They called it summer.
The elders said it with cautious relief, voices low but hopeful, as if speaking too loudly might anger the sky and call the cold back down upon them. The storms had thinned. The wind no longer howled without pause. The air, for the first time in Ivar's memory, carried a softness to it.
But the snow never left.
It still blanketed the land in every direction, unbroken and pale, stretching as far as the eye could see. Ice lingered in the shadows. Frost still clung stubbornly to wood and stone in the early hours of the day. The world had warmed, yes, but only enough to remind him of how cold it had been before.
This was summer beyond the Wall.
Ivar stood outside the hut with the others, boots sinking slightly into snow that no longer cracked as sharply underfoot. The air felt lighter against his skin, less biting, though it was still far removed from anything he would have called warm in his first life.
Summer, he thought, remembering blazing sun, heavy heat, air thick with humidity. Summer meant green. It meant life bursting openly from the ground.
This was nothing like that.
Even in his second life, summer had been a season of abundance, fields alive with color, qi rich and flowing, the world vibrant and loud. Here, summer was simply the absence of relentless suffering. A pause. A breath between hardships.
And yet, for these people, it was enough.
Bjorn stood at the center of the settlement, already armored in furs and hardened leather that was crude no matter how he looked at it. The warriors gathered around him one by one, men hardened by cold and hunger, faces lined by years of survival. They checked weapons, tightened straps, exchanged brief words that carried no fear, only expectation.
A raid was coming, and his father stood at its forefront.
Ivar watched silently from beside his mother as Bjorn spoke, his voice carrying easily across the open space.
"This winter did not break us," Bjorn said, his gaze sweeping across the gathered warriors. "It tried. It always does. But we are still here, livin' and kickin'."
Murmurs rose in response. Shoulders straightened. Hands tightened around spear shafts and axe handles.
The men who were injured or too old for the raid, women and children around them were also hyped up from expectations.
"The snow still lies heavy before us," Bjorn continued, gesturing toward the endless white beyond the huts and tents, "but the storms are fadin'. The paths are openin', paths that lead to better food and better weapons, taken from the f*ckin' kneelers beyond the ice wall."
A fierce, unapologetic grin split his face. "And if ye so desire it," he added, voice carrying easily, "ye might even steal a wife fer yerself."
The murmurs grew louder at that. Excitement sparked in the warriors' eyes, sharp and restless, feeding on the promise of spoils and conquest.
Ivar felt his mother's grip on his hand tighten at his father's last words. He glanced at her briefly but said nothing.
The idea of his father taking another wife didn't truly bother him. If anything, a more occupied father meant more freedom, more chances to slip away unnoticed and do what he pleased in his scarce moments of quiet.
But Astrid clearly didn't share that view, and he couldn't fault her for it. Who would want to share her husband with even more women? She already had two rivals within the household. Adding more would only sharpen the competition, not ease it.
Bjorn lifted a fist, and the noise quieted at once.
"We go south, climb the ice wall," he said simply. "We take what we need and we will return stronger and full of bounties."
A low cheer rippled through the group, restrained but fervent. Already, they were dreaming of full bellies, mended furs, and children who might survive another winter.
Bjorn's gaze shifted to where his family stood watching. He smiled at them and gave a brief nod. His goodbyes had been spoken earlier, there was no need to linger now.
He turned back to his warriors. "Let's go."
And with that, they departed, marching out beneath the silent watch of their families as the snow swallowed their footsteps one by one.
Ivar stood with his mothers and half-brothers, eyes fixed on the retreating figures until they vanished completely into the white. Only then did the settlement begin to stir again, the tension easing as people returned to their routines.
"Come, Ivar," Astrid said at last, resting a hand on his shoulder. She turned toward their hut, already leading the way.
Ivar followed obediently, boots crunching softly in the snow.
They had not gone far when voices called out behind him.
"Ivar!"
"Come play!"
