"Ivar! You done over there?" Astrid called out as she finished fastening the gathered twigs and branches into a tight bundle. Her breath fogged in the air, though it no longer lingered as long as it once had.
Winter had stretched far longer than anyone had anticipated. What little firewood they could gather during brief pauses in the snowfall had become precious, and every clear day, rare as it was, meant hauling as much wood as their backs could bear.
"Aye, Ma, I'm coming," Ivar shouted back.
He hoisted his own bundle of twigs and thin branches onto his shoulder, adjusting the weight until it sat comfortably, then trudged toward her.
As they started walking back toward the settlement, Ivar kept his eyes on the land around them.
From what he had heard from his Pa and Mas', winter was slowly dwindling. The elders spoke of it in cautious tones, how the cold had begun to ease, how the storms came less often, how the snow no longer piled as high as before. By their reckoning, this meant the season was nearing its end.
Yet when Ivar looked around, he saw almost no difference.
The sky remained a dull, lifeless gray. Snow still blanketed the ground in every direction, stretching unbroken toward the horizon. The cold still seeped through furs and gloves, biting just enough to remind him that warmth was still a distant promise. Even the wind, gentler as it was, carried the same familiar chill.
So this is "better" they spoke of, he thought wryly.
He remembered enough from his first life to know the truth. Even if this world entered what passed for summer, snow and cold would continue to dominate the land beyond the Wall. The worst of winter might loosen its grip, but it would never truly release it. There would be fewer storms, thinner ice, longer days, but the land would remain harsh, unforgiving, and white.
Just like what he had seen in the show, if his guess about where he was was proven correct and accurate.
He was almost sure of it now, as he had heard his Pa and Mas' talking about raiding south of the wall when they thought he was not listening.
Astrid walked beside him in silence, her steps steady and unhurried. She shifted the bundle on her shoulder once, adjusting the rope, then glanced sideways at her son.
Her eyes lingered.
Ivar walked without complaint, the bundle of twigs and branches balanced easily across his shoulder. It was heavier than what most children his age could manage, heavier than what some older children struggled with. Yet he showed no sign of strain. His breathing was even. His steps sure.
Astrid frowned slightly.
This was not the first time she had thought her son was different, smarter and stronger than the other children. Even when compared to his step-siblings, the gap was unmistakable. Ivar had learned their language faster than most, grasping words and meanings long before other children his age could form proper sentences. He listened more than he spoke, but when he did speak, there was purpose behind his words.
And then there was his strength.
He could already carry loads that left other children exhausted or complaining. More than once, Astrid had caught him watching the warriors as they trained, men sparring with swords and axes, their movements sharp and practiced. She had also noticed him later, alone, quietly mimicking those same movements when he thought no one was watching. His actions were clumsy, as expected of a child, but there was intent in them. Awareness.
Perhaps it was his Pa's blood, like Pa, like son. Bjorn had always been strong, always been a leader among their people. It would make sense for Ivar to inherit such traits.
Still, Astrid couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was more to it.
The thought surfaced briefly, unbidden… and just as quickly, she pushed it aside.
This was her son.
Strong was good. Strength meant survival. Strength meant authority.
When Bjorn eventually grew old and his strength faded, it would be Ivar who stood in his place. The idea settled comfortably in her chest, filling her with quiet certainty.
And she would make sure of it.
Almost unconsciously, her hand brushed against the hatchet at her side, seeking reassurance in its familiar weight.
Ivar noticed the movement immediately. To him, a hand on a weapon meant only one thing. His steps did not falter, but his posture shifted subtly as his senses sharpened. He scanned their surroundings, eyes sweeping the snow, the rocks, the sparse trees, searching for any sign of danger he might have missed.
When he noticed none after repeatedly checking their surroundings, he looked up at her, still walking at her side.
"Is something the matter, Ma?" he asked quietly.
Astrid was pulled from her thoughts by his voice. She blinked, then glanced down at him, a faint smile touching her lips.
