Years had passed like whispers carried by the northern winds. The storm-born brothers were no longer boys with wooden blades in hand, but men forged by winters, raids, and the relentless discipline of Eirik the Bearslayer.
Now in their twenties, their shoulders were broad, their voices deep as thunder, their names whispered in every corner of the fjord. Xylos had grown steady as oak, his eyes calm, his voice carrying the weight of reason. Kaelen had become fire given flesh, his laughter sharp, his temper sharper still.
And Eirik, their foster father, their leader, bore the years heavily upon him. His hair, once dark as the raven's wing, had turned white, and his hands that had split men in half with an axe now trembled when he lifted his horn. The tribe saw it. The gods saw it. His time was ending.
The morning frost clung to the dirt as warriors circled the sparring yard. The brothers faced each other with real steel now, their blades gleaming in the pale light.
"Do you yield?" Xylos asked, voice calm, shield raised.
Kaelen spat in the dirt. "Yield? Only the weak yield." His sword lashed out in a vicious arc.
The crowd roared as steel clashed. Kaelen pressed forward, blow after blow, his face twisted with fury. Sparks flew as his blade bit against Xylos's shield.
"You fight like a beast," Xylos grunted, shoving him back. "But beasts can be slain."
Kaelen bared his teeth. "Then try, brother."
They fought until Kaelen's blade nicked Xylos's cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. The crowd erupted, some chanting Kaelen's name, others Xylos's.
Eirik, watching with arms folded, raised his voice. "Enough!"
Both froze. The Bearslayer's shadow still carried authority, though age weighed on him. His gaze swept the brothers. "The people do not cheer beasts in a pit. They cheer men worthy of leading them. Remember this."
Kaelen sneered, but Xylos nodded, lowering his blade with respect.
That night, the longhouse was thick with smoke, mead, and whispers. Eirik summoned his council: warriors, elders, Skarde, and of course, the brothers.
Eirik's voice was heavy. "I grow old. My bones ache. Soon, I will no longer lead you into battle. The tribe must choose who will carry my axe when I am gone."
The longhouse erupted in murmurs. All eyes turned to the brothers.
Skarde, leaning on his staff, grinned with his crooked teeth. "A fine choice between flame and stone, Bearslayer. One burns bright, one stands firm."
Kaelen smirked. "Even the gods know stone crumbles. Fire shapes the world."
Xylos shook his head. "Fire also destroys what it touches."
Laughter, murmurs, uneasy glances. The tribe was already dividing.
Eirik's gaze pierced both. "You are my sons. But only one can be king. Until the day comes, you will show me which is worthy. And know this—" his eyes darkened, "—if either of you forgets you are brothers first, the gods themselves will curse you."
Later, Xylos stepped outside for air. The cold bit at his skin, but the sight of Freya—once a girl rescued in a raid, now a young woman—warmed him more than any fire.
She smiled faintly. "You held back in the yard."
"I fought to control my brother, not destroy him," Xylos said.
Her eyes searched his. "That's why you'll be king one day."
He laughed softly. "I am not ready. The tribe sees my doubt."
She stepped closer, her breath misting in the cold. "Doubt makes you human. But mercy, strength, wisdom—those make you a leader."
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. He brushed her cheek with his hand. Their lips met in a lingering kiss, but before the moment could deepen, he pulled away, heart pounding.
The flames of the longhouse called them back, but the unspoken promise lingered in the air.
Meanwhile, Kaelen sat in the shadows of the hall, surrounded by young warriors who hung on his every word.
"Xylos is weak," Kaelen snarled, slamming his fist into the table. "He speaks of mercy when we need fire. He bows his head when we should claim crowns."
One man nodded eagerly. "You would lead us to glory."
Kaelen grinned, sharp and cruel. "Not just glory. Worship. The gods sent us from the storm, and I will show them why. They will kneel to me as they kneel to Odin."
The young men cheered, drunk on his fire. Kaelen leaned back, eyes blazing. For years he had swallowed his hatred. No longer.
The next night, the tribe gathered in the hall. Eirik rose, voice carrying over the fire. "Tomorrow, I will name the man who will take my place."
The words struck the room like thunder. Kaelen's face twisted, and even Xylos looked down in unease.
Later, when the hall grew quiet and shadows stretched long, Kaelen crept into Eirik's chamber. The old leader sat sharpening his axe, his hands trembling but his eyes still sharp.
"You should be asleep, boy," Eirik rumbled without looking up.
Kaelen stepped forward, voice low. "You kept me caged. You held me back. You thought to make me a dog at my brother's heel."
