Xylos's POV
The fjords awoke beneath a blood-red dawn. Thin light spilled across the mountains, staining the snow with the color of battle. But it wasn't the sky that turned the villagers' faces pale.
It was the doors.
Every house bore the same mark. A raven, nailed through the breast, wings spread stiff as broken shields. Blood streaked downward in crooked trails, freezing in the morning air. By the time Xylos walked the village, warriors and thralls alike had gathered in clusters, muttering, crossing themselves, whispering prayers to gods they no longer trusted to answer.
He stopped before one of the doors and pulled the bird free. Its body was cold and rigid, feathers falling loose into the snow. He tossed it aside. The smear left on the wood was crude, but clear—a rune carved in red.
Fire.
Children whimpered. Their mothers dragged them back, eyes wide as if the walls themselves might burst into flame.
"He watches us," an elder muttered from the crowd. "The storm-born watches."
The words spread like smoke. The storm-born. The god-king. The brother.
Xylos ground his teeth until his jaw ached.
Behind him came laughter. High, sharp, almost joyous.
Rurik.
The trickster moved through the villagers like a fox through hens, his furs thrown back, his eyes bright with a madness that danced on the edge of mirth. He pointed at the nailed birds as though they were some jest.
"Do you not see it?" he cried. "Your brother has a sense of theater! Ravens on doors, blood in the snow—ah! A god-king's poetry!"
The villagers recoiled, spitting at his feet, muttering curses, but Rurik only bowed mockingly, twirling a loose feather between his fingers.
Xylos turned on him, his voice flat and sharp. "It is not poetry. It is a threat."
Rurik cocked his head, grin widening. "Then meet threat with threat. Or soon your people will think you weaker than him. And that, my king, is the greater danger."
"I am not a king," Xylos snapped.
"Then what are you?" Rurik's grin thinned into something darker. "A man with an axe, staring at dead birds while his brother grows stronger? The people need to see more than your anger, Xylos. They need to see your wrath."
Murmurs rippled through the villagers. Some nodded. Others looked to the ground.
Xylos said nothing, but his silence weighed heavier than words. He could feel their eyes on him—their fear, their need. The blood on the doors was not just a warning. It was a wound. And if he did not answer it, it would fester.
He tightened his grip on his father's axe.
Kaelen's POV
The same dawn burned over blackened timbers.
Kaelen stood among the ruins of a hamlet, his boots crunching in cinders, the air thick with the stink of char and death. Around him, his warriors feasted on the spoils—smoked meat taken from the ashes, jewelry ripped from the necks of the dead, gold heavy in their hands.
Astrid lingered close, her hands resting protectively on her swollen belly. Her eyes were far away, locked not on the ruin but on something deeper. She hadn't spoken since they left the last village. Kaelen did not press her. Her silence was a kind of devotion, he told himself. She understood what he was building.
The smoke shifted. A shadow moved.
The Seer.
Kaelen stiffened as the figure emerged from the curling ash, robes tattered but untouched by flame, eyes glinting like shards of ice. His voice slithered into the silence.
"You send messages of blood, Kaelen. But I bring one for you. If you continue on this path, you will not end with glory. You will end with regret. You and your brother are no more. You are enemies now."
Kaelen barked a laugh, too sharp, too loud. "Did Xylos send you? A spy wrapped in riddles?"
The Seer tilted his head, gaze unblinking. "No. I came to warn you. You are an evil god, not a good one. You are no leader."
The words sank like a knife. Kaelen's hand flew to his sword. He roared and slashed down, the steel cleaving only smoke. The Seer did not flinch.
"You cannot kill me," he said softly. "I am already dead. A ghost, bound to guide those who believe themselves worthy. You are not worthy."
Then, as sudden as he had appeared, he was gone.
Kaelen's chest heaved. His men watched in uneasy silence. He forced a laugh, though it rang brittle in the air.
"Even the dead bow to me," he snarled. "Do you see? Even the dead."