He turned his head and spotted three children waving from near one of the smaller huts, their faces bright despite the cold. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, then he looked up at his mother.
His eyes widened just a little. His lips pressed together in an unmistakably hopeful expression.
Astrid stopped.
She looked down at him, really looked, taking in his small frame, the eagerness he barely tried to hide. For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then she sighed.
"Alright," she relented. "But don't go too far. If I call fer ye and ye're not back in an instant, I'll spank yer butt until ye can't sit, understand?"
Ivar's face lit up instantly. "Aye!" he promised, already turning.
Behind them, Eirik and Asgeir tugged eagerly at their mothers' sleeves, babbling half-formed words and pointing toward the other children. They clearly wanted to follow, excitement written all over their faces.
"No," Freya and Ylva said almost in unison, each pulling her son back.
The boys pouted but were easily distracted, soon losing interest as their mothers ushered them toward the hut.
Astrid watched as they pulled their sons along, and she couldn't help the faint smirk that tugged at her lips. Her own son was already speaking in full sentences, holding conversations with ease, while theirs could still barely manage a string of babbled words. The difference was impossible to miss.
Pride swelled quietly in her chest.
The old gods had favored her, of that, she was certain. They had given her a son brighter than most children his age, sharper in mind and stronger in body. A boy who listened, who understood, who learned far faster than he should have.
For a fleeting moment, an amused thought crossed her mind: Ivar standing taller than his half-brothers when they were older, quicker and stronger, leaving them scrambling to keep up. A soft, almost involuntary giggle slipped past her lips before she could stop it.
"Somethin' funny, Astrid?" Freya asked, eyeing her with mild suspicion.
"Hmm?" Astrid startled slightly, realizing she'd drawn attention to herself. She felt a hint of warmth creep into her cheeks. "No… nothin," she said quickly. "I'll go gather some firewood fer th' night."
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and strode off, eager to put distance between herself and their curious gazes, her smirk fading as she refocused on the simple, necessary work of survival.
—-
"What we playin' today?" Ivar asked as soon as he reached them.
The arrival of summer, such as this, had not only lightened the mood of the settlement's adults, but drawn the children out from their huts as well. With the storms easing and the cold less punishing, laughter carried farther across the snow. Children clustered together in small groups, boots kicking up powder as they ran and shouted, filling the open space with noise and motion.
Haldor turned at the sound of Ivar's voice, a wide grin already spreading across his face. He was the tallest of the three, broad even for his age, with messy blond hair that never stayed tied no matter how often his Ma tried. Everything about him was loud, his laughter, his footsteps, and especially his opinions.
"We don't know yet. We was waitin' fer you!" Haldor declared proudly. "It's ain't fair if we decide without th' strongest one."
Ivar smirked faintly at that.
They hadn't become close in any gentle way. The first time they'd met had been just outside the settlement, when Ivar had slipped away for fresh air as he often did. The three older boys had tried to corner him, thinking strength came only from size and numbers. He'd corrected that assumption quickly.
He didn't have the raw power of grown men, not yet, but children at seven years old were easy to handle. Speed, balance, and timing mattered more. By the time it was over, all three had learned that lesson the hard way.
Torren snorted from beside Haldor. Shorter and thinner, Torren had sharp eyes and an expression that always looked halfway to suspicious. He folded his arms and tilted his head slightly, studying Ivar as though he were a puzzle that refused to fit.
"Strongest," Torren echoed. "That's what ye say every time. He's just fast, not strong. We could've beaten 'im if ye'd just got up after he punched ye."
Haldor shot him an indignant look. "I swear, that punch made me see stars. I couldn't get meself up, I was dizzy!"
Ulf, who had been crouched in the snow drawing shapes with a stick, finally looked up. He was quieter than the other two, dark-haired and thoughtful, with a habit of watching before speaking. Snow clung to the knees of his trousers where he'd been kneeling.
