Pain returned in layers.
Not all at once, not like fire or lightning—but in slow, deliberate waves, each one arriving with the patience of sothing that knew Anders could not run from it. The first sensation he beca aware of was pressure: the dull, unyielding weight of bandages wrapped too tightly around his ribs, the ache in his arm that pulsed in ti with his heartbeat, the stiffness in his legs that made even the idea of moving feel exhausting.
He did not open his eyes at first.
He listened.
The longhouse breathed around him. Wood creaked as it always did, settling into itself. Sowhere nearby, fire crackled low and steady. The sll of boiled herbs hung in the air—sharp, bitter, layered over blood and smoke.
Voices ca next.
Low. Careful. Familiar.
"He’s still warm," Astrid said, her voice tight but controlled. "Too warm. He shouldn’t be this warm."
"He nearly froze out there," Freydis replied. "Maybe it’s just his body catching up."
Astrid didn’t answer imdiately. Anders imagined her brow furrowed, hands busy, eyes never leaving him. She had that look when sothing didn’t sit right—when instinct told her a truth before her thoughts could na it.
"He should still be fevered," Astrid said at last. "But he isn’t."
Freydis shifted. Anders heard the faint slosh of water, the scrape of a bowl against the floor. "I counted his breaths," she said. "They’re steadier than before. And slower."
"That’s not normal," Astrid murmured.
No. Anders thought. It isn’t.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling beams swam into focus slowly, dark lines against a haze of smoke and light. His vision blurred at the edges, but the center held. He could see the knotwork carved into the beam directly above him—he had traced it with his eyes often as a child, morizing the way the lines folded into themselves.
Astrid noticed imdiately.
"Anders," she breathed, rushing to his side. Her hand hovered, unsure where it was safe to touch, before settling carefully against his shoulder. "Easy. Don’t move."
He smiled weakly. "Wasn’t planning on it."
Her laugh broke halfway into a sob. She pressed her forehead briefly to his hair, then straightened, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand.
"Don’t do that again," she said fiercely.
"I’ll... try," he replied.
Freydis stepped closer, erald eyes bright and intent. She studied him like a puzzle she refused to leave unsolved. "You’re awake," she said. "That’s good."
"And painful," Anders added. "Very painful."
"That’s also good," Freydis said seriously. "It ans you’re still here."
Astrid snorted softly despite herself. "You’ll forgive her bluntness," she said. "She doesn’t waste words."
"Neither do I," Anders replied.
Astrid began checking his bandages again, fingers gentle but efficient. She paused more than once, her movents slowing as she took in what she felt beneath the cloth.
"These bruises..." she muttered. "They’ve lightened since last night."
Freydis leaned in. "I thought so too."
Astrid frowned. "You shouldn’t be healing like this. Not after what happened."
Anders closed his eyes briefly.
Here it cos.
The blue light did not appear at once. The system, as ever, waited. It did not interrupt the mont. It did not announce itself like a triumph. It simply... acknowledged.
When Anders let it rise, it felt heavier than before. Denser. Like sothing that had taken its ti deciding whether he was worth the investnt.
The screen unfolded before him, unseen by anyone else.
Level Up Achieved x3
Current Level: 5
Stat Increase Applied:
Strength 10
Endurance 10
Agility 10
Perception 10
Will 10
Unassigned Attribute Points: 4
No fanfare.
No praise.
Just fact.
Anders absorbed it silently. Three levels. Not for the kill—but for survival. For endurance. For decision-making under pressure that had not been guided or protected.
Four unassigned points.
He felt them—not as power, but as potential. Like weight he could add later, once he understood what kind of balance he truly needed.
Not yet, he thought.
The system did not argue.
He let the screen fade.
Astrid was watching him closely now. "You went quiet," she said. "Where did you go just now?"
"Nowhere," Anders replied. "Just... counting."
Freydis tilted her head. "You do that a lot."