"Nothin', Ivar," she said, her tone steady. "Keep walkin'."
Reassured, for now, Ivar nodded and turned his gaze forward again as they continued on toward their hut.
They continued on, boots crunching softly through the snow as the settlement gradually came into view. Smoke drifted from the huts ahead, rising lazily before vanishing into the gray sky. People moved about their daily routines, just as they always had, enduring, adapting, and surviving.
As they entered the settlement, eyes turned toward them.
Some greeted Astrid with nods or brief words, their expressions open and familiar. A few offered Ivar small smiles or rough pats on the shoulder as they passed, acknowledging him as part of Bjorn's household. Others merely watched from a distance, faces unreadable, their gazes lingering without warmth or hostility.
And then there were those who looked at them with something sharper.
Resentment.
Ivar felt it even if he didn't always meet their eyes. He had seen it before, the tightness in their expressions, the way their gazes slid away too slowly. Widows. Sons. Kin of men who had died by his Pa's hand.
He remembered one such death clearly.
A man had challenged Bjorn for leadership of the clan, standing tall and proud before the gathered free folk. There had been no ceremony, no speeches, only a circle cleared in the snow and weapons drawn. The duel had been brutal and short. Bjorn had taken a few blows, then ended it effortlessly, crushing the man's skull with a final strike.
Leadership decided.
A primitive way of choosing a leader, Ivar thought, but an effective one. In this land, strength was truth. The weak followed, or they died.
He didn't blame those who watched them with bitterness. Loss lingered longer than anger. Still, he felt no guilt over it either. This was the way of the world he had been reborn into, and pretending otherwise would only invite weakness.
As they continued toward their hut, Ivar's grip tightened slightly on the bundle over his shoulder.
He did not yet know what his future in this world would be, but he was certain of one thing, he would not die without carving his name into its history.
Their hut soon came into view, squat and sturdy against the endless white. When they reached it, both he and Astrid lowered the bundles from their shoulders, letting them fall onto the packed snow with dull thuds.
The fur door was pushed aside, and Freya stepped out.
She was Bjorn's other spearwife, broader in build than Astrid and carrying herself with the quiet confidence of someone who knew her place within the household. She might not look like it but she could hold herself in a fight if need be. Her gaze swept over them, first Astrid, then Ivar, and finally the firewood on the ground.
"What took you so long?" she asked, her tone edged but controlled.
Astrid did not bother to soften her reply. She gestured sharply toward the twigs and branches at their feet. "It's none of yer business, Freya. There's yer firewood. Now cook before Bjorn arrives."
Freya's lips pressed into a thin line. For a brief moment, irritation flashed in her eyes, but she said nothing. Instead, she bent down, gathered the bundles with practiced movements, and turned back toward the hut without another word.
The fur door fell closed behind her.
Ivar shook his head slightly, the motion so subtle it went unnoticed.
Having many wives, he thought dryly. Is just asking for trouble.
He glanced at the hut, at the door Freya had disappeared behind, and a darker thought followed unbidden. Freya might not be strong like Astrid, might not be a good fighter or a spearwife in the same sense, but she didn't need to be. A knife in the dark or poison in a pot could be just as deadly as any blade or axe.
Silently, he offered a prayer for his mother's safety.
Then Astrid nudged him forward with a hand to his shoulder.
"Come," she said. "Let's get inside."
Ivar nodded and followed her into the hut, the warmth closing around him as the fur door fell shut behind them, sealing away the cold.
The familiar scents of smoke, fat, and simmering meat filled the hut, thick and comforting. Near the fire pit, Freya was already at work, crouched beside a large skull pot suspended over the flames. She stirred it steadily with a wooden ladle, her movements practiced and efficient.
Eirik was beside her, or rather, near her.
