The longhouse was warm despite the storm raging outside.
Kaelan sat at the high table, a place of honor usually reserved for the chieftain and his family, and tried not to feel overwhelmed. The villagers—the Raven Clan, he had learned—packed the hall shoulder to shoulder, their faces flushed with mead and excitement. Children peeked around their mothers' skirts, staring at him with wide, wondering eyes. The warriors who had formed that pitiful shield wall now looked at him with something close to worship.
He understood. In a world this harsh, this dangerous, a warrior who could slay five trolls in as many minutes was not just a man. He was a sign. A blessing. A weapon sent by the gods.
Or a god himself, if they squinted hard enough.
The chieftain, an aging warrior named Bjorn Iron-Hand (so named because he had lost his right hand to frostbite and replaced it with an iron hook wrapped in leather), sat beside him. A horn of mead was pressed into Kaelan's hand for the fourth time, and he drank deeply, letting the sweet, fermented honey wash away the last adrenaline of battle.
"Tell me again," Bjorn said, his voice thick with drink and wonder. "Tell me how you killed the last one. The one that tried to run."
Kaelan shrugged, a gesture that made his white tattoos ripple in the firelight. "I jumped on its back and put my axe in its neck. There's not much more to tell."
Bjorn laughed, a booming sound that drew cheers from the crowd. "Modest! He is modest! Thirty summers I have led this clan, and I have never seen a man fight like that. Never." He leaned closer, his eyes sharp despite the mead. "Where did you come from, Kaelan Ragnar? What tribe birthed a warrior who wears the storm on his skin?"
Kaelan had prepared for this question during the walk to the village. He could hardly say I'm from the 21st century, and a cosmic being gave me powers.
"I come from the east," he said, which was true enough. "Beyond the great forests, beyond the mountains. My tribe was destroyed when I was young. I have wandered since."
It was a classic hero's backstory. Vague enough to be mysterious, tragic enough to earn sympathy. Bjorn nodded sagely.
"The east is a hard land. Full of spirits and monsters." He gestured at Kaelan's tattoos. "These marks. They are not paint. They are... part of you."
Kaelan looked down at his arm. The white patterns seemed to shift in the firelight, almost alive. "They are the marks of my power. The wolf. The storm. The ice."
A hush fell over the nearby villagers who overheard. Bjorn's eyes widened.
"You are skiðblaðnir," he whispered. "God-touched."
Kaelan filed the word away. Skiðblaðnir. Old Norse, or a proto-version of it. It meant something like "those who are blessed by the divine." In this world, in this time, that was a dangerous thing to be. Dangerous and useful.
"I am what I am," Kaelan said. "I did not ask for it. I simply... am."
Bjorn nodded slowly. Then he did something unexpected. He slid off his bench and knelt before Kaelan, his iron hand pressing against his chest in salute.
The entire hall went silent.
"Bjorn," Kaelan said, frowning. "What are you doing?"
"I am an old man," Bjorn said, his voice loud in the quiet. "I have led this clan for thirty years. I have buried two wives and three children. I have fought trolls, warbands, and the cold itself. But I am tired, Kaelan Ragnar. And my son..." He gestured to a young man in the crowd, barely twenty, with the same weathered face but softer eyes. "My son, Leif, is a good boy. Kind. Clever with numbers. But he is not a warrior. When I die, the Raven Clan will be eaten by our enemies."
Kaelan said nothing. He had a feeling he knew where this was going.
"So I ask you," Bjorn continued, his voice breaking slightly. "Not as a chieftain to a stranger, but as an old man to a warrior. Stay with us. Lead us. Take my son as your brother, my people as your people. Be the shield we lack."
The hall held its breath.
Kaelan looked out at the faces staring at him. He saw fear, yes, but also hope. These people were not warriors by choice—they were farmers, herders, craftsmen who happened to live in a world where monsters were real. They needed protection. They needed someone who could stand against the dark.
And Kaelan needed a foundation. A place to start. A kingdom, the R.O.B had said. Not as a mission, but as a goal. He could wander for years, decades, surviving alone. Or he could build something.
He looked at Bjorn, still kneeling.
"Get up," Kaelan said. "I'm not your chief. Not yet."
Bjorn's face fell, but Kaelan continued.
"I will stay through the winter. I will teach your warriors to fight. I will hunt the monsters that threaten your lands. And in the spring, we will talk again. If your people still want me, and if I still want to stay... then we will discuss what comes next."
It was not a commitment. Not really. But Bjorn's face lit up like a sunrise.
