The silence after the challenge did not break all at once.
It stretched.
It pulled thin across the longhouse like a hide drawn too tight, every breath and shifting footstep threatening to tear it open. Anders Skjold stood where he was, antlers already set aside, blood long dried on his hands, his posture loose but grounded.
He did not look at the boy right away.
Instead, he listened.
Not to words—there were none—but to the shape of the moment. To the crowd tightening subtly, to the way pride curdled into expectation. He felt the familiar, quiet heat in his chest: not anger, not fear, but something colder and more precise.
Arrogance without weight.
It was one thing Anders could not abide.
He turned then and looked fully at the challenger.
The boy was tall for his age, broad-shouldered, already thick with the promise of strength. His grip on his wooden sword was tight, knuckles pale, shield held high and close to his chest. His jaw was set, eyes sharp with the certainty of someone who had never been properly checked.
Anders exhaled slowly.
"I accept," he said.
No flourish. No challenge in his voice. Just fact.
A ripple moved through the gathered clans—Shatter-Shield and Broken-Spear alike. Some murmured approval. Others exchanged uneasy glances. Orik's expression remained unreadable, though his eyes sharpened with interest. Freydis leaned forward slightly, intent and unblinking.
The elders moved quickly then, stepping into the space to lay down terms before the moment could tip toward chaos.
"Wood only," one said.
"Shields required," another added.
"No blows meant to maim," a third finished.
This was to be a spar, not a settling of blood.
Anders nodded once.
The boy nodded too—but his nod was sharper, more forceful, as if daring the world to contradict him.
Weapons were brought out—practice swords, worn smooth by years of use, shields scarred with old marks. Anders reached for one automatically—
—and Erik's hand closed around his wrist.
Not hard. Not commanding.
Just enough to stop him.
"Wait," Erik said quietly.
The crowd stilled again.
Erik stepped away and returned moments later carrying a different weapon. It was longer, thicker through the spine, its surface darker where the wood grain ran tight and dense. Oak.
Heavy oak.
Erik placed it into Anders' hands without ceremony.
"This one," he said.
The weight settled immediately. The balance was different—slower to start, slower to stop. A weapon that punished recklessness and rewarded control.
Anders understood at once.
He swung hard. Erik knew that. Knew his son's strength would shatter a lighter blade or tear it free too early, turning restraint into accident. This sword was not advantage.
It was containment.
Anders closed his fingers around the grip and inclined his head.
"Thank you," he said.
The boy saw the exchange and flushed.
"Why does he get a heavier sword?" he snapped. "Is he afraid to fight fair?"
A murmur followed.
Erik turned his gaze on the boy—not angry, not cold, but level.
"He swings harder than you," Erik said simply. "This keeps you safe."
The words landed harder than a slap.
The boy's pride flared visibly, burning away caution. He lifted his shield higher, posture stiffening as if he could will himself larger.
"Then let's begin," he said.
The elders stepped back.
A circle formed, boots scuffing earth, shields and bodies creating a boundary that felt suddenly intimate and dangerous. Breath fogged the air. The smell of wood, sweat, and old blood lingered.
Anders stepped into the ring.
He took the shield offered to him, testing its weight once, adjusting the strap so it sat comfortably along his forearm. The oak sword rested easily in his right hand, its mass familiar in a way that felt almost reassuring.
The system said nothing.
No pressure. No instruction. No glowing demand.
This was not about progression.
This was about choice.
The boys raised their shields.
They began to circle.
The older boy moved first—wide steps, shoulders squared, sword lifted high and ready to strike. His shield angled aggressively, meant to dominate space and force Anders back.
Anders moved slower.
Deliberate.
His steps were small, efficient, feet gliding rather than stomping. His shield stayed close to his centerline, sword held low, unthreatening.
The contrast was immediate.
"Fight!" someone hissed under their breath.
The boy lunged.
His sword came down in a heavy arc meant to end the match quickly—overhand, powerful, confident.
Anders stepped inside the swing.
The oak sword rose just enough to catch the blow, the impact echoing sharply as wood met wood. Anders' shield followed a heartbeat later, slamming into the boy's arm and knocking the strike off line.
The boy stumbled back, surprised more than hurt.
The crowd inhaled as one.
The boy snarled and came again, swinging faster now, anger bleeding into his movements. Anders retreated half a step, shield absorbing the next strike, then another. He did not counter.
He waited.
Each blow came harder than the last, strength driving the boy forward, forcing him to overextend. His breathing grew loud. His footwork sloppy.
Anders watched it all.
When the opening came, he did not strike the head. Did not aim for the legs. He stepped to the side and tapped the boy's shield edge with the flat of the oak blade—sharp, controlled.
The boy's shield spun.
A gasp rippled through the circle.
The boy recovered quickly, face red, pride wounded deeper than flesh. He roared and charged, abandoning form entirely.
This time, Anders moved.
He slipped past the shield rush, hooked the edge of the boy's shield with his own, and used the oak sword not to strike—but to push. The added weight turned leverage into inevitability.
The boy went down hard, breath knocked from his chest.
Silence crashed down around them.
Anders stepped back immediately, shield lowering, sword angled away.
"Yield," he said calmly.
The boy lay there, chest heaving, eyes wide—not from pain, but from disbelief.
He scrambled to his feet, fury overriding sense. He swung wildly, catching Anders' shield with a hollow crack that sent vibrations up both their arms.
Anders grimaced—not in pain, but disappointment.
Enough.
He stepped forward into the boy's space, shield first, driving him back. The oak sword moved then—not fast, not cruel—but precise. A sharp strike to the boy's wrist sent his weapon flying. A second tap to the knee forced him down.
Anders stopped.
The boy stayed there this time, panting, staring up at Anders with something new in his eyes.
Fear.
Not of injury.
Of being seen.
"Enough," Anders said again. "This isn't helping you."
The boy looked away.
The elders stepped in, ending the match before pride could drag it further.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Orik let out a slow breath.
"That," he said quietly, "was restraint."
Freydis exhaled, realizing she had been holding her breath.
Erik met Anders' eyes across the circle. No nod. No praise.
Just understanding.
The system remained silent.
It had seen what it needed to see.
And the crowd, slowly dispersing, carried with them a truth harder to ignore than strength:
Power, when measured, becomes authority.
And Anders Skjold had just taken his first step into that space—not by winning, but by choosing how to win.