He was supposed to be helping, but from Ivar's perspective, he was mostly playing. Eirik poked at scraps of wood, dragged a stick through the ash, and occasionally reached for something he wasn't meant to touch before Freya swatted his hand away without even looking. He laughed each time, entirely unbothered.
Ivar watched them for a brief moment.
He couldn't really say much about this half-brother of his. They were close in age, with Ivar being older by only a few moons, yet the difference between them was stark. The adults often compared them, after all, Ivar could already hold full conversations at just three years old, while his half-brother still struggled to form proper sentences. But what could a three-year-old child truly achieve at such an age without having his soul replaced by that of a mature one?
Sometimes, Ivar found himself pitying his half-brothers' future. He only hoped that his half-brothers would not grow up insecure because of those comparisons.
He didn't bother hiding his intelligence and peculiarities either.
Among people this primitive, people who measured worth in strength, endurance, and usefulness, intelligence was not something to conceal. When questions arose, when looks lingered too long, he could always pass it off as a blessing from the gods. The old gods were convenient that way. They explained everything that couldn't otherwise be explained.
Freya glanced up briefly when she noticed him standing there. "Sit," she said, jerking her chin toward the side of the hut. "Food won't be long."
Ivar nodded and did as he was told, moving to his usual spot near his mother's side. He settled down quietly, back against the furs, and watched the fire crackle.
Not long after, the fur door flapped open and Ylva entered the hut. At her side was her son, Asgeir, grinning foolishly as always, and cradled in her arms was her daughter, still an infant, born only a few moons ago.
Ivar's gaze lingered briefly.
For moons now, his mother and Freya had been going at it with his father, their jealousy barely concealed. Ylva's newborn daughter had stirred resentment and jealousy, neither of them bothered to hide. Ivar had noticed the tension countless times, the sharp words, the lingering looks, and the unspoken competition of who was going to get pregnant next. So far, none of them had succeeded.
Whenever his mother or Freya had a go at it with his father, he would always cut off his senses and cultivate. This was what bothered him the most since reincarnating here. It was as if they were not bothered having a go at it with their children watching. But he supposed it was just the way these people propagated. With a house like this, without rooms or separate compartments for making children, it was bound to be a live show for everyone living inside.
"Where have ye been?" Freya asked as she noticed Ylva.
Ylva gestured for her son to go play with his half-brother. Asgeir immediately bounded toward Eirik, the two of them tumbling into noisy play near the fire. Only then did Ylva shift the worn basket she carried and reply, "I was out gatherin' herbs for the wound salve. We ran dry a few days past, and I won't be standin' empty-handed if Bjorn comes back bleedin'."
She moved to her side of the hut and carefully laid her daughter down on a pile of furs, checking the infant's wrap before straightening.
Astrid glanced up from where she sat. "Ye went far?"
"Far enough," Ylva replied evenly. "The good herbs don't grow close anymore."
Freya snorted softly as she stirred the pot. "Everythin' worth takin' keeps slippin' farther off. When summer settles proper, we may have to move camp again, find ground where better greens still grow."
"Bjorn's spoken on it already," Astrid said, voice flat as frozen ground. "We'll move camp when summer settles an' they're back from their first raid."
Ylva sighed as she finished setting aside the herbs she had gathered. "I just pray Bjorn comes back with fewer cuts when they go south," she muttered. "Last summer he came home bruised black and split in a dozen places. Lucky for us, none o' the wounds were deep enough to take him."
Astrid shifted slightly to make herself more comfortable. "That's a warrior's life, Ylva," Astrid said, her tone hard but steady. "Steel finds 'em often enough, an' Bjorn's no stranger to bein' cut."
"Right," Ylva muttered. She shook her head and began grinding the herbs with a crude pestle, the rhythmic scraping filling the brief silence.
The conversation drifted after that, herbs, food stores, what needed mending, whose turn it was to watch the children on the morrow. Practical and repetitive things.
Ivar listened for a while.
Then he stopped.
Boredom crept in quickly.