He smiled faintly. "It helps."
A horn sounded outside then—long and low.
Astrid stiffened. Freydis straightened instantly, already moving toward the door.
"That’s Erik," Freydis said. "And my father."
Voices rose outside—shouts, exclamations, the unmistakable sound of effort. Sothing heavy was being dragged across packed earth.
Astrid crossed to the doorway and looked out.
Her breath caught.
They had brought them back.
The elk ca first—massive even in death, antlers wide and heavy, its body borne by four n straining under the weight. Blood stained its hide, dark and crusted where it had run.
And then the bear.
The village fell silent as it erged into view.
It took eight n to drag it, and even then they moved slowly, carefully, as if wary it might rise again. The bear’s size was undeniable—shoulders broader than any man in the village, limbs thick as logs, fur matted and dark.
Its throat... ruined.
A murmur rippled through the gathered villagers. Not cheers. Not triumph.
Shock.
"Gods above," soone whispered.
"What did that?" another asked.
Erik’s voice cut through them, calm but firm. "No boasting," he said. "No shouting."
He rested a hand on the bear’s massive flank. "My son survived it."
That was all.
The murmur changed then. Shifted into sothing quieter. Heavier.
Inside the longhouse, Astrid pressed her hand to her mouth. Freydis stared, eyes wide—not in horror, but in fierce, dawning understanding.
"That’s what almost killed you," Freydis said softly.
Anders nodded. "Yes."
"And you killed it," she said.
He shook his head slowly. "No. I outlasted it."
Astrid turned back to him sharply. "Anders."
He t her gaze. "Mother."
She swallowed. "You are not allowed to outlast things like that again."
He managed a weak chuckle. "I’ll put it on my list."
She smacked his good shoulder lightly. "Not funny."
"It was a little funny," Freydis said.
Astrid shot her a look.
As the day wore on, the shock did not fade. If anything, it deepened. People ca quietly to the longhouse, not to gawk at Anders, but to leave things—food, clean cloth, charms carved from bone or wood. No one spoke loudly. No one celebrated.
They had seen the bear.
They understood the margin.
By evening, Astrid noticed it again.
"Your breathing," she said, sitting beside Anders. "It’s stronger."
"And your color," Freydis added. "You don’t look... grey anymore."
Anders flexed his fingers slowly. Pain flared—but it was manageable. Less than it should have been.
"I feel..." He searched for the word. "Tired. But clearer."
Astrid’s eyes shone with worry. "This isn’t normal."
"No," Anders agreed. "It isn’t."
They sat in silence for a while after that, firelight flickering across the beams.
Eventually, Freydis spoke again. "When you were out there," she said carefully, "were you afraid?"
Anders considered the question honestly.
"No," he said. "But I was... lonely."
They both looked at him.
He stared at the ceiling again, thoughts drifting where he usually kept them tightly leashed.
"I rember things," he said quietly. "From before. Touch. Comfort. Being close to soone without it being... complicated."
Astrid’s hand stilled.
Freydis frowned slightly, not in judgnt, but confusion.
"It’s been five years," Anders continued. "Five years since I was an adult. Since I could reach for soone without it being wrong."
His jaw tightened. "I know I have to wait. I know that. I will wait. Until I’m at least eighteen. Until it’s right."
Astrid closed her eyes briefly.
"But knowing doesn’t make the waiting easier," Anders finished. "It just makes it heavier."
Freydis nodded slowly. "I think," she said, "that ans you rember what it is to be human."
Astrid reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. "And that," she said, voice thick, "is why I am terrified... and proud... and grateful all at once."
Anders squeezed back, carefully.
Outside, the village settled into night under the weight of new knowledge.
Inside, Anders lay awake, healing too quickly, growing too fast, missing things he was not yet allowed to have.
He had survived.
But survival, he was learning, was only the beginning.
What mattered now—what would change him—was how he carried the weight of it forward.
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