Chapter 6: Silver and Suspicions
The broken hairpin felt like it weighed ten pounds in my pocket as I walked back to Ragnar's farm. Every step reminded me of the choice I'd made—revealing my abilities to Earl Haraldson's wife in exchange for... what? An ally? A potential enemy with dangerous knowledge? I wouldn't know until Siggy decided what to do with what she'd witnessed.
The farm was quiet when I arrived, most of the household busy with the endless tasks that kept a Viking settlement functional. But as I passed the main hall, I heard the unmistakable sound of Bjorn practicing with his sword—the rhythmic thunk of blade against practice post, punctuated by muttered corrections and occasional frustrated grunts.
I found him behind the grain store, attacking a straw-wrapped post with the dedicated fury of a boy who'd been told he wasn't ready for real weapons. His current practice sword was obviously inadequate—too heavy for his frame, poorly balanced, with a grip that forced his hand into awkward positions.
"Problems?" I asked, settling onto a convenient log to watch his routine.
Bjorn stopped mid-swing, breathing hard and clearly annoyed with his equipment. "This sword is useless. Father says I'm not ready for a real blade, but how can I train properly with this?"
He gestured disgustedly at the practice weapon. Looking at it with my enhanced engineering knowledge, I could see exactly what was wrong. The blade was thick, crude iron that had been shaped without regard for weight distribution. The tang was too short, making the weapon handle-heavy. The crossguard was positioned incorrectly for effective technique.
"May I?" I held out my hand for the sword.
Bjorn handed it over eagerly. The moment I touched the metal, I could sense its construction flaws—stress points where the iron had been worked improperly, a carbon content that was wildly inconsistent throughout the blade, connections between components that relied more on hope than proper joinery.
"This wasn't made for training," I said finally. "This was made to be cheap."
"Can you fix it?"
The hope in his voice was painful to hear. Here was a twelve-year-old boy trying to follow in his legendary father's footsteps, held back by equipment that actively hindered his development.
"I can do better than fix it," I said, making a decision that would probably exhaust my powers for the day. "I can make you a proper training sword. One designed specifically for learning."
Bjorn's eyes lit up like I'd offered him a chest of gold. "Really? You can do that?"
"Give me a day or two. But first, let me see how you move."
For the next hour, I watched Bjorn run through his training routine while I mentally designed a weapon that would serve his needs. My engineering knowledge provided insights into biomechanics and leverage that no Viking-era weaponsmith could access. Combined with my ability to manifest detailed blueprints and manipulate metal at the molecular level, I could create something that would genuinely accelerate his training.
That evening, after the household had settled into their usual routines, I slipped out to the smithy with parchment and charcoal. The blueprint I manifested showed a training sword optimized for a young warrior's development—lighter than adult weapons but properly balanced, with a grip designed for growing hands and a blade that would teach proper technique without encouraging bad habits.
The next day, I began the actual construction. Working with Orm the Smith provided cover for my power usage, allowing me to pass off my metallic manipulation as unusually skilled craftsmanship. The training sword that emerged from our collaboration was a masterpiece of functional design—perfectly weighted, flawlessly balanced, with an edge that could take punishment without damage.
When I presented it to Bjorn, his reaction was everything I could have hoped for.
"It's perfect," he breathed, testing the weapon's balance with the instinctive movements of someone born to warfare. "It feels like... like it was made for me."
"It was," I told him, feeling a warmth in my chest that had nothing to do with the smithy's heat. "That's what good tools should do—fit the user so well they feel like extensions of your body."
Lagertha appeared in the smithy doorway, drawn by her son's excited voice. She watched him practice with the new sword for several minutes, her expression shifting from casual interest to genuine appreciation.
"This is remarkable work," she said finally, examining the weapon when Bjorn reluctantly handed it over. "I've seen master smiths produce inferior blades."
"The principles are simple," I deflected. "Good materials, proper technique, attention to the user's specific needs."
"Simple principles that most craftsmen never master." She returned the sword to her son, but her eyes remained on my face. "Bjorn needed someone who would take his dreams seriously without simply throwing him into danger. Thank you."
The gratitude in her voice hit harder than I'd expected. In my previous life, my engineering work had been about structures and systems, problems solved at a distance through calculations and blueprints. This was different. This was personal, immediate, touching the lives of people I was beginning to care about.
That emotional warmth lasted exactly until I discovered Lagertha in the main hall two days later, glaring at her weaving loom with the expression of a woman contemplating murder.
"Problems?" I asked, approaching cautiously.
"The heddle rod is broken," she said through gritted teeth. "Snapped clean through when Gyda was helping me yesterday. Orm says it can't be repaired—the metal is too thin, too delicate. A replacement will cost as much as the entire loom."
I examined the broken piece she held up. The heddle rod was indeed delicate work—a long, thin piece of iron with dozens of tiny loops that guided the warp threads during weaving. The break was clean but devastating, running through the rod's center in a way that had destroyed several of the crucial loops.