"He's tellin' the truth," Ulf said calmly. "Ye were th' only one who didn't get punched, Torren. Ye don't know how hard it was. It really hurt."
Torren opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. He scoffed instead and turned his face away, scuffing at the snow with his boot. He remembered it well enough, the kick to his stomach that had knocked the air out of him, the sharp pain that made his vision blur. He'd managed to stand again, even if only briefly, before being knocked down a second time.
At least he'd gotten back up, unlike the others.
"Now, now," Ivar said lightly, raising a hand to cut them off. "No use gnawin' on what's already done." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "How 'bout we hunt somethin' in the woods today?"
The tension eased at once.
Haldor grinned again, Torren's scowl softened into reluctant interest, and Ulf pushed himself to his feet, brushing snow from his knees. Whatever bruises pride had taken before, the word hunt had pushed them aside.
Summer might have been nothing more than thinner snow and gentler winds, but for children like them, it meant freedom, and another chance to learn how to hunt just like their fathers who had gone south to raid.
They set off toward the edge of the forest together, boots crunching softly through the snow. The trees loomed ahead, dark trunks rising from the white, their branches heavy and still. It wasn't far from the settlement, close enough that the adults wouldn't worry too much, but distant enough to feel like an adventure.
Haldor walked at the front, swinging a stick like a spear as he went. After a while, his chatter slowed, and he glanced sideways at Ivar, his grin fading into something more thoughtful.
"My ma says I shouldn't be friends with ye," Haldor said suddenly.
Torren stumbled slightly at that, shooting Haldor a sharp look. Ulf paused mid-step, turning to listen.
Ivar didn't react right away. He kept walking, his pace steady. "Why?" he asked calmly.
Haldor shrugged, scuffing his boot through the snow. "She says ye're… strange. Says ye talk too well for yer age. Think too much. Like an old man in a little body."
Torren snorted. "That sounds like yer ma."
Haldor ignored him. "Anyway, my pa told her she was being stupid."
Ivar's lips curved into a faint smile.
Haldor straightened a little, clearly pleased as he went on. "Pa said I should stick with ye. Said ye're blessed by the old gods themselves. That they don't give gifts like that fer no reason."
Ulf nodded slowly. "That sounds like something my uncle would say."
Haldor glanced back at Ivar again, grin returning. "Pa also said yer father and him have been friends since before I was born. Fought together. Bled together. He said men like that don't raise weak sons."
Ivar absorbed the words in silence.
He hadn't bothered hiding his peculiarities, his speech, his thoughts, his awareness that far exceeded what someone his age should possess. In a place like this, the old gods were a convenient explanation. A blessing was easier to accept than something unknown. Still, there would always be people unsettled by what they didn't understand.
That wasn't his concern.
If anyone had a problem with him, they could always bring it to his father. Bjorn was the head of the clan, and that protection was more than enough.
"That's why I don't listen to my ma about ye," Haldor finished. "She worries too much."
Torren huffed. "True."
The forest loomed closer now. Beneath the trees, the air grew sharper and colder, and the snow lay thinner where branches blocked the sky. Long shadows stretched across the ground, dark and watchful.
Ivar slowed slightly, letting the others fall in beside him.
"Well," he said at last, voice steady, "if th' Old Gods marked me like my Pa says, There's nothin' I can do 'bout it. And ye're Pa is right, I'm strong!"
Haldor laughed. "Right. Th' old gods must've favored our Iver."
Ulf smiled faintly, eyes already scanning the treeline with quiet focus. Torren cracked his knuckles, trying, and failing, to look fearless.
Whatever their mothers thought, whatever the old gods had or hadn't done, the four of them walked on together, disappearing into the trees, children playing hunters, unaware that the world beyond the forest was already moving.
They had been walking for nearly half an hour now, by Ivar's estimation.
The forest swallowed sound differently than the open snowfields near the settlement. Beneath the trees, the wind was muted, broken by trunks and branches, and the snow lay thinner, disturbed only by the occasional fallen needle or snapped twig. Their boots crunched softly as they moved, each step slower and more deliberate than the last.
