Snow fell soft and quiet on the frozen ground outside the wooden longhouse. Inside, the flickering hearth painted warm amber shadows across the rough-hewn walls.
A woman's sharp breath broke the stillness. Sigrid Ulfson cradled her newborn son in trembling arms, her heart pounding like the drums of distant hunts. The midwife wiped the child's face, murmuring blessings to Hjaldr, the Quiet Flame.
"He's here," Sigrid whispered, voice raw but full of awe.
Eirik Ulfson, the clan's rugged chieftain, stepped close, his greatsword resting nearby. His broad hands trembled as he reached to touch the babe's cheek.
The child did not cry.
But something was wrong.
When Sigrid laid Agnar in the cradle, his eyes—those pale, misted orbs—never opened. He was born blind.
A heavy silence fell over the room.
The midwife's eyes flicked between the parents. "He cannot see."
Eirik's jaw clenched. "But he must. We are hunters. He must see."
Sigrid's hand found Eirik's. "Perhaps the gods have gifted him another way."
"Or cursed him," muttered Bjorn Ironhand, the tribe's eldest warrior, standing near the door.
The child's small fingers curled tight around Sigrid's thumb, unknowing, untouched by light or shadow.
Days passed.
Agnar did not cry, but he did not wail in hunger or discomfort either. He seemed to feel, to listen beyond normal sense.
One evening, Eirik sat beside the cradle, watching the boy.
"He's aware," Sigrid said softly. "I swear, he knows when I smile, when you enter the room."
Eirik frowned. "Awareness is not sight."
"But perhaps it is more."
The tribe elders whispered of omens. The god Hjaldr might yet reveal a hidden gift—one beyond mere eyes.
In time, Agnar learned to move without stumbling. He listened to the wind and the pulse of footsteps. He sensed the tremor of a smile or a lie, the weight of sadness in a voice.
His family grew to trust this unseen sight.
But no one understood what it meant.
[ 16 Winters Later ]
The dawn's pale light spilled softly over the snow-dusted pines surrounding Skogheim. The village stirred to life, muffled by winter's cold grip but pulsing with the quiet rhythms of kinship and survival.
Agnar Ulfson sat by the fire inside the longhouse, the worn leather blindfold folded beside him. His face was pale, framed by shoulder-length blond hair, tousled from sleep and the wild winds beyond the walls. His skin was weathered but strong, kissed by frost and sharpened by the northern air.
Though his eyes were forever sealed in darkness, his broad shoulders and tall frame spoke of strength and resilience. He wore a heavy, fur-lined cloak draped over rugged leather armor—marks of a warrior—and his massive greatsword rested across his knees, the worn hilt wrapped tightly in leather, adorned with five bear teeth. The sword was not just a weapon; it was a legacy, a testament to battles fought and a bloodline fading.
"Can you feel that?" Agnar asked, his voice a calm rumble that filled the room.
His mother, Sigrid, smiled warmly, brushing a stray lock of blond hair from his face. "The wind outside? The promise of snow?"
"No," Agnar said softly. "The forest. The way the air shifts before the hunt. I can hear the river beneath the ice, smell the spruce, and even feel the deer's heartbeat in the distance."
His father, Eirik, stepped into the room, the leather of his worn greatcoat creaking softly. "You always listen too much, boy."
Agnar chuckled, the sound deep and steady. "Perhaps. But that's how I survive."
Leif, Agnar's younger brother, burst through the door with a grin plastered across his rosy cheeks. "Agnar! Come on! Today's the day! We hunt the great stag!"
Agnar rose, his tall form casting a shadow in the firelight. "Then let's not keep the forest waiting."
Outside, the village awoke fully. Children laughed, throwing snowballs; the traders unpacked furs and salted meats; the thick scent of pine and smoke wrapped around them all.
Agnar moved with practiced ease, feeling the crunch of snow beneath his boots. His blindfold was tight but not constricting. He reached out with his gift—an awareness of emotion, intent, and movement that made sight unnecessary.
He sensed Leif's excitement as a flutter of warmth, his mother's steady calm like a soothing breeze, and the guarded watchfulness of Bjorn Ironhand, the tribe's eldest warrior, as a steady pulse of strength.
Agnar's senses mapped the world beyond the limits of vision—he knew when someone smiled, when a lie lingered like a bitter scent, and when danger whispered through the trees.
At the edge of the village, the hunt began. Agnar led, moving silently, the greatsword slung across his back.
"Are you ready, brother?" Leif asked, matching his pace.
Agnar smiled beneath the blindfold. "I've been ready since I first held a blade."
They entered the forest, the tall pines standing like sentinels, snow muffling their footsteps.
"Feel that?" Agnar whispered. "The deer is near. The forest breathes differently."
Runa, their older sister, nocked an arrow to her bowstring. "Then don't keep it waiting."
They tracked the stag with quiet reverence, moving like shadows through the white world.
Suddenly, Agnar stopped. "Wait."
He extended a hand, sensing a subtle shift—a crackle in the air.
"Something watches," he said.
Bjorn grunted. "A wolf?"
"No," Agnar replied, voice sharp. "Different."
A great stag burst through the trees, antlers wide and proud, muscles rippling beneath a thick coat.
Runa aimed carefully, but Agnar stepped forward.
"I'll take it," he said quietly.
With a fluid grace, Agnar moved, sword raised.
He felt the stag's powerful heartbeat as if it were his own. The battle was brief but fierce. The stag charged, horns lowered, but Agnar met it with steady resolve.
With one swift strike, the stag fell.
Leif whooped in triumph.
Bjorn clapped Agnar on the shoulder. "Strong as the gods, Ulfson. You carry their fire."
Later that evening, the village celebrated. Fires roared, voices raised in song, and laughter filled the air.
Agnar sat with his family, feeling the warmth of kin and home.
His mother smiled. "You see more than most, Agnar. The gods watch over you."
Eirik nodded, pride in his eyes. "Use your gift well. The world is changing, and you will need every edge."
Runa laughed. "And sharpen that sword. We'll need it soon."
The words felt light, but beneath them lay a shadow none dared speak aloud.
The zealots were coming.
And Agnar's world was about to burn.