The longhouse breathed again.
Not with celebration—not yet—but with the steady sound of men and women returning to themselves. The tension that had gripped the beams and hearthstones loosened, drifting upward with the smoke. Outside, the wind combed through pine and frost, indifferent to human pride and bloodletting alike.
Inside, the elders had retreated. Gunnar was gone. The matter was finished.
And now, at last, the chiefs spoke.
Sten Brokenspear stood near the fire, massive as a carved god pulled loose from a cliff face. He was taller than any man in the hall by a full head and then some, shoulders wide as a doorframe, arms corded thick with years of rowing and war. His beard fell in a dark, tangled cascade to his stomach, braided only at the ends to keep it from the fire. His hair—black as pitch—was pulled back in tight braids along his scalp, the rest hanging heavy down his back.
He threw his head back and laughed.
It was not mocking.
It was not sharp.
It was deep and booming, a sound that rattled cups and sent a few nervous glances darting his way before easing the room.
"By the bones of my father," Sten said, still grinning, "that boy needed humbling."
A few of the Shatter-Shield men shifted, unsure how to take it.
Erik did not.
Sten stepped forward and seized Erik in a crushing embrace, lifting him clear off the floor for a heartbeat before setting him down again with a bark of laughter.
"No insult taken," Sten said firmly, clapping Erik's shoulder hard enough to make a lesser man stumble. "None owed. Gunnar's pride ran ahead of his sense, and today it tripped him."
Erik exhaled slowly, the last of his own tension bleeding away.
"He drew steel after the spar was ended," Erik replied, voice level. "That is the line."
Sten's grin faded—not to anger, but to seriousness.
"Aye," he said. "And that line was crossed by him, not you." He turned slightly, voice carrying. "Let it be known—Broken-Spear bears no grudge for this day. Gunnar brought shame on himself, and shame is a teacher that does not ask permission."
A murmur of approval rippled through both clans.
Sten took a cup from a nearby bench, raised it, and drained it in one pull.
"Besides," he added, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "if a boy can't survive being beaten by a child, he has no business thinking about wives or wars."
Laughter broke out then—real laughter, unforced, easing the last tightness from the hall.
Erik allowed himself a small smile.
Sten turned, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Erik again. "Your son," he said, more quietly now. "He's not just strong."
"I know," Erik replied.
"He stopped," Sten continued. "When it mattered."
Erik nodded once. "That matters more."
Sten studied him for a long moment, then nodded in return. "You raise your blood well."
They moved toward the central table as servants brought fresh bread and meat, pouring ale with careful hands. The chiefs sat opposite one another, firelight dancing across scarred wood and iron.
Sten leaned back, stretching his long legs. "So," he said casually, as if discussing the weather. "Let's speak of futures."
Erik raised an eyebrow. "That sounds expensive."
Sten barked a laugh. "All good things are."
He gestured toward the far end of the hall, where Freydis stood near her mother, arms folded, posture alert. She was small for her age but carried herself with an ease that promised growth rather than fragility. Her hair was black as her father's, falling loose down her back, her skin pale as winter milk. When she noticed Sten looking, she did not look away.
"Freydis," Sten said proudly. "Six winters. Shield-maiden in training. Stubborn as a mule and twice as hard to kill."
Freydis rolled her eyes. "I heard that."
"Good," Sten said cheerfully.
Erik followed his gaze, then glanced toward the doorway where Anders had already slipped away—back to the yard, to training, to the quiet places where attention did not follow him.
Sten leaned forward, lowering his voice—not secretive, but respectful.
"I want a bond," he said. "Between Broken-Spear and Shatter-Shield that lasts longer than ale and shared enemies."
Erik did not interrupt.
"A marriage pact," Sten continued. "Not now. Gods, no. But in time. Freydis and your boy."
The words landed without force.
They did not need it.
Erik studied Sten carefully, weighing tone as much as meaning. "That's a long road," he said at last.
Sten shrugged, massive shoulders rolling. "So are all the roads worth walking."
Erik's mouth twitched. "That sounds like something Astrid would say."
Sten laughed again. "Then I'll speak to her."
Erik lifted his cup. "That would be wise. Matters of marriage are my wife's domain."
Sten raised his own cup in salute. "Smart man."
They drank.
The talk shifted then—naturally, inevitably—to raids.
Sten spread a rough map across the table, weighted at the corners with cups and knives. "The coast here," he said, tapping a thick finger against the wood, "has grown fat. Two villages, poorly defended, richer than they look."
Erik leaned in, eyes narrowing. "Ships?"
"Three," Sten replied. "We bring two. You bring one."
"And spoils?" Erik asked.
Sten grinned. "Even split. No tricks. No last-minute counting."
Erik considered, then nodded. "Agreed."
They spoke of timing, of tides and moonlight, of routes and fallback plans. The details mattered. They always did.
As they talked, laughter and low voices filled the hall again. Cups clinked. Knives cut bread. The night settled into something almost comfortable.
Outside, Anders trained.
He moved through drills in the cold yard, shield heavy on his arm, oak sword moving in controlled arcs. His breath fogged the air. His mind was quiet.
He did not know that his name had been spoken like a cornerstone.
Inside, Sten drained another cup and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "Your boy changes things," he said plainly.
Erik did not deny it.
"He makes men think longer before speaking," Sten went on. "Before swinging. Before assuming the future will look like the past."
Erik's gaze drifted toward the door. "He didn't ask for that."
Sten snorted. "None of us do."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, fire crackling between them.
At last, Sten stood. "Then it's settled," he said. "Alliance. Shared blood when needed. Shared spoils when earned."
Erik stood with him. They clasped forearms, grip solid and sure.
"No blood spilled tonight," Sten added, grinning. "Just words."
Erik nodded. "Words last longer."
As the Broken-Spear party prepared to settle in for the night, Freydis glanced once more toward the yard, where Anders' movements cut clean shapes against the frost.
She watched him longer than she meant to.
And somewhere above them all, unseen and unspoken, the world took note—not of a fight, not of a boy—but of a bond forged in iron, laughter, and intent.
The future had been spoken aloud.
And it had listened.