And still, they found nothing.
No tracks fresh enough to follow. No birds bursting from the branches. Not even the distant rustle of something fleeing through the underbrush. The forest felt watchful and empty, as if it were holding its breath.
Haldor was the first to break the silence. "Are ye sure this is a good place?" he whispered, not whispering nearly as well as he thought he was.
Torren rolled his eyes. "Animals don't just wait for ye to shout at them."
Ulf said nothing. He had grown quieter the deeper they went, his eyes constantly moving, head tilting slightly as he listened to sounds the others missed.
Ivar was about to suggest turning back when he froze.
His hand lifted slowly.
They stopped at once.
Without a word, Ivar lowered himself into a crouch and gestured sharply for the others to do the same. The boys followed him instinctively, excitement and confusion flickering across their faces as they sank into the snow.
Ivar pointed.
Not far ahead, partially hidden by a low rise and a scatter of brush, a hare was crouched over a patch of exposed ground. Its white fur blended almost perfectly with the snow, save for the faint twitch of its ears and the steady motion of its jaw as it munched on something beneath the frost.
For a heartbeat, no one breathed.
Then Haldor's eyes went wide.
Torren's lips parted in a silent gasp.
Ulf leaned forward just a little, his face lighting up with quiet awe.
A hare.
Alive, close, and real.
Haldor clenched his fists, barely containing himself. "Did ye see that?" he whispered, voice trembling with excitement. "We can catch it!"
Torren nodded vigorously. "Aye… We can kill it. Our first kill."
Ulf glanced between them. "It ain't noticed us yet."
Then the realization struck.
They all looked at one another.
Empty hands. No snares. No spears. No stones ready at hand. Not even a length of cord or sharpened stick worth calling a weapon.
Ivar blinked once.
Haldor's grin slowly faded. "Wait," he whispered. "How we supposed to hunt it?"
Torren frowned. "We… run at it?"
Ulf looked down at his bare hands, then back at the hare, which continued chewing, blissfully unaware. "…With what?"
Silence stretched.
Ivar stared at the hare, then at his friends, and finally down at his own hands. He had suggested hunting without thinking it through, more focused on easing the tension than the details. He had known better, should have known better, but even with all his experience, he had overlooked something simple.
Preparation.
Slowly, a smile tugged at his lips.
Haldor noticed it first and let out a muffled snort, clamping a hand over his mouth. Torren followed, shoulders shaking as he tried, and failed, to keep quiet. Even Ulf's lips twitched as he ducked his head.
They crouched there in the snow, four would-be hunters staring at their first real prey with nothing but enthusiasm and empty hands.
Soft, restrained laughter passed between them.
The hare twitched its ears, lifted its head, and then, without any hurry at all, bounded away into the trees, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.
They watched it go.
"Well," Haldor whispered at last, grinning again, "that went well."
Torren huffed. "Next time, we bring somethin' with us. No more goin' in empty-handed."
Ulf nodded seriously. "Yes. Next time, we plan ahead."
Ivar rose slowly to his feet, brushing snow from his knees. His smile lingered, small but genuine.
"Next time," he agreed, then added, "we best head back now. We won't catch nothin' like this, not when we're so unprepared. Our Mas'll be lookin' for us by now."
The other three nodded in agreement, and together they turned back toward the settlement.
They hadn't gone far when Ulf suddenly slowed and lifted a hand.
"Isn't that your Ma, Ivar?" he asked, pointing at his far side.
Ivar followed his gaze.
At first, he only saw movement, someone running hard through the trees, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. Then recognition struck, cold and immediate.
His Ma, Astrid.
She was running toward the settlement, furs flapping wildly, her movements no longer controlled or steady. Panic sharpened her expression, her eyes wide as she glanced over her shoulder again and again.
And she wasn't alone.
Two figures burst from the trees behind her.