He rose quietly to his feet and moved toward the entrance, careful not to draw attention. The murmur of adult voices faded behind him as he reached for the fur door.
"Where are ye going, Ivar?" Astrid asked, noticing that her son wasn't joining his half-brothers in their noisy play.
He paused and turned back. "Outside. I'll swing me wooden blade a while."
Astrid studied him for a moment, her sharp eyes weighing his words. Finally, she nodded. "Don't wander far. Your Pa might arrive any moment now, and we'll eat soon."
Ivar nodded in return. "Aye."
He pushed aside the fur door and stepped out into the cold.
The air bit at his skin immediately, crisp and clean compared to the smoke-heavy warmth of the hut. Just outside, leaning against the side of their hut, was his wooden sword, carved by his father's hands from a solid piece of hardened wood. It was heavier than most practice weapons made for children, balanced to mimic a real blade.
Ivar picked it up and wrapped his fingers firmly around the handle. The weight pulled at his arms at once, a steady pressure that tested his grip and posture. Even now, it was heavy for his small frame, but that was precisely why he used it. If he could grow accustomed to this weight, steel would one day feel lighter.
He raised the sword and began to swing.
Up and down.
Side to side.
Slow, controlled arcs through the cold air.
Each movement was deliberate, his breathing measured as he focused on maintaining balance rather than power. His arms burned quickly, muscles protesting the strain, but he pushed on until the soreness deepened into a dull ache he could no longer ignore.
Only then did he stop.
With a quiet exhale, he lowered the wooden sword and leaned it back against the hut where he had found it. His shoulders sagged slightly as he flexed his fingers, feeling the lingering tremor in his arms.
His body still couldn't handle the strain, not yet.
But that, too, would change as he grew old and advanced in his cultivation.
Ivar rolled his shoulders once, loosening the tightness in his arms. The dull ache lingered, but it was familiar, welcome, even. It meant he had pushed himself, if only a little.
He stepped away from the hut and into an open patch of snow, boots sinking slightly into the packed ground. Slowly, he spread his feet and lowered his stance, bending his knees until his weight settled evenly through his legs.
Then he moved.
He began with the basics, simple motions drawn from memory, refined through countless repetitions in another life. A forward step, hips turning. A short punch, controlled and tight. He followed with a palm strike, then shifted back, resetting his stance with care.
Each movement flowed into the next.
The cold no longer bothered him as much once his blood began to stir. Heat built beneath his skin, subtle but real, circulating in rhythm with his breath. This was body cultivation in its purest form, using motion, strain, and discipline to temper flesh and bone.
He practiced slowly at first, ensuring his posture was correct, his balance steady. Then he increased the pace, letting his body remember what his mind already knew. Snow sprayed lightly with each step. His breath fogged in front of him, short and controlled.
Punch.
Kick.
Twist.
Guard.
The forms were strange and foreign to this land. They lacked the wild aggression of the free folk's brawling style he saw when they fought, favoring precision and economy instead. Every strike had purpose. Every movement conserved strength.
He paused only when his lungs began to burn.
Standing still, he closed his eyes and focused inward, guiding the faint qi he could gather through his body. It followed the path he had carved through years of quiet effort, reinforcing muscle fibers already stressed from training.
When he opened his eyes again, his expression was calm. After resting just long enough to steady his breathing, Ivar resumed his practice, slower now, each motion deliberate and precise. To anyone else, it would have looked like a child playing in the snow, mimicking warriors far beyond his years. To him, it was something far more important, a foundation, one he would need to survive in this unforgiving land.
He continued until his body demanded rest, then finally stepped back, chest rising and falling steadily. His muscles trembled faintly, and he welcomed the sensation.
Suddenly, he noticed a stir within the settlement. Voices rose, footsteps quickened, and attention shifted in a single direction. Ivar followed their gazes.
His father and the other warriors had returned, and when he looked closer, the warriors were fewer than when they had left. He sighed then, this world is truly dangerous for the weak.