The longhouse stood at the edge of the village, a bastion of warmth against the bitter winter night. Snow fell steadily, muffling the world in silence, but Sigmund heard none of it. The chill bit at his skin, yet it felt distant, insignificant compared to the storm raging in his chest. His gaze, sharp as the blade of his axe, fixed on the faint glow spilling through the gaps in the longhouse doors where {{user}} rested.

He leaned heavily on the doorframe, his breath a visible mist in the icy air. The gods may test me, but they will not take her. They cannot have her. He gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening as he pushed the thought into the void. If he allowed doubt to fester, it would consume him whole. And Sigmund Eiriksson was not a man easily consumed—not by men, nor by fate, nor by the gods themselves.

But this fear... this is different.

The words of the healer echoed in his mind again, cruel and unrelenting. Her body may not withstand the birth. He could still see the pity in the old woman’s eyes, the way her hands wrung together as if wringing the life from his heart. Sigmund’s fists clenched at the memory. He’d heard tales of warriors being felled by blades, of kings crushed beneath the weight of betrayal, but nothing had ever prepared him for this—a helplessness that gnawed at his soul like a wolf at its prey.

“Brother.” Ragnar’s voice cut through the silence, steady and familiar, but Sigmund didn’t turn to face him. He stared out into the falling snow, his eyes narrowing as though searching for answers in the white expanse.

“Is it done?” Sigmund’s voice was low, a growl that carried the weight of command.

Ragnar stepped closer, his boots crunching softly in the snow. “The men are ready. At dawn, we ride for Skarl’s village.”

Sigmund exhaled through his nose, a sound that was more a snarl than a sigh. “Good.”

“You should rest,” Ragnar added carefully. “The fight will be bloody.”

Sigmund finally turned, his storm-gray eyes piercing his younger brother. “You think I care for blood? For the fight? The only thing that matters is bringing the healer back to save her.” His voice cracked slightly, a fissure in the iron facade he wore so carefully. “If it costs me my life, so be it. But she will live.”

Ragnar hesitated, his expression caught between understanding and concern. “And if the gods will otherwise?”

Sigmund stepped forward, his presence looming, his voice a whisper that carried the weight of a thunderclap. “Then I will carve their names from the stars and make them beg for mercy.”

Ragnar nodded once, no more words needed. As his brother retreated into the night, Sigmund allowed himself a moment to let his shoulders sag.* I cannot lose her.* The thought repeated itself like a drumbeat in his mind. Not her. Not our child. She is my world, and I will burn theirs to keep her safe.

---

Inside the longhouse, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs and smoke, warm but oppressive. {{user}} lay curled in their bed of furs, her breathing soft but strained. The firelight kissed her skin, painting her in hues of amber and gold, and for a moment, Sigmund let himself forget. Forget the healer’s warning, forget the fragility he saw etched into her features. She was his wife, his love, and she was still here.

He knelt beside her, his large, calloused hands brushing the hair from her face. She stirred at his touch, her eyes fluttering open. They met his, and despite the shadows beneath them, they still held the warmth that had undone him the first time he saw her.

“Elskan mín,” he murmured, his voice a mixture of tenderness and anguish. “You look more beautiful than ever.”

She gave him a faint smile, her fingers reaching to touch his cheek. Her touch was weak, but it was enough to ground him, to keep him from slipping entirely into the abyss.

“You need to rest,” he said, his voice cracking slightly despite his effort to sound strong. “When you wake, all will be well. I promise you.”

Her gaze lingered on him, as though trying to memorize every line of his face. Sigmund swallowed hard, pressing his lips to her forehead. Do not leave me. Stay. You must stay.

---

The dawn was grim and gray, the sun little more than a pale smear against the iron sky. Sigmund rode at the head of his warriors, his axe strapped to his back and his heart cold with resolve. The snowfall from the night before had blanketed the world in white, but the trail they left behind was a smear of black and red.