Ivar didn't hesitate.
He broke into a run at once, boots pounding against the snow, his small body surging forward with desperate speed. The forest blurred around him as his heart hammered in his chest.
Behind him, Haldor swore under his breath. Torren and Ulf exchanged a single look before they ran after him without a word.
—---
Astrid cursed herself for her carelessness. Bjorn was gone, leading the warriors south, and she had let her guard down. She should have expected this. She should have known they would come the moment Bjorn left, when there would be no swift retribution, when the strongest in the clan was nowhere to be found.
She recognized them now as they closed the distance.
The brothers, who she noticed the resentment from their gazes every time she passed their hut.
Sons of the man who had challenged Bjorn and lost his life in the snow. The duel had been clean. Bjorn had won fairly. But fairness meant little to men who nursed their grief into hatred.
They wanted vengeance.
Her lungs burned as she ran, firewood forgotten, the forest suddenly tight and hostile. Snow hid roots and stones beneath its surface, and her legs faltered more than once as she pushed herself harder, willing her body to move faster. She could have turned to fight, she knew that, but two against one was a losing gamble. She hadn't survived this long by throwing her life away.
So she ran.
Then her foot caught.
Astrid stumbled, crashing down into the snow hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Pain flared through her side, sharp and blinding. She rolled instinctively, scrambling to her feet even as dizziness threatened to pull her back down.
There was no more running.
She turned to face them, breath ragged, hatchet already in her hand.
The familiar weight of the weapon steadied her. She had no choice now. If she was going to fall here, then she would fight. She could only hope the men before her were still green, still sloppy with their confidence.
The two men slowed to a stop a few paces away, grinning as they took in her predicament. Snow crunched beneath their boots as they spread out slightly, cutting off any hope of escape.
"Well," one of them said, laughing softly, "leks like th' great Bjorn's woman ain't so fierce without 'im."
The other spat into the snow. "Funny thing, ain't it? How accidents happen when th' strong ain't 'round."
Astrid tightened her grip on the hatchet, jaw clenched, eyes cold and defiant despite the fear pounding through her chest.
—---
Unseen by any of them, four small figures were tearing through the trees, snow spraying beneath their feet.
Ivar was the first to notice that the figures ahead had stopped.
He stopped instantly as well, lifting a hand. His friends skidded to a halt behind him, breath coming fast and shallow. Without a word, Ivar lowered himself into a crouch, his movements slow and deliberate, then began creeping forward.
The forest seemed to hold its breath.
He moved carefully, placing each foot where the snow was firm, where branches would not snap beneath his weight. When he was close enough, close enough to see clearly, close enough to hear their voices, he halted again.
Ivar stayed low, half-hidden behind a fallen log, his small body pressed close to the earth. His eyes flicked between Astrid and the two men blocking her path. He didn't speak or rush forward.
If his mother was truly in danger, then the only way he could help her was the element of surprise.
He didn't yet have the strength of an adult. All he could do was strike fast and strike precisely, aiming where it would hurt most.
Behind him, Haldor, Torren, and Ulf mirrored his movements as best they could, crouching low and staying silent. They didn't understand everything yet, but they understood enough to know this was no game.
"Well, there's no time t' waste, brother," one of the men said, his voice low and eager. "Let's kill 'er."
They moved.
Astrid barely managed to react in time. She twisted away as the first blow came, the edge of a blade slicing through the air where her neck had been a heartbeat earlier. She stumbled back, boots slipping on the packed snow, breath coming fast and ragged as she fought to keep her footing.
She was at a clear disadvantage.
Two men. Not too coordinated but relentless.
She ducked, spun, barely avoided another strike that would have split her shoulder open. Snow sprayed as she rolled, coming up just in time to block a downward blow with the haft of her hatchet. The impact jarred her arm, sending pain shooting up to her shoulder.
Ivar watched from the shadows, his expression tightening.
His mother was being driven back.
