We walked for some time before stopping in front of a bench where a woman sat in silence. The moment she and John locked eyes, she rose to her feet and strode toward me.
One look, and I knew she was from the North—my homeland. Her blonde hair framed a face hardened by years of battle, her blue eyes sharp and unwavering. She was nearly my height, her body muscled and strong, and though age had begun to mark her, it did little to diminish the presence she carried. A seax rested at her belt.
"Freydis," John said, nodding toward her. "This is the man who saved your child from that village."
The woman gave me a firm nod. "Nice to meet you, drengr. It is an honor. What is your name?"
"Valrik. You're not from here," I replied. "Yet you don't conceal yourself as I do."
"I once had a reason to," she said, offering a faint smile. "But that's no longer necessary. I'm no longer with my clan anymore. Now, I am merely a trader… a wealthy one, at that."
"Oh?" I said. "And why were you cast out?"
She exhaled, her expression darkening. "Not cast out. A month ago, Ragnar sought help from my clan. We had just returned from plundering a monastery—our men were exhausted, some wounded, some dead. But Ragnar had no patience for weakness. One night, he and his men came and… slaughtered us."
"What?" I muttered.
"He took most of my men prisoner—my husband among them." Her jaw clenched. "Honorless dog."
"Yes," I muttered. "I was exiled because of Ragnar. Seems his name is on many lips these days."
Her gaze sharpened. "You have no clan?"
I shook my head.
"What will you do?" she asked.
"Die with an axe in my hand," I said simply. "I seek Valhalla, skjaldmö. I have no desire to remain in this world. Odin awaits me, for Skuld stopped weaving my fate long ago."
"Jesus Christ, that's depressing," John muttered. "You can't just give up, heathen."
"I'm not giving up, priest," I replied. "If I were, I would have already slit my throat with my own axe."
Freydis studied me for a long moment. "You seek Valhalla… then would you fight for me? Help me reclaim what was taken? Reclaim the honor I lost?"
I exhaled sharply. "I have no interest in drama. I've had enough of it for one lifetime." I shook my head. "No. I'm here to collect my reward and leave. My axe needs repairs—the hilt is cracked. I need silver."
John sighed. "You need God in your life, boy. Pray with me tonight. Ask Him for forgiveness."
I scoffed. "I'd rather take my reward and be on my way." I met his gaze. "I have no time, priest."
Freydis leaned back on the bench, arms crossed, eyes shut. When she opened them again, she gave a slow nod, as if she understood me. Yet behind that understanding, I still saw sadness.
If I were still part of my people, I might have agreed to assist her—perhaps even help rebuild her clan and form an alliance. But now… I was alone. I had no need for such things.
She unsheathed her axe and rested it on her lap, running her fingers over the worn handle. Her gaze lingered on the weapon, lost in whatever memories it held—joy, rage, exhilaration. That axe had likely seen as many battles as she had.
"I know a blacksmith," she said after a moment, gesturing toward the street ahead. "Go straight, take a right, and walk a bit. You'll see his forge on the left. If you tell him I sent you, he'll repair your axes for free."
"Thank you," I said. "I'll do just that. Take care."
"If you change your mind…" She met my eyes. "I'll be here, drengr."
I gave a small nod and turned away, following the path she had pointed out.
The streets were quiet, most folk retreating into their homes for the night. But whispers still carried through the alleys—talk of the attack on the village. By the sound of it, my intervention wasn't part of the rumors. Good. The last thing I needed was unwanted attention.
I turned the corner and spotted the blacksmith Freydis had mentioned.
The forge stood near the end of the street, a squat, sturdy structure built from stone and timber. Thick wooden beams framed the entrance, while a slanted roof extended outward to shield the front from rain. Sparks danced from the open-air workspace, where a burly man hammered away at a glowing piece of metal atop an anvil. A bellows wheezed beside the forge, feeding the flames, and the scent of hot iron filled the air. Tools—hammers, tongs, chisels—hung in neat rows on the walls, and racks of swords, knives, and axe heads lined the interior. A water trough sat nearby, steaming from the weapons recently quenched.
As I approached, I drew both axes from my belt, their worn hilts rough against my palms. The movement caught the attention of a few passersby. Axes were the preferred weapons of my kind—no wonder they grew wary at the sight of me. Some quickened their pace, others crossed the street altogether.
"Time to get you both repaired," I muttered. "For free, at that. The gods favor me today, it seems."
"Hello, Norseman," the blacksmith greeted me, wiping the sweat from his brow. "What brings you to my forge today?"
