After my frami died down and Dad explained the situation to Dorri—I was a bit too distracted with my newfound power to pay much attention to the specifics—Dorri decided to accompany us to the Seeress'' tent. To better discuss what to do about the potential for wolves, as I understand it.


    "Holding off a frenzied wolf like that, one that manifested thunder no less," Dorri shakes his head, a low whistle leaving his lips, "That boy of yours is turning out to be quite something, isn''t he?" Dorri snorts, eyes gleaming as he nods towards me, "Of course, I could say that about all your children."


    "I am very proud of them, all of them," Dad answers with a smile as he rests a hand on my shoulder. He shoots me a sharp glance, a warning. I squint back, momentary confusion banished by sparking realization. I wasn''t going to say anything, honest! I mean, sure, Asva isn''t all that impressive compared to me or Sten, or even Eric, but that doesn''t make her not a Volsung! Her chest beats with the power of the Stoker State, just the same as it does for all descendants of the dragon-slayer.


    "Your eldest had enough potential that a miracle-smith came all the way from Finland to collect him," Dorri begins to list off all the feats of my siblings and I. "Young Eric has enough kunna-control over the ever-rebellious winds to stop a frenzied wolf from harming neither sheep nor your youngest, who shows incredible intelligence at such a young age." The shadow of a frown crosses Dad''s face, a frown that''s mirrored on mine a moment later. "Really, the only one of your children that hasn''t shown much promise is young Asva."


    "She will come into her own," Dad''s answer is extremely diplomatic, but there is still an ounce of heat in his voice, "How goes your own child? Has Folkmarr taken up your Rattling Spear art yet?"


    I take a deep breath to hide my burgeoning smile. I, like any child of men of high status, am well aware of the posturing and social sparring that make up any kind of interaction between men of class. It is important that their children, when two such men clash, do not give the other side material to work with.


    Dorri stills, face frozen in stone, "He goes well."


    Still, it is difficult to conceal my joy when Dad lands such a blow. Come after my sister, will you? Not so fun when it''s your own children—my apologies, child—on the chopping block, is it?


    Dad hums and changes the subject, point made loud and clear, "The wolf Eric killed could have had friends, for wolves often hunt in packs."


    Eric killed? But, but I did that!


    "Indeed," Dorri mutters, life returning to his face, "but, you said it was frenzied, no? Such an affliction robs beasts of their sensibilities, but you have more experience than I in hunting such creatures, so I will defer to your expertise."


    "It falls on the status of the pack," Dad eventually says after taking a few moments to think it through, "This wolf was likely outlawed from its pack as its frenzy grew too quickly, but the curse may have spread to its kin before it was cast out."


    "You make a convincing argument," Dorri nods as he slows his pace and falls behind the group, "I will speak with Logi on the matter and have him, with your blessing, organize a search of your lands for this beast''s kin."


    Dad frowns, as do I. Logi Firehair is one of the top three warriors in the Hading, third after Dorri and Dad respectively. It is no secret that he covets the title of the Hading''s strongest fire-wielder, a title held by Dad for as long as I care to recall.


    "I would rather track it on my own, for the Hading is sparse enough with game as it is and a search party would only send what little there is into flight."


    "A fair reason," Dorri replies as he slows to a stop, "I will leave you to your business with the Seeress, then, but do keep me informed on the status of the wolves."


    "Of course," Dad offers a short bow of the head as Dorri takes his leave.


    "I don''t like him very much," I say after Dorri clears earshot. The ring on my thumb feels oddly heavy as I run fingers across its silver surface.


    Dad hums, "You don''t have to like him, only tolerate him as long as he holds to his oaths."


    A Hersir’s primary goal, like any member of the Jarl class, is to provide means for those who collect beneath his banner to earn ordstirr. Whether that’s by raiding, sharing out his wealth, or by other means it matters not, as long as he holds true to his oaths of service so to will his men hold to his banner.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    I echo Dad’s hum as we arrive at the Seeress'' tent.


    <hr>


    "Steinarr."


    "Solrun."


    The opening exchange between Dad and the Seeress could be described by many words. Frosty could certainly work, as would terse, and curt is definitely hanging around in the vicinity, but the word that best fits can only be familiar.


    Solrun, Seeress of the Hading, is a small woman of advanced age. Starting at her eye-sockets with three lines to a cheek, red paint flows in streaks down her face. Her eyes and hair share the same light gray and her wrinkled skin is pale from a lack of sun. Her limbs are thin and she clings to a gnarled staff as if it is the only thing keeping her from collapsing—perhaps because it is.


    There can be no recognizing Solrun as anