The first ti Anders heard it, he didn’t realize it was ant for him.
He was standing near the racks at the edge of the village, working through slow, deliberate shield movents—nothing heavy yet, nothing that would pull at ribs that had only recently rembered what it ant to be whole. The shield was smaller than the one he trained with before the bear, lighter, but he treated it with the sa care. Foot placent. Balance. Breath.
Behind him, two n were talking in low voices.
"...Bear’s Bane," one of them said, half-laughing, half-awed.
"Aye," the other replied. "That fits. Or Bearskin. Did you see the size of it?"
Anders frowned slightly, adjusting his grip.
He turned.
They went silent imdiately.
"Oh—" the first man started. "Didn’t an—"
"It’s fine," Anders said calmly. "What were you talking about?"
The n exchanged a look.
"Well," the second said carefully, "folk need sothing to call you, lad."
Anders blinked. "My na works."
The first man chuckled nervously. "Aye. But nas grow. They always do."
They left soon after, clearly uncomfortable, leaving Anders alone with the shield and a feeling he didn’t like at all.
Nas grow.
By midday, he heard it again.
A trader from upriver, beard braided with copper wire, telling the story to a cluster of villagers near the docks.
"...boy didn’t just kill it," the trader said, voice animated. "He stood his ground. Took the weight. Opened its throat like a butcher."
"Anders Bearskin," soone murmured.
Another voice added, "Bear’s Bane sounds better."
Anders stopped training and watched from a distance.
They weren’t lying.
That, sohow, made it worse.
Astrid noticed the change before Anders did.
She always did.
People lingered longer now when they ca near the longhouse. They didn’t just bring food or cloth anymore. They brought things. Offerings, really—though no one used that word aloud.
A knife with a carved hilt, far too fine for a child.
A bundle of fox furs, clean and soft.
A length of chain, links hamred thick and heavy.
Astrid accepted them politely, then stacked them carefully out of sight.
"They don’t belong to him," she muttered to Freydis as they worked. "Not yet."
Freydis watched a man bow—actually bow—before leaving.
"They think they’re honoring him," she said.
"They’re claiming him," Astrid replied sharply.
Freydis didn’t argue.
By the second day, outsiders began to arrive deliberately.
Not just traders passing through. People who had heard sothing and wanted to see if it was true. A boy who had survived a bear. A boy who healed too quickly. A boy with a na that was beginning to harden into legend.
They stared.
They whispered.
They waited to see what he would do.
Anders felt it like pressure on his skin.
He resud training anyway.
Three days after the bear, he was back on his feet fully. Bruises had faded to faint shadows. His arm still ached when he pushed too hard, but it obeyed him again. The system said nothing. It never did when he recovered. It simply allowed it.
He ran the periter at dawn.
Worked shield and sword in controlled sets.
Practiced balance drills with added weight.
People watched from a distance.
He ignored them.
Inside, though, his thoughts churned.
This is how it starts, he realized. Not with crowns. With stories.
He rembered history too well not to recognize the pattern. Nas created expectation. Expectation created pressure. Pressure demanded performance.
And performance demanded blood.
On the third evening, Erik called him inside.
Sten was already there, seated at the long table, arms crossed, expression thoughtful rather than amused for once.
Anders took his place opposite them without ceremony.
"You’re healed," Erik said, not a question.
"Enough," Anders replied.
Sten grunted. "That’ll have to do."
There was a pause.
Then Erik leaned forward.
"You’ve noticed the nas."
Anders nodded. "I don’t like them."
"Good," Sten said. "That ans you’re still thinking."
Erik folded his hands. "Nas are tools," he said. "So are feasts."
Anders looked between them. "You’re planning sothing."
Sten snorted. "Of course we are."
Erik continued, "People are coming already. Whether we invite them or not. If we let this grow wild, it will turn on us—or on you."
Sten leaned in. "If n gather around a na," he said, voice low, "that na becos a banner."
Anders felt the truth of it settle heavily in his chest.
"You want to raise a banner," he said quietly.
"We want to control one," Erik replied. "Before soone else does."
Sten nodded. "A feast. In your honor—but not for you."
Anders frowned. "Explain."
"We celebrate the elk," Erik said. "The bear. The hunt. Strength. Survival."
"And we invite Jarls," Sten added. "Neighbors. Rivals. n who need to see things with their own eyes."
"And what am I supposed to do?" Anders asked.
Erik t his gaze steadily. "You exist."
That answer chilled him more than any threat.
"You don’t boast," Sten said. "You don’t posture. You don’t challenge. You train. You speak when spoken to. You let them asure."
"And if they don’t like what they see?" Anders asked.
Sten smiled thinly. "Then they leave."
"And if they do?" Anders pressed.
Erik exhaled slowly. "Then we beco sothing larger than two clans clinging to a shore."
Silence followed.
Anders looked down at his hands.
This is earlier than it should be, he thought. Far earlier.
But history didn’t care about schedules.
"When?" he asked.
"In a week," Erik said. "Ti to brew. Ti to slaughter. Ti for word to spread."
Sten stood. "Ti for the board to be set."
The village changed after that.
Preparation has a way of sharpening purpose.
Brewers worked day and night. Smokehouses filled. Nets were nded. Long-neglected paths were cleared. Even the docks grew busy as ships began to arrive—so invited, so rely curious.
With every arrival, the stories grew.
The bear got bigger.
The boy got calr.
The mont got heavier.
Anders trained at dusk, when the light softened and the watching eyes grew fewer. Freydis joined him sotis, sparring lightly, never pressing his injuries.
"You don’t smile anymore," she noted once, lowering her shield.
Anders shrugged. "Smiling invites questions."
She tilted her head. "You’re afraid."
He considered lying.
Instead, he said, "I’m aware."
She smiled faintly. "Good. Fear keeps sharp edges sharp."
On the night before the feast, Anders stood alone at the edge of the village, watching the tide roll in beneath a sky scattered with stars.
He flexed his hands, feeling strength there—real strength now—but also sothing heavier.
Expectation.
Nas had been placed on him like armor he hadn’t asked for.
And armor, he knew, always shaped the body beneath it.
Behind him, the village humd with preparation.
Ahead of him, the dark sea waited.
Anders Bear’s Bane.
Anders Bearskin.
He exhaled slowly.
Nas carry weight, he thought.
Let’s see who can lift them.
Behind him, the first horns sounded—long, asured calls that carried out over water and wood alike.
The feast was coming.
And with it, the mont when n would decide whether a boy was a story...
or the beginning of sothing they could no longer stop.
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