The ground was already soaked by the ti the smoke cleared.
n lay where they had fallen, so twisted, so still, so staring at the sky with eyes that had not yet understood how quickly strength could be stolen from them. Shields lay split open like rotten fruit, steel-tipped bolts buried deep where wood and iron had failed. Blood darkened the grass, turning trampled earth into slick mud beneath boot and knee.
Five minutes.
Less, perhaps.
That was all it had taken.
Another volley cut through the air.
The sound was final—short, sharp, absolute.
When it ended, only ten of Olav Drekason’s n remained standing.
They were wounded. Bleeding. Breathing hard. But they did not drop their weapons. They did not run.
They stood together, shoulder to shoulder, the last of an age that had already decided it would not bend.
Anders raised his hand.
The crossbows went silent.
Then he moved.
Not alone.
His blood oath brothers stepped with him, forming a loose, deliberate advance. Vidar at his right. Soren at his left. Bjornulf just behind, eyes sharp despite the carnage. Magnus and Alaric moved farther out, closing angles. Sindre and Jorund filled the gaps without needing instruction.
Behind them ca others—trusted, chosen.
Erik stepped forward, face carved from stone, sword in hand. Astrid followed, not as a warrior, but as witness—eyes steady, refusing to look away from what her son had beco. Freydis moved beside Anders, shield strapped, jaw set, erald eyes burning with sothing that was not fear.
The remaining Thorsgard warriors spread outward, forming a living ring.
The ten n of Olav’s line were surrounded.
The world went quiet in the way it only does when everything that matters has already happened.
Anders stopped a few paces from Olav.
Mud clung to his boots. Blood flecked his shield. His breathing was steady.
"Olav Drekason," Anders said clearly, his voice carrying across the field. "I will fight you myself."
Olav stepped forward, limping now, blood running down one leg. He planted his shield and leaned into it, sword still firm in his grip.
Anders continued, his gaze passing briefly over the remaining n. "Every man here will die with a weapon in his hand. No one will be denied the path."
The wind shifted.
For a heartbeat—just one—there was a sound like fabric moving through air, like feathers brushing the sky.
So heard it.
So only felt it.
Valkyries, or the promise of them, rode the wind.
Olav laughed.
It was a raw sound, edged with pain and joy both. "Then co, boy."
Anders raised his shield.
They closed.
Shield t shield with a sound like a tree splitting.
Olav staggered back half a step, eyes widening as the force traveled through his arm and into his shoulder.
By the gods.
That was not a child’s strength.
Olav laughed again, breath hitching. "That weight," he said between breaths. "That pressure—"
He grinned, blood running from the corner of his mouth. "I wish my son had been this strong."
Anders did not smile.
"I’ve been training since I was six months old," he said.
Olav barked a laugh even as they clashed again.
Steel rang. Shields scraped. Mud sucked at their feet.
Olav fought like a man who had survived too many battles to fear one more. He slashed low, then high, using angles learned through decades of pain. His shield snapped forward, testing Anders’ balance.
Anders absorbed it.
He gave ground when it mattered. Pressed when it counted. He did not rush. He did not waste motion.
The fight tightened.
They were close now—so close that Anders could sll Olav’s sweat and blood, could hear the rasp of breath in his chest.
Olav struck again, aiming for Anders’ head.
Anders caught it on his shield and answered with a body blow that drove air from Olav’s lungs.
Olav snarled and swung again.
Anders shifted his weight and slamd his shield down—hard—into Olav’s bad knee.
The sound was wet and wrong.
Olav cried out as the leg buckled beneath him.
For a single heartbeat, the opening existed.
Anders took it.
He drove his blade forward, straight and sure, through Olav’s chest.
The force carried them both down.
Olav hit the mud on his back, breath leaving him in a ragged gasp. Anders pulled the blade free and stepped back, chest heaving for the first ti.
Blood spread beneath Olav, dark and steaming.
The old warlord laughed softly, a sound more breath than voice.
He looked up at Anders, eyes clear.
"Thank you," Olav said.
Anders t his gaze, silent.
"For a clean death," Olav finished.
Then his eyes went still.
The wind passed over the field once more, and this ti the sound was unmistakable.
Wings.
The last of Olav’s n fell soon after, each with weapon in hand, each eting the end they had chosen.
When it was over, Anders stood alone at the center of the field, mud and blood clinging to him, sword heavy in his grip.
The old world lay broken at his feet.
And Valhalla had been fed.
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