To any normal craftsman, this would be irreparable. The metal was too thin to forge-weld successfully, and the precision required to recreate the damaged loops was beyond Viking-era capabilities.
But I wasn't a normal craftsman.
"Let me see what eastern smithing can accomplish," I said, taking the broken pieces.
"Eastern smithing?" Lagertha's voice carried skepticism born of practical experience. "This isn't a spear point or sword blade. This requires delicacy, precision..."
"Sometimes delicacy is exactly what eastern techniques excel at."
I carried the heddle rod to the smithy, where I spent the next three hours in what looked like painstaking repair work but was actually careful application of my metallic manipulation abilities. The iron responded to my will like living clay, flowing back together seamlessly while I guided its molecular structure into optimal alignment.
But I didn't stop at mere repair. My engineering knowledge suggested improvements to the original design—better stress distribution, smoother bearing surfaces for the thread guides, subtle modifications that would make the loom more efficient.
When I returned the heddle rod to Lagertha, she stared at it like I'd just turned base metal into gold.
"It looks..." she began, then stopped, turning the piece over in her hands with wonder. "It looks better than new."
"Test it," I suggested. "See how it performs."
She installed the repaired heddle rod with careful precision, then began working the loom through a test pattern. The difference was immediately obvious—threads moved more smoothly, tension remained more consistent, the entire weaving process flowed with an efficiency that made her previous best work look clumsy.
"How?" she asked after several minutes of increasingly delighted experimentation. "How is this possible?"
"Sometimes broken things can be made stronger than they were originally," I said, watching her face light up with the joy of a craftsman discovering superior tools. "It just requires understanding what went wrong the first time."
Her laugh was pure delight, the sound of someone discovering that the world contained more possibilities than she'd realized. "This is extraordinary. I can weave faster than ever before, and the quality..."
She trailed off, studying the emerging fabric with professional assessment. Then she looked up at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"The other women are going to want to see this," she said finally. "Word will spread. You realize that?"
I hadn't realized, but I should have. In a community where everyone knew everyone else's business, a dramatic improvement to something as fundamental as weaving equipment wouldn't stay secret long.
Sure enough, by the next market day, I found myself the center of uncomfortable attention. Women approached me with broken tools and damaged equipment, asking if the "eastern stranger" might examine their problems. Men pointed me out to visiting traders, whispering about the foreign builder who "made metal obey."
The reputation that was building around me felt like a double-edged sword. On one hand, it established my value to the community, making me someone worth protecting rather than simply tolerating. On the other hand, it marked me as unusual in ways that might attract exactly the kind of attention I was trying to avoid.
Standing in Kattegat's small market, listening to whispered conversations about my abilities, I felt the weight of unwanted fame settling around me like a net.
"How long before 'unusual' becomes 'dangerous'?" I wondered, watching a group of visiting warriors study me with calculating interest. "How long before someone decides that 'foreign builder who makes metal obey' sounds too much like 'sorcerer who threatens the natural order'?"
The answer came sooner than I'd hoped. As I was examining a farmer's broken plow share—a straightforward repair that would require minimal power usage—a voice spoke from directly behind me.
"The eastern stranger draws quite an audience."
I turned to find a young woman watching me with intelligent green eyes and an amused smile. She was perhaps eighteen, with the kind of confident bearing that suggested noble birth, but her clothes were practical rather than ostentatious. A warrior, I realized, noting the way she carried herself and the sword at her hip.
"Word travels fast in small communities," I replied carefully.
"Especially word about men who can fix what others cannot." Her smile widened, but her eyes remained evaluative. "I am Thyri, daughter of Harald of Vestfold. And I find myself curious about these eastern techniques everyone whispers about."
The introduction made my blood run cold. I didn't recognize the name Harald of Vestfold, but the formal way she'd announced herself suggested political importance I wasn't equipped to handle.
"I'm honored by your curiosity," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Though I fear the stories grow in the telling."
"Perhaps." She moved closer, lowering her voice to conversational level. "But the results speak for themselves. Broken things made whole, improvements that surpass original craftsmanship, innovations that change how work gets done."
She paused, studying my face with uncomfortable intensity.
"Tell me, eastern stranger—do such abilities run in families? Are they taught, or are they... gifts?"
The question hit like a physical blow. This wasn't casual curiosity—this was a probing question from someone who understood the difference between learned skills and inherent capabilities.
"Knowledge and skill both require dedication," I said carefully. "Some learn faster than others, but anyone can improve with proper instruction."
"Anyone." She nodded slowly, but her expression suggested she wasn't entirely convinced. "How fortunate for Ragnar, to have acquired such a... dedicated... teacher."
Before I could respond, she turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the market with the uncomfortable certainty that I'd just attracted exactly the kind of attention I'd been trying to avoid.
As I watched her disappear into the crowd, one thought echoed through my mind: my reputation was spreading beyond Kattegat, reaching people with resources and motivations I couldn't predict or control.
The question was whether that fame would open doors or dig my grave.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
Can't wait for the next chapter of [ Arrowverse: The Survivor's ]?
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them (20+ chapters ahead!). No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1