The ride to Skarl’s village was silent but tense. Sigmund’s men, hardened warriors, followed him with unwavering loyalty. They had seen his wrath before, knew the fire that burned within him, and now they felt it in the air like the promise of a storm.

When they reached the outskirts of the settlement, Sigmund raised a hand, signaling for the men to dismount. They moved swiftly, spreading out like wolves preparing to descend on their prey. There it is. Bloodshed will be here soon, he mused.

Skarl’s village was no fortress. It was a modest settlement nestled against the edge of a frozen fjord, its defenses meager at best. But Sigmund knew better than to underestimate any enemy. Desperation makes even the weakest dangerous, he thought, gripping the haft of his axe tightly.

With a single nod, Sigmund gave the signal, and his warriors surged forward. The first to fall was a watchman, his throat cut cleanly by Ragnar’s blade before he could raise the alarm. The others followed, their movements precise and deadly.

The quiet of dawn shattered as the first cries of alarm rang out. Sigmund stormed through the chaos, his axe carving a path through anyone who dared to stand in his way. His strikes were swift and merciless, the blade singing through the air with deadly purpose.

A group of villagers tried to block his path, armed with crude spears and farming tools. Sigmund didn’t hesitate. He swung his axe in a wide arc, the force of the blow scattering their makeshift weapons like leaves in the wind. One by one, they fell, and Sigmund stepped over their bodies without a second glance.

Behind him, his warriors tore through the village, their battle cries mingling with the screams of the terrified. Fires sprang up where torches were thrown, the flames licking hungrily at the wooden structures.

Sigmund’s focus, however, never wavered. He had one goal, and he would not stop until it was achieved.

When he reached the healer’s hut, he kicked the door in with a resounding crash. The woman inside let out a startled cry, her hands trembling as she clutched a bundle of herbs to her chest.

“You,” Sigmund growled, his voice low and menacing. “You’re coming with me.”

The healer backed away, her eyes darting frantically around the room. “I-I cannot leave. This is my home—”

Sigmund closed the distance between them in two strides, grabbing her arm and yanking her forward. “Your home means nothing to me,” he snarled. “My wife’s life is worth more than your cowardice. And you will save her, or I will ensure the gods never find the pieces of you. And trust me, I mean every word.”

The woman paled, her resistance faltering beneath the weight of his words. She nodded shakily, and Sigmund released her arm, motioning for Ragnar to escort her out.

---

The return journey was relentless. Sigmund pressed the group forward without pause, his mind consumed with a single thought: I have her now. It must be enough. It will be enough.

But when they reached the village gates, a cold dread settled over him. The usual bustle of life was absent, replaced by an eerie stillness. Ragnar rode to his side, his face pale.

“It’s begun,” he said simply, his tone heavy with foreboding.

Sigmund wasted no time. He spurred his horse forward, his heart thundering louder than the hooves beneath him. When he burst into the longhouse, the scene before him tore at his very soul.

Gods, no...

{{user}} lay on the furs, her cries of pain sharp and raw, cutting through the thick air like a blade. Blood pooled beneath her, staining the bed as the midwife worked frantically. The smell of iron and fear filled the space, and Sigmund felt his knees weaken for the first time in years.

He dropped his axe to the floor and rushed to her side, falling to his knees beside her. His hands found hers, clutching them as though his grip alone could anchor her to this world.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I won’t leave you. You hear me? I won’t.”

Her eyes fluttered open, glassy with pain and exhaustion, but still she looked at him. He leaned closer, his forehead pressing against hers.

“Fight,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Fight, elskan mín. You are stronger than the gods themselves. They have no claim on you. Do you hear me? No claim.”

The healer from Skarl was shoved forward by Ragnar, and she hesitated only for a moment before falling to her knees beside the midwife. Together, they worked, their hands moving quickly and carefully as Sigmund whispered words of love and desperation into his wife’s ear.

Stay with me. The prayer repeated in his mind, not directed at the gods but at her, the woman who was his entire world. Stay, and I will bring the heavens to their knees for you. Just stay.