The sound of splintering wood ended the spar.
It was not loud—not at first. It began as a sharp crack, a sudden protest, followed by a deeper, final tearing sound as Gunnar's shield gave way beneath the weight of the oak blade. The fragments flew outward, pieces tumbling across the packed earth like broken teeth.
Silence followed.
Not the expectant hush of spectators awaiting the next strike—but the kind that came when everyone understood that something irreversible had just occurred.
Gunnar stood frozen, half-raised sword in his hand, shield gone. His arm hung strangely where the weight had vanished. His mouth was open, but no sound came out. Shock had robbed him of words before pain or anger could reclaim them.
Anders had already stepped back.
The oak training sword lowered. His shield angled away. His posture relaxed—not careless, but controlled, deliberate. He did not press the advantage. He did not advance.
The elders moved instantly.
"That is enough," one of them barked, voice sharp with authority.
Another stepped between the boys, palms raised. "The spar is ended."
Anders inclined his head at once and took another step back, creating distance without protest. The system did not speak. It did not need to.
Gunnar finally blinked.
The shock broke.
Rage rushed in to fill the space it left.
He looked at the shattered remains of his shield on the ground. At the older boys who stared at him now with something dangerously close to pity. At Freydis, whose eyes were no longer impressed, but thoughtful—measuring him in a way that felt far worse.
His hands curled into fists.
"This isn't finished," he spat, though his voice shook.
No one answered him.
The elders spoke briefly with Erik and Orik, voices low and tense. The circle began to loosen. People stepped back, murmurs rising cautiously as the immediacy of the fight faded.
Gunnar remained where he was, breathing hard, eyes never leaving Anders.
Anders did not look back.
He was already turning away, oak sword being handed back, shield loosened from his arm. The match was over. The lesson—he thought—was finished.
He was wrong.
Gunnar's humiliation festered.
It curdled.
As the crowd dispersed, Gunnar lingered at the edge of the longhouse, heart pounding, vision narrowing. Every laugh sounded like mockery. Every glance felt like judgment. The image of the shattered shield replayed again and again in his mind, overlaid with the unbearable certainty that a child—a child—had done it.
And worse still: that everyone had seen.
He felt something cold slide into his palm.
The boot blade.
Small. Concealed. A weapon meant for last moments and dirty work. It had never been intended for a spar. It was not honorable.
But honor had already been taken from him.
He watched Anders move away, relaxed now, attention elsewhere. He convinced himself this was fairness—that the spar had not truly ended, that Anders had only been protected by elders stepping in too soon.
He stepped forward.
Fast.
The blade flashed up from below, aimed for the space beneath the ribs where armor did not protect.
Anders turned.
Not fully.
Just enough.
His hand came up and caught Gunnar's wrist mid-strike.
The impact stopped the blade an inch from flesh.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Gunnar froze, eyes wide—not with rage now, but with sudden, dawning terror. He had expected surprise. Expected speed to carry him through.
Instead, he had been intercepted.
Anders' grip tightened.
Not crushing. Controlled.
His expression changed.
Not to fury.
To clarity.
This was no longer a spar.
This was a threat.
Mercy ended.
Anders twisted Gunnar's wrist outward, stepping into the motion, using Gunnar's own momentum against him. The blade fell from numb fingers and hit the ground with a dull clatter.
Gunnar cried out as the pressure escalated—sharp, precise pain that screamed up his arm.
Anders did not pause.
He shifted his weight, drove his shoulder into Gunnar's chest, and swept his legs with practiced efficiency. Gunnar slammed into the ground, the breath driven from his lungs in a choking gasp.
Anders followed him down.
There was no hesitation now. No deliberation. His movements were clean, exact, terrifyingly efficient—muscle memory drawn from a life that did not belong to this world, but lived inside him all the same.
A strike to the ribs—not full force, but enough to collapse Gunnar inward.
Another to the shoulder, driving it into the earth.
Gunnar tried to scramble, panic replacing rage entirely now, but Anders was already repositioning, knee planted, weight centered, control absolute.
A sharp blow to the thigh robbed Gunnar of leverage.
He screamed.
Anders struck again.
Not wildly. Not cruelly.
Methodically.
Each blow chosen to incapacitate, to overwhelm, to end resistance. Gunnar's training—what little of it there was—meant nothing here. This was not a contest of strength or age.
This was violence applied with discipline.
The crowd erupted.
Shouts. Cries. Someone yelled Anders' name. Someone else yelled Gunnar's. Freydis recoiled, hand flying to her mouth, horror flickering across her face.
Orik stepped forward instinctively—
—and Erik moved faster.
"Enough," Erik roared, voice cracking like thunder through the chaos.
He grabbed Anders by the shoulder and pulled.
Anders released Gunnar instantly.
No struggle. No resistance. No lingering strike.
He stood, breathing hard but controlled, eyes clear, body ready to continue if needed—but not seeking it.
Gunnar lay on the ground, sobbing now, pain and terror fully unleashed, body curled in on itself. He was alive. Bruised. Shattered in spirit.
But alive.
Silence fell again, heavier than before.
Erik kept his hand on Anders' shoulder, grounding him, not restraining him.
"You did right to stop," Erik said quietly, meant only for his son.
Anders nodded once.
"I stopped when he was no longer a threat," Anders replied.
The words were calm.
Adult.
Unsettling.
Orik knelt beside Gunnar, eyes flicking to the discarded blade on the ground. His expression hardened—not toward Anders, but toward the boy who had drawn steel in betrayal.
"This was no spar," Orik said, voice cold. "This was dishonor."
The elders moved swiftly. Gunnar was pulled away, boot blade confiscated, his cries echoing as he was dragged from the circle.
No one spoke in his defense.
Freydis looked at Anders again.
Not with awe.
With understanding.
The system remained silent.
No reward. No rebuke. No judgment spoken aloud.
But Anders felt it—the weight of the moment settling deep inside him, recorded not as strength, but as choice.
Mercy had been offered.
It had been refused.
And Anders Skjold had answered not with rage—but with remembered discipline, tempered violence, and absolute restraint at the final edge.
The village did not cheer.
They watched.
And they remembered.
Because some lessons did not become stories.
They became warnings.