He glanced over his shoulder and lifted a hand sharply.
"Stay here," he whispered.
Haldor grabbed his arm at once, eyes wide. Torren reached out too, panic flashing across his face. Even Ulf leaned forward, ready to follow.
But they stopped.
Something in Ivar's eyes made them freeze.
Without another word, Ivar slipped free of their grasp and moved.
He went low, slow, and silent, every step placed with care as he closed the distance. His attention never left the fight ahead.
Astrid stumbled again.
This time, she wasn't fast enough.
A blade struck her hatchet at an awkward angle, tearing it from her grip. The weapon spun end over end before landing in the snow only a few steps from Ivar.
Astrid saw it.
Then she saw him.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"No…." she mouthed instinctively, her eyes widening in horror. She tore her gaze away just as quickly, forcing herself to stumble back again, afraid that even a glance toward her son would draw the men's attention.
The brothers laughed.
"Look at ye," one sneered. "Back up. Back up. Where's that fire now, bitch?"
Astrid retreated step by step, her back nearly to a tree.
Ivar's fingers closed around the hatchet.
It was heavier than his wooden sword. Rougher and real.
He rose slowly to his feet.
Then he stepped back, one pace, then another, measuring the distance. His breath steadied. His grip tightened.
The man closest to his mother raised his weapon.
That was his target.
Ivar drew his qi inward, instinct guiding what little control he possessed. The thin energy flowed through his body, faint but obedient, channeling into his arms and shoulders, then into his hands gripping the hatchet. It wasn't much. The qi of a first-level body cultivator could barely grant him the strength of a growing teenager, but it was all he had.
And it would have to be enough.
He knew he couldn't rely on strength alone. Not at his age. Not with a body barely grown. But combined with his qi and momentum, with speed and surprise, there was a chance.
A small one.
Ivar ran.
Snow exploded beneath his boots as he surged forward, his small body propelled by desperation and resolve. The hatchet rose above his head as he closed the distance, qi burning faintly through his limbs, momentum building with every step.
Then he jumped.
And swung.
On his own, his strength would never have been enough.
But with qi reinforcing his arms, and the force of his run driving the blow….
The weight of his charge, the leap, the brutal downward arc….
The hatchet buried itself into the man's skull with a sickening crack.
For a heartbeat, the world froze.
Astrid let out a broken, strangled cry.
The man collapsed without a sound, his body crumpling into the snow as if his strings had been cut.
His brother stared.
He didn't understand what he was seeing.
Ivar yanked at the hatchet, but it wouldn't come free. Panic flared, but there was no time.
"Ma!" he shouted. "Move!"
The sound snapped Astrid out of it.
She surged forward with a raw cry, slamming her shoulder into the remaining man and driving him backward into the snow. He went down hard, cursing, struggling to bring his weapon up.
Ivar's eyes dropped to the fallen man's sword.
Rusted. Short. But good enough.
He snatched it up and ran.
The man was just starting to rise when Ivar reached him. There was no hesitation and no thought.
He plunged the blade forward.
The sword drove into the man's eye.
The body jerked once, then went still.
Silence crashed down around them.
It had all happened in moments.
Astrid dropped to her knees, shaking. Then she lunged forward and wrapped Ivar in her arms, crushing him against her chest. A sob tore free from her, raw and unrestrained.
Ivar hugged her back, small arms tight around her, heart still pounding wildly.
After a moment, long, shuddering breaths, she pulled back.
Her hands gripped his shoulders, trembling as she looked him over, searching for wounds.
"What're ye doin' here?" she demanded hoarsely. "Hmm? Didn't I tell ye' not t' play far?"
Then she saw them.
Haldor. Torren. And Ulf.
They stood a short distance away, frozen in place, faces pale and eyes wide, staring at the bodies in the snow.
Astrid swallowed hard and then looked back at her son.
Ivar couldn't come up with an excuse so he just smiled foolishly at her mother. Hehe