was easy to take all of these things. The priests in their temple had no weapons. They offered no resistance. They were like children." He pointed over his shoulder at the huddled, terrified priest, Athelstan. "Here is one of their priests. We captured several of them to sell as slaves."
Athelstan shrank back further, his eyes wide with terror as all attention turned to him.
Ragnar continued, "It must be true that there are many more such holy places in this England, and in other lands to the west, all filled with such treasure. To sail there regularly will benefit us all, not just my crew, but every man, woman, and child in Kattegat."
Excited murmurs broke out across the hall, a low hum of greed and wonder that grew louder as men began to imagine the possibilities.
"Think of it," one chieftain whispered to another. "If there are truly more places like this..."
"We could be rich beyond imagination," came the reply.
The murmurs were quickly silenced by a sharp look from the Earl, but the damage was done. The seed of possibility had been planted.
Haraldson walked slowly around the chest, his eyes devouring the contents, his mind clearly working through the implications. After a long moment, he looked back at Ragnar with a cold smile forming on his lips.
"Impressive," he said finally. "But you seem to have forgotten something important." His voice boomed across the hall, reasserting his authority. "The law is clear on this matter. All wealth discovered by any man who lives on my land belongs to me. Every piece of gold, every silver cup, every precious stone... it is all forfeit to me."
Ragnar's jaw tightened, but he had expected this. "My lord, with respect, Floki and I paid for the materials for the boat. We built it with our own hands. We took the risks. Surely my crew and I are entitled to a fair share of what we've won..."
"A share?" Haraldson cut him off with a sharp, barking laugh. The sound echoed off the walls, and the crowd, taking its cue from their lord, joined in the laughter. "You want me to reward you for disobeying me? For taking things as easily as from babies?"
He let the laughter die down, savoring the moment. "But I am not unreasonable. Here is what I have decided." He spread his hands, playing the role of the magnanimous lord. "Each of you may take one thing from this chest. One item of your choosing."
Leif's jaw dropped in disbelief. "One thing?"
"Yes," Haraldson said, his smile widening with cruel satisfaction. "One. And you will still be richer than you were yesterday. Now, all the world can see how generous I am, even to those who defy me."
Haraldson's gaze returned to Ragnar, his eyes glittering with triumph. "So, Ragnar Lothbrok. What will you choose? Perhaps that golden cup? Or maybe one of those silver plates?"
All eyes in the hall turned to Ragnar. The humiliation was thick in the air, almost tangible. His men looked at him with a mixture of anger and expectation. This was the moment that would define not just his leadership, but their future.
Rollo, who was standing close to Ragnar, felt such anger surge through him that his hand moved instinctively to his axe. His vision reddened with rage, and for a moment, he was ready to draw his weapon and cut his way through the Earl's men to kill Haraldson right there. But he was stopped by Bjorn again, who was positioned behind him and caught his eye with a subtle shake of his head.
All eyes remained on Ragnar as he surveyed the treasure, his expression thoughtful. Then, unexpectedly, he looked past the gold and silver, his eyes landing on the captive priest.
"I will take the priest," he said clearly.
The hall erupted. Haraldson blinked in surprise, completely caught off guard. Siggy let out a sharp, mocking laugh that cut through the air like a blade.
"The priest?" she exclaimed. "You could have gold, and you choose a slave?"
The hall joined in the laughter, the idea of choosing a scrawny, terrified young man over a fortune in gold seeming absurd to everyone present.
"Has he lost his mind?" whispered one of the Earl's men.
"Maybe the sea voyage addled his head," replied another.
Haraldson recovered from his surprise and chuckled, shaking his head. "The priest? Very well, granted. But first, you will tell me something." His expression grew serious again. "How did you find this place when all before you have failed? What secret knowledge did you possess?"
Ragnar met his stare without flinching. "There was no secret, my lord. We had something far better than knowledge." He paused, letting the silence build again, feeling the weight of every eye in the hall. "We had Thor on our side."
The men behind him, remembering that moment of divine intervention during the storm, spoke in unison with conviction: "Thor."
Haraldson's smile faltered. This was a dangerous claim, one that could not be dismissed lightly. Divine favor was a serious matter in their world.
"You claim the gods favored your disobedience?" he asked, his voice carrying a warning.