"My axes," I said, placing them on the counter. "They're in dire need of repair."
"Ah," he murmured, running his fingers over the worn hilts. "Yes, they've seen better days."
"Freydis sent me. Said you could fix them for free."
"Huh. Alright, then…" He set his hammer on a barrel and picked up my weapons, inspecting the metal. "Good craftsmanship. Sturdy."
"You knew I was a Norseman the moment you saw me," I noted. "Yet you didn't flinch like the others. Are you used to dealing with my kind?"
"I am your kind," he said with a chuckle. "Or was. My clan is no more."
"Were you one of Freydis' people, drengr?"
He nodded. "Aye. Most of my brothers and sisters were taken by Ragnar. And for what? Because we couldn't answer his call for another raid? Nonsense."
"Ragnar is not an easy man to understand," I admitted. "Only the gods know what goes on in his head."
"Heh." A shadow passed over his face. "Either way—I'll repair these for you. Come back tomorrow."
"Valrik," I said, giving him my name.
"Nitton." He gestured toward himself. "Come by at dawn, Valrik. Your axes will be good as new."
"Thank you," I said. "Farewell, Nitton."
I retraced my steps back to the city gates. Once outside, far enough to avoid prying eyes, I uncloaked myself and took a final glance at York before heading toward the cave where I'd spend the night.
Seeing me, Mielda stepped closer, resting her head against my shoulder. I ran a hand along her neck, exhaling deeply as I drifted into thought. The longer I stood there, the heavier the weight of reality pressed down on me. Sensing my unease, Mielda shifted restlessly, lifting her legs one after the other as if trying to pull me back to the present.
Shaking my head, I gathered my senses, climbed up to the cave entrance, and slipped inside.
"Sleep, drengr," I muttered to myself. "And start a new day..."
As expected, sleep came easily—but it did not come alone. Nightmares followed.
A memory. An old one.
My mother and my father kissed their drinking horns before raising them to their lips. My father, of course, drank first, slamming a fist against his chest with a victorious grin. He always claimed he could outdrink Thor himself, and I believed it. I had seen him down five horns of ale without pause, not even stopping to take a breath.
"I win again!" he roared.
My mother pressed a hand to her stomach, groaning. "Ugh... you animal. Yes, you won."
"Do you hear that, Val?" my father said, turning to me with a wide grin. "I always win."
"Yes, you always do!" I replied, laughing.
But then—everything faded into darkness.
A vast, empty void swallowed the scene. My mother remained seated on the ground, my father leaning against something that was not there, his drinking horn still clutched in his hand.
Time stood still.
The ale my mother had just dropped hung in the air, frozen mid-fall, some of it touching the ground but refusing to splash. And, from within the void, something roared.
A sound both powerful and terrifying.
I looked down and saw my own reflection—little Valrik. I was young again, my hair short, a bow slung across my back.
"One eye richer in wisdom, though he had lost his sight in one," a voice murmured from nowhere and everywhere at once. "And now, he ascended."
I blinked. The scene shifted.
A pit stretched before me—so deep I could not see where it led. Though, something moved within it.
Something, or somethings. Angry. Hungry.
I looked down again. My reflection had changed. It was me again. Clanless. Honorless. Lost. In my hand, I held the broken shaft of a spear. And in my chest—a blade. Yet despite my wound, I felt at peace. As though, for the first time in my life, I had won something. As though I mattered.
"To the end I cling, though the fall from grace may be my cost," I muttered. "I refuse my fate."
Yet again, I blinked, and the scene shifted. I stood before a wolf, my axe slick with its blood.
Breath ragged, heart pounding, I raised my weapon and drove it down again. Once. Twice. Thrice.
I struck without mercy, as if the beast had stolen something from me—something I could never reclaim. Still, I did not stop. Even as its entrails spilled onto the earth, even as its body convulsed beneath my blows, I kept going.
But the wolf was still alive. Its crimson eyes burned into mine, filled not with pain, but defiance.
"Die, die, die!"
I planted my boot against its shattered lower jaw and pushed. A final, sickening snap followed, and the wolf collapsed beneath me.
It was dead. Finally.
Then, I woke.
My breath came in shallow, desperate bursts as I assumed a sitting position, my hand covering my right eye, sweat dripping to the ground from my forehead.
Another day. Another nightmare.
"This cave..." I muttered, running a hand down my face. "Cursed with troll magic."
Or maybe... the weight of everything was simply starting to break me.