The snow outside Ullrsfjörðr had long since melted into soft earth, and the air smelled of damp wood and salt carried in from the sea.
Children's laughter echoed through the outer courtyard of the keep, a wide stone-paved space between the longhouse and the western wall.
Among the shrill voices and running feet, one child's giggle was louder than the rest.
Vetrúlfr knelt in the center of the yard, his war cloak thrown aside and his arms bare, muscular and scarred beneath the spring sun.
Across from him stood Branúlfr, barely past his fifth winter, flaming-haired like his mother, and blue-eyed like his father.
The boy held a small wooden shield no larger than a kitchen plate and a dulled, carved-wood sword that had once belonged to Vetrúlfr himself when he was a feral little tyke in the North.
"Keep your knees bent," Vetrúlfr said gently, motioning with two fingers. "And never grip the sword like a hammer. It's not for smashing, but for striking."