"YES!" he roared, surging to his feet. "Did you hear that?! The Wolf stays! The Storm Son stays! DRINK, YOU MISERABLE WRETCHES! WE FEAST!"
The hall erupted. Horns were raised, songs were bellowed off-key, and Kaelan found himself pulled into the chaos. A young woman pressed another horn of mead into his hand. A child tugged at his wolf-fur coat, asking if he could turn into a real wolf. An old woman kissed his cheek and called him a gift from Odin.
Through it all, Kaelan smiled. It was a strange feeling, after so long alone in his previous life. He had been a martial artist, yes, but that was a solitary path. Hours of training, of perfecting forms, of pushing his body to its limits. He had friends, acquaintances, but nothing like this. Nothing like a tribe.
Later, when the fire burned low and most of the villagers had stumbled off to their beds, Kaelan found himself outside the longhouse, staring up at the stars. The storm had passed, leaving a sky so clear it hurt to look at. The aurora borealis danced in green and purple ribbons, painting the snow in ghostly light.
Footsteps crunched behind him. He didn't turn.
"You fight like you've been doing it for a hundred years," a voice said. A woman's voice. Low, with a hint of amusement.
Kaelan glanced back. She stood a few paces away, wrapped in a wool cloak, her hair the color of winter wheat. She was young—maybe twenty—with sharp blue eyes and a face that was beautiful in the way of a hunting knife: elegant, but clearly dangerous.
"And you move like you've been hunting for just as long," Kaelan replied. "I didn't hear you approach."
She smiled, and it transformed her face. "I'm Sigrid. Bjorn's daughter."
Kaelan turned fully. Bjorn had mentioned a son, Leif, but not a daughter. "His daughter. You don't look like a warrior."
Sigrid laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Because I'm a woman? I thought the Storm Son would know better."
"Because you're too young," Kaelan said, and watched her eyes narrow. "And because you're too light on your feet. A warrior trained in the shield wall fights heavy. You fight like a hunter. A tracker. Someone who moves alone."
The suspicion in her eyes faded, replaced by surprise. Then respect.
"Most men don't notice the difference," she admitted. "They see a woman with a knife and think 'easy prey.' They don't live long."
"I imagine not."
She stepped closer, close enough that he could see the faint scars on her hands, the way she held herself slightly sideways—ready to move, ready to strike. "My father wants you to lead. My brother wants you to be his friend. Me?" She tilted her head. "I want to know if you're real."
Kaelan raised an eyebrow. "You watched me kill five trolls. How much realer do you need?"
"Trolls can be killed by anyone with enough courage and a sharp axe. You killed them like they were children. Like you've been doing it your whole life. But my father says you're young. Younger than me, maybe." She studied his face, his tattoos, his eyes. "So I ask again. Are you real? Or are you something else wearing a man's skin?"
It was a sharp question. A dangerous question. In this world, shapeshifters and spirits were as real as trolls. Kaelan could have been offended. Instead, he felt a flicker of respect.
"I am real," he said. "I am a man. But I am also something more. I was... given a gift. A curse, maybe. I don't fully understand it myself."
Sigrid nodded slowly. "A curse. Like the wolf that lives inside you?"
Kaelan blinked. "How did you—"
"I saw it. When you killed the last troll. For just a moment, your eyes changed. Yellow. Like a wolf's." She shivered, but not from fear. "I've heard stories of berserkers. Men who take on the strength of beasts in battle. But you're different. You're not just borrowing the wolf's strength. You are the wolf."
Kaelan was silent for a long moment. Then he smiled, that reckless grin from the battle.
"You see more than most, Sigrid, daughter of Bjorn."
"I have to. In this world, the ones who don't see... die." She met his gaze, and there was something in her eyes he couldn't quite read. Challenge, maybe. Or curiosity. "My father wants you to stay. My brother wants to be your friend. Me? I want to see what you become."
She turned and walked back toward the longhouse, her footsteps silent on the snow. At the door, she paused.
"Oh, and Kaelan? The trolls you killed? They came from the north. From the Jotunwood. That's where the real monsters live. If you're going to be our shield, you'll have to go there eventually." She smiled, sharp and dangerous. "I look forward to watching."
Then she was gone, leaving Kaelan alone with the aurora and the cold.
He looked north, toward the dark line of trees visible even in the starlight. The Jotunwood. Land of the frost giants' spawn.
3000 years, he thought again. And it starts here.
He gripped the Leviathan Axe, felt its cold pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat, and smiled.
Good.
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