Eirik's eyes narrowed. "You are blinded by your own fire. It will consume you."
Kaelen smiled coldly. "Then let it consume you first."
With a flash of steel, Kaelen drove his blade into Eirik's chest. The old man gasped, blood blooming across his tunic.
"You were never my father," Kaelen whispered, twisting the blade.
Eirik's last breath rattled from his throat as his body slumped. The Bearslayer was dead.
The next morning, the tribe gathered at the sound of horns. Eirik's body was carried out on a shield, his bloodied axe resting upon him.
Gasps, cries, wails. Freya clutched Xylos's arm, eyes wide with horror. Skarde muttered prayers under his breath.
The crowd turned, searching, whispering. Some already glanced at Kaelen, whose face was calm, almost smug. Others looked at Xylos, who stared at his foster father's lifeless face, grief and rage warring within him.
Kaelen stepped forward, spreading his arms. "The gods have spoken. The Bearslayer is gone. A new age begins. Follow me, and I will lead you to glory!"
Half the crowd cheered. The other half recoiled.
Xylos's fists clenched, his heart breaking. He could already see the future dividing before his eyes.
The storm-born brothers were no longer boys. And now, only war lay ahead.
The morning was heavy with silence. Even the gulls circling the fjord seemed muted, their cries swallowed by grief. Eirik's body was laid upon a wooden bier outside the longhouse, his axe upon his chest, his white hair spread like a halo around his weathered face.
The tribe gathered in a wide circle. Warriors who had once marched beside him stood with heads bowed. Women clutched children close, their eyes red. Elders leaned on canes, whispering prayers to Odin and Freya.
The first words came from Skarde, the shipwright. His crooked back bent as he leaned on his staff, his voice creaking like an old mast.
"Eirik the Bearslayer was more than a chief. He was a shield against the storm. He taught us to build ships when the seas grew cruel. He taught us to fight when wolves came in the night. Without him, we are wood without a keel—adrift, waiting to sink."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
Kaelen stepped forward. His broad shoulders caught the light of the rising sun, and his voice rang out like steel on steel.
"We are not adrift. The gods do not abandon us. They sent us brothers from the storm to guide this tribe. The old wolf is gone, but a new wolf rises. Follow me, and I will lead you to victories that Eirik himself could not dream of!"
Half the crowd cheered, fists raised. Others shifted uneasily.
Xylos moved slowly, every step heavy, his eyes locked on Eirik's still face. His voice, when it came, was softer than Kaelen's but carried a strange weight.
"Eirik was more than our leader. He was our father. He taught us mercy when cruelty was easier. He taught us to hold the line when the fire burned too hot. If we tear ourselves apart now, then everything he built will be ashes."
The crowd fell into tense silence. A few murmured approval. Others looked between the brothers as though forced to choose then and there.
Skarde let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "The Bearslayer warned me this day would come. Two sons of the storm, standing over his ashes, one with fire in his heart, one with stone. He told me… one will lead us, the other will destroy us. But he did not say which."
The words struck like a hammer. Whispers broke out, harsh and fearful.
Kaelen's jaw clenched. He spread his arms, voice rising.
"Why wait for old men's riddles? Why wait for cowards to decide? I will not sit idle while this tribe rots with grief. I will raise a banner so high the gods themselves will see it. Come with me, and you will have blood, plunder, glory!"
A chorus of cheers rose again. Young warriors slammed their spears against their shields. The fire in Kaelen's eyes spread to them like a fever.
Xylos stepped closer to the bier, his hand brushing the wood where Eirik lay. His voice was low, almost to himself.
"I will not let your death divide us, father. I will not let him burn everything you loved."
Freya appeared beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Her whisper carried only for him.
"You must speak louder, Xylos. Or the tribe will follow the fire, and not the stone."
Xylos's throat tightened. His heart hammered. But when he looked up, Kaelen was already standing before the crowd, arms raised like a prophet, his laughter echoing off the mountains.
"Bow to no man!" Kaelen roared. "Bow only to the storm-born!"
The crowd erupted, half cheering, half shouting in protest. Spears rattled against shields. Some warriors surged toward Kaelen, pledging themselves at his feet. Others pulled back toward Xylos, their faces grim, their voices raised in defiance.
The circle was breaking. The tribe was splitting before their very eyes.
Skarde's old voice rasped above the chaos. "The storm has come again. The brothers will tear this tribe apart."
Xylos clenched his fists, staring across the sea of people at his brother. Kaelen met his gaze and grinned, cruel and victorious, as if daring him to fight for the crown.
The pyre for Eirik had not yet been lit, and already the tribe was at war with itself.