Alf, knowing his moment had come as Bjorn had instructed him, stepped forward boldly. "My lord," he said, his voice carrying clearly through the hall, "during a storm that would have broken any ordinary ship, that should have sent us all to the bottom of the sea, Thor himself came to visit us. And he left a mark to prove his favor." He pointed toward Bjorn.
Haraldson's expression sharpened dangerously. Divine favor was a serious claim, one that could not be dismissed lightly. If the gods had truly blessed Ragnar's expedition, then opposing him might be opposing the gods themselves, a risk no mortal ruler could afford.
"What mark?" Siggy asked, leaning forward with intense curiosity.
"Show them," Alf urged.
All eyes turned to Bjorn. The young man had been silent since entering the hall, but now he stepped forward into the firelight. Without a word, he reached up and unfastened the brooch at his shoulder. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his tunic aside, baring the skin beneath his collarbone.
There, carved into his flesh and still healing, was a rune unlike any the assembled warriors had ever seen. It was clearly the rune of Thor, the symbol of thunder and divine power, but it was larger and more elaborate than any normal carving. The lines were perfectly straight, the depth uniform, and the scarring around it suggested it had been made with more than human tools.
A wave of awe and fear washed over the hall. Several men made signs against evil, while others whispered prayers.
"By the gods," breathed Jorund, the law-speaker, his voice filled with wonder. "I have never seen such a mark."
"The edges are too clean," observed Brandr, the lore keeper. "No human hand could carve with such precision."
The rune was clearly fresh, but the scarring around it suggested it had been made with more than mortal tools. The edges were too precise, the depth too even, the healing too clean.
"How?" Haraldson asked, his voice suddenly quiet, all mockery gone from his manner.
Bjorn met his gaze steadily, his mind already made up about the gods or whatever they are. "I heard the voice of Thor during the storm. He spoke to me as clearly as I speak to you now."
He turned to address the entire hall. "He said the old ways of thinking were ending, and that new paths were opening for our people. He marked me as a sign that the gods approve of what we have done."
The hall fell into complete silence. Everyone understood the implications of what they were hearing. If Thor had truly blessed Ragnar's expedition, then everything changed. The gods' favor was not something any mortal could ignore, not an earl, not even a king.
"What did he say exactly?" asked Jorund, his voice respectful but probing.
"He said that the time of raiding only to the east was over," Bjorn replied. "That greater riches lay to the west, and that those brave enough to seek them would be rewarded. He said that my father's vision was true."
But Earl Haraldson had not held power for twenty-two years by being easily impressed or swayed by claims of divine intervention. Divine favor was a claim that could be made by anyone, and the gods were notoriously difficult to interpret. Still, the rune was undeniably real, and its appearance was beyond the skill of any normal craftsman.
"The gods speak in riddles," he said carefully. "What seems like blessing might be a test. What appears to be favor might be a trap."
He opened his mouth as if to speak further, but then his eyes shifted to where the seer sat in the shadows, watching with a smile in his face.
The seer had remained silent throughout the proceedings, but now he stirred slightly, and Haraldson stiffened. He saw what was coming. If he let this discussion of divine favor continue, the room would fill with talk of omens, prophecy, and fate. And only one man could claim the right to interpret what the gods truly wanted.
And that man was not him.
Haraldson's jaw tightened. He could feel the situation slipping from his control. So he raised a hand, cutting off any further discussion. "We will speak more of this later," he said finally, his voice carefully composed but carrying an undertone of threat. "This matter requires... deeper consideration."
He turned slightly on the dais, speaking to the crowd now more than to Ragnar. "But understand this, all of you: the gods may favor bold men, but they also test them. And they are never clear in their meaning. What seems like blessing today may be revealed as curse tomorrow."
Then he looked again toward the seer, just for a breath, before returning his attention to the assembled crowd. "Until their will is made plain to us through proper channels... this meeting is ended."
And with that, he stepped down from the high seat, his cloak sweeping behind him dramatically. He walked with measured steps toward the doors, his eyes forward, leaving the hall buzzing with whispered conversations and speculation.
"What does this mean?" asked one of the chieftains.
"It means nothing is settled," replied another. "The Earl will need to consult the seer."
"And if the seer confirms the gods' favor?"
"Then everything changes."
As Haraldson departed, the silence he left behind began to ferment with possibility, fear, and the dangerous seeds of change.
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