Time had teeth.
Two months of training under Thane Viggo Stormhand carved that truth into Ragnar's muscles like runes into bone. Every dawn began with cold air and punishment. Every night ended with bruises and breath that rattled in his chest like caged iron.
He was no longer the scrawny fieldhand who stumbled into the ring clutching a wooden blade. At fifteen, his shoulders had broadened, his arms hardened, his gaze sharpened. He moved differently now—not fluid like the noble-born warriors, perhaps, but steady. Purposeful. A young wolf growing into his body.
Eivor, at fourteen, had changed too. Her strikes were still wild in spirit, but now restrained by technique. She learned to leash the fury until unleashed drills demanded it. When the berserker exercises began—where trainees were ordered to strike sandbags until they tasted their own teeth—some hesitated. Eivor didn't. She hit until her knuckles split, then hit harder.
Many feared her more than Ragnar.
Not that they said it out loud.
Most called them pups, still with scorn.
But some no longer said it loudly.
---
The morning fog clung low as the trainees gathered in their formation circle. Ragnar and Eivor stood in the outer ring, as they always had—still lower-ranked in training status despite their endurance. Eirik Sigvaldsson stood a few rows forward, alongside other warrior-born heirs in leather armor marked with runic stitching.
He didn't laugh at Ragnar anymore. Now, he just watched. Closely. Tightly.
Ragnar could feel the tension between them every morning like frost biting through cloth.
"Eyes forward," came the barked command.
Hrodric, the drillmaster, strode into the center. Scarred. Silent. His voice was a hammer.
"Stance drills."
They dropped into form.
The burning began early.
Eivor held unflinching until the third round. Ragnar lasted until the fifth before a tremor ran through his leg. He corrected. Endured. A warrior-born trainee behind him collapsed with a hiss of pain.
Hrodric didn't look at the fallen boy.
But someone else did.
A quiet youth on the fringe, lean, with dark hair pulled into a short knot and eyes that seemed always half-hidden under a calm brow. He trained with a practice spear instead of a sword, always stable, never flashy. He watched Ragnar without mockery—and without fear.
Hakon.
They'd never spoken—not properly. But he had begun to stand closer in drills where formations rotated. His strikes were efficient, quiet. His endurance… noteworthy.
Ragnar had noticed him too.
Wolves recognized others learning to bare teeth.
---
Later that morning, during strength tests, the trainees were ordered to carry water-filled logs up a hill repeatedly. Many groaned. Ragnar simply lifted.
By the fourth run, a heavy-set girl with an axe scar on her jaw stumbled. She cursed all the gods in a gravelly voice and kicked the ground as she steadied herself. When she caught Ragnar looking, she glared at him with amused contempt.
"I slip once and the pup stares?" she growled. "Keep watching and I'll feed you the dirt myself."
Ragnar said nothing.
Eivor passed by her, muttering under her breath, "He'd bite first."
The girl snorted out a laugh. "Good. I like pups with teeth."
Her name was Brynja Skalladottir—half the camp feared her temper, the other half respected her skill with an axe. She never praised anyone… but she didn't swing at Eivor after that comment. In training, she started choosing posts near Eivor when drills began.
A silent alliance was born in bruises.
---
As the sun began to set, the trainees stood battered and panting. Hrodric dismissed them with a grunt.
Ragnar wiped sweat from his brow. Eivor cracked her neck. Hakon passed by and nodded once in Ragnar's direction. Nothing more.
Brynja smirked after slamming her axe haft into the ground. "You two bleed well. Better than most."
"Encouragement?" Eivor asked dryly.
"No," Brynja shrugged. "Observation."
She stalked off, humming an old warrior chant under her breath.
Ragnar watched her go, then glanced at Eivor. She shrugged.
"They watch us differently now," Ragnar said quietly.
Eivor's jaw flexed. "Because now they wonder if we'll outlast them."
---
As dusk settled, Thane Viggo appeared at the edge of the yard, hands clasped behind his back. He didn't call them forward. He just watched—his gaze moving slowly across the trainees.
It lingered briefly on Ragnar. On Eivor. On Brynja. On Hakon.
When he spoke, his words were quiet, but every trainee stiffened.
"You are no longer new iron."
He let the silence stretch.
"Next," he said, "we see who can endure forging."
He left without elaboration.
Ragnar stood still for a long moment.
Eivor spoke first.
"Something is coming."
Ragnar nodded once.
And every instinct in him agreed.
