The years turned, and the storm-born brothers grew beneath the roof of Eirik the Bearslayer. Where once their eyes had glowed faintly with unearthly fire, now that light smoldered beneath their skin, hidden but never gone. To the tribe, they were no longer strange infants in furs, but boys who bled, laughed, and shouted like any other. And yet, none could deny—they were different.
The tribe had learned to live with that difference. Some saw it as a blessing, others a curse. To the children who played in the mud, Xylos and Kaelen were rivals to chase. To the old warriors, they were omens of battles yet to come. And to Eirik, they were sons—though in the silence of the longhouse, he often wondered what kind of men he was shaping.
He trained them as Vikings, as men, as future leaders. And still he saw the storm gathering.
On a cold morning, when the fjord still smoked with mist, the boys sparred in the training yard. They were twelve now, their bodies hard from winters of toil and endless drills. Warriors gathered to watch, for there was no sight in the village more striking than the storm-born brothers clashing.
Xylos fought with patience, his wooden axe rising to block, his feet steady on the frozen ground. Kaelen struck with fury, his blows raining down fast, wild, relentless. The thwack of wood on wood echoed against the longhouse walls.
"Faster!" Kaelen snarled, teeth bared, spit flying. "Don't give up on me!"
Xylos grunted, parrying another swing, then pressing his own haft against Kaelen's chest until the younger boy staggered. "Strength without control is nothing."
The watching men cheered. Some clapped for Kaelen's ferocity, others for Xylos's steady defense. Eirik only stroked his beard, pride and unease warring in his eyes.
Kaelen spat in the snow, cheeks flushed with anger. "One day, I won't hold back. And I'll leave you broken, brother."
"Then one day," Xylos replied, lowering his axe, "you'll see why I do."
Weeks later, the brothers joined their first hunt. A herd of deer had been sighted beyond the treeline, and Eirik led a small party into the woods. The men crept through snowdrifts, breath clouding in the cold air, spears poised.
Xylos loosed his first throw. His spear struck true, felling a stag. He knelt by the body, resting his hand on its hide. "Thank you," he murmured, repeating the prayer Eirik had taught him. "Your death feeds our people."
Kaelen approached, blade already drawn. He plunged it into the stag's neck repeatedly, spraying blood across the snow, laughing as the life drained from the animal. "What the hell stop?" he growled. "It's mine!"
"Enough!" Eirik barked, seizing his wrist.
Kaelen's eyes burned, twisted satisfaction curling his lips. "It's mine, father! Everything I touch will bow or die!"
Xylos turned away, jaw clenched. "Mercy makes us men. Cruelty makes us beasts."
Some warriors muttered to one another. A few nodded at Xylos's words, but others whispered of Kaelen's fire, saying he would grow into a conqueror no one could oppose. That night, the children told stories of Kaelen in hushed voices—of the way he hunted foxes and rabbits for sport, of how he laughed as he bled them. Fear had already begun to take root.
As the seasons turned, the village learned to divide loyalties quietly. Some admired Kaelen's ferocity, others clung to Xylos's restraint.
One morning, when frost still glazed the ground, the boys sparred before a ring of children. Wooden blades clashed again and again, thudding against shields, scraping along fur-lined armor.
"Hold your ground, brother!" Kaelen snarled, lunging forward with a swing that could have shattered a man's jaw. "You think you're better than me?"
Xylos stepped aside with calm precision, letting the blow sweep harmlessly past. He shoved Kaelen into the dirt. "It's not about being better. You're too full of rage."
Kaelen scrambled to his feet, fists clenched. "Rage is power! Don't you fucking get it?"
Eirik's voice thundered across the yard. "That is enough!"
Both boys froze. The Bearslayer's shadow fell over them as he strode forward, axe strapped across his back. His eyes passed over Xylos's calm face, then lingered on Kaelen's clenched fists.
"You fight like men," he said, voice heavy with pride. "But you forget—you are brothers first."
The lesson silenced them, though Kaelen's glare lingered long after the others had gone.
That night, the tribe gathered to celebrate the hunt. Fire roared in the longhouse hearth, mead flowed in horns, and meat crackled on the spits. Rurik, ever mad with mirth, danced atop the tables, his laughter shrill as gulls.
He pointed at Kaelen, who sat near the fire, shoulders proud. "This one!" Rurik cried, spilling half his drink. "No man's son—he is a wolf! And what do wolves do, my brothers? They kill, tear, and feast until the bones are bare!"
Kaelen grinned, bloodlust dancing in his eyes. Xylos raised his horn calmly. "A wolf without a pack dies alone. Strength means nothing if it tears us apart."
A silence followed, sharp as a blade. Some nodded, others scowled. Rurik tilted his head like a mad raven, cackling.
Later, as the fire burned low and shadows deepened, Eirik sat with Freya and his daughters. They whispered songs, braiding hair by firelight. Xylos joined quietly, reverent. Kaelen lingered at the edge, mocking the tune, muttering, "Child's games."
Freya glanced at him, sad. "You never stay long when the fire is warm."
Kaelen said nothing, slipping into the night, staring up at the stars as if searching for something the earth could not give him.
Eirik watched from the doorway, unease stirring. He remembered the storm that had brought them, the omen he had carried from the sea. His heart told the truth: these boys were not his to shape. They were something greater. Something dangerous.
Near midnight, Eirik sought Svala the Seer. Her hut crouched at the edge of the village, heavy with the stink of herbs and smoke. She sat by the fire, eyes reflecting the flames as if they were her own.
"You worry for your sons," she rasped.
"I worry for the tribe," Eirik answered, sinking onto the bench across from her.
Svala stirred the fire with a crooked stick, sparks leaping into the dark. "Two boys, born of storm and sea. One carries a shield, one a sword. Both will bleed for the tribe. Both will shape the world."
Eirik clenched his fists. "And which will bring us ruin?"
"You'll know, Bearslayer. Too late to stop it."
That night, as the brothers slept side by side, the storm returned. Wind howled through the rafters, and the fire guttered low. Xylos dreamed of golden fields, of voices calling his name as a leader, a protector. Kaelen dreamed of fire and war, blood soaking the snow, of himself standing upon a mountain of corpses with a crown of iron and flame.
When he woke, a raven sat on the sill of the longhouse window, watching him with black, unblinking eyes. Kaelen smiled.