The laughter carried, but in his chest there was only a hollow pit, deepening with every breath.
Xylos's POV
Night crept over the land, heavy and moonless. A mist rolled off the fjord, swallowing the shore in pale swirls. The villagers had retreated into their homes, doors barred, fires low. Only the restless crackle of the torches lining the path gave shape to the darkness.
Xylos stood at the edge of the water, his axe resting across his shoulders, his cloak tugged by the cold wind. He had expected this moment for days—ever since the ravens. His brother's shadow was too near, too deliberate. Kaelen would come. He always did.
A ripple broke the water. Longships slid out of the fog like beasts surfacing for air. Shields lined their sides, their rims catching the torchlight. At the prow of the first ship stood Kaelen, tall as a storm, his hair loose in the wind, eyes alight with something that was not entirely human anymore.
The ships grounded with a crunch of gravel. Warriors spilled onto the shore, their weapons gleaming, their laughter cruel. Kaelen stepped down last, the tide licking his boots.
"Brother," he said, his voice carrying easily across the water. "I see the gods favored us both. Fathers now. Kings now."
"You are no king," Xylos answered, his tone flat as iron. "Not here. Not ever."
Kaelen grinned, spreading his arms wide as though to embrace the whole night. "You call me no king, yet your people whisper my name in fear. Fear is power, brother. Fear bends knees faster than love."
"Fear breaks men," Xylos said. "Fear builds nothing but ash. Look at what you've left behind you. Burnt villages. Dead children. Is this your kingdom? Bones and fire?"
Kaelen's smile faltered for the barest moment, but then it returned, sharper. "You sound like him."
"Like who?"
"Our father."
The word struck like an axe blow. For a heartbeat, silence weighed between them. The waves lapped at the shore, restless, impatient.
"You killed him," Xylos said quietly. "I know it now. I see it in your eyes. You murdered him, not for vengeance, not for survival, but because you wanted his seat, his bloodline, his legacy."
Kaelen's jaw twitched. His warriors shifted uneasily.
"Do not speak of things you do not understand," Kaelen said, his voice suddenly low, dangerous.
"I understand enough," Xylos said, stepping forward. His voice carried to every ear on the beach. "You are not my brother. You are not a god. You are a murderer."
Kaelen's laughter came sudden and ragged, ringing too loud against the water. "Then banish me, brother! Banish me from your precious land, with your loyal villagers clinging to you like frightened children. Do it! Tell me I am not welcome here."
Xylos raised his axe, pointing it straight at Kaelen. "You are not welcome here. Step foot on this land again, and I will cut you down where you stand."
The warriors on both sides bristled. Hands went to hilts. Shields lifted. The air thickened, seconds from erupting.
Kaelen stepped forward until the tide broke against his shins. His eyes burned like coals. "If your people abandon you, and come to me instead—what then, brother? Will you still hold your axe high? Or will you kneel, when you see they prefer a god to a man?"
"Then let them choose," Xylos said. "But hear me, Kaelen. If they leave you for me, it is not because I am stronger. It is because you are nothing but fear. And fear rots."
Kaelen's lips peeled back in a snarl. For a moment, the world hung on the edge of war.
Then, from the mist, a raven's cry split the night.
Both brothers turned.
On the beach, in the flicker of the torches, a shape appeared. A rune, carved into the sand, lines dark with blood. Its meaning was simple.
Watching.
The villagers on the cliffs gasped. The warriors muttered, unease prickling their spines.
Kaelen's grin returned, slow and terrible. "The gods see us, brother. They see me. And they know which of us is chosen."
He turned sharply, motioning to his men. The longships pushed back into the fog, vanishing as suddenly as they'd come. Only the rune remained, gleaming wet in the sand.
Xylos stared at it, his axe heavy in his grip, his heart a drum of fire in his chest.
The message was clear.
Kaelen was watching.
Always watching.
And the war between them had only just begun.