The next week broke differently.
The air felt heavier as if the ground itself knew something had shifted. Instead of starting with stance drills, the trainees were ordered into a tight formation and marched into the woods east of the training grounds—far from the safety of the palisades.
Ragnar walked between Eivor and Hakon. Brynja strode a few paces behind them, casually tapping the haft of her practice axe against her palm. Eirik Sigvaldsson walked ahead, whispering something to another warrior-born trainee, who laughed quietly. Ragnar didn't need to hear the words; he could feel the sharpened malice pointed in his direction.
They reached a clearing ringed with trees like guards watching judgment unfold. No posts stood here. No sparring circles. Just rough earth, jagged rocks, and cold silence.
Thane Viggo Stormhand was waiting there.
A few older warriors stood behind him, arms crossed, observing like hunters watching animals being weighed before slaughter.
When the trainees formed a line, Viggo stepped forward.
"You have been broken," he said calmly. "Some of you have cracked. Some of you have hardened in ugly ways."
His gaze flicked briefly to Eirik, then to Brynja, then to Ragnar and Eivor.
"Now we see which of you can grow teeth rather than splinters."
He turned to Hrodric, who nodded and moved forward, slapping a barrel lid closed. "Form into groups of four," he announced. "Survive drills as a unit. Fail together, or succeed together. Those who drag their group down will be beaten by their own members before we have to bother."
A ripple of unease spread across the trainees.
Ragnar met Eivor's gaze. She gave a tiny nod.
Almost without a word, they stepped together, and two more bodies joined them in silent recognition:
Hakon, who stepped up without hesitation.
Brynja, who cracked her neck and muttered, "If I must suffer, I'd rather do it with fighters than crybabies."
Eirik watched the formation of Ragnar's group with narrowed eyes but did not speak.
Once all the groups were set, Hrodric barked: "Run."
They ran. Uphill. Through mud. Over rocks. Those who fell were dragged by their teammates or screamed at until they rose—or were left behind.
Brynja hauled Ragnar up once when his boot slipped in the muck. Ragnar grabbed Eivor's arm when her knee buckled after leaping a ditch. Hakon silently adjusted pace to stay even with them all.
By the fifth circuit, one group had already collapsed—two trainees lay on the ground gasping, their teammates cursing and kicking them in rage. Hrodric simply waved them off the field. "Denied."
Ragnar's lungs burned. His legs felt like lead. His heartbeat echoed Thane Viggo's words:
Grow teeth.
He forced himself forward.
Eivor was pale with exertion, but fire still lived in her eyes.
Brynja was growling with every breath like she was chewing through her own pain.
Hakon still said nothing—but his steady rhythm kept the group alive.
---
When they finished, their chests heaved, but they still stood.
"Form line again," Hrodric ordered.
Several groups had broken.
Ragnar's had not.
They weren't the fastest. Or the strongest.
But they were still standing.
Viggo's gaze lingered on them longer than the others.
He said nothing.
---
Drills continued — this time, unit sparring. Teams fought each other with wooden weapons until one group fell to its knees or broke formation.
Eirik's group won most rounds through practiced coordination.
Ragnar's group lost their first round to sheer speed but adapted. Brynja took charge, barking orders like a berserker-general. Hakon anchored the back. Eivor flanked with feral precision. Ragnar pushed through the center like a storm, absorbing blows so others could strike.
By the third round, they were in rhythm.
They began to win.
Not because they were clean or elegant.
But because they endured.
And because they fought like they had no other path forward.
---
By dusk, blood and sweat stained the dirt. Voices were hoarse. Half the groups had failed.
Ragnar, Eivor, Hakon, and Brynja stood bruised and battered—but upright.
Eirik spat on the ground in their direction as his group passed by, but said nothing else.
Thane Viggo studied all remaining trainees as silence swallowed the clearing.
Then, he finally spoke.
"You are still pups."
He let that insult hang.
"But some of you," he continued, eyes locking briefly onto Ragnar and Eivor, "have begun to learn how to bite."
He stepped back, voice cold as winter steel.
"Rest while you can. Soon, the Jarl will choose who sails. When that time comes… the sea will cull the weak more cleanly than we ever could."
He walked away.
The words didn't just threaten.
They promised.
---
As they limped back to camp, Ragnar glanced sideways at Eivor, Brynja, and Hakon walking beside him in silence.
None of them spoke.
But something had shifted.
They were no longer alone in the pit.
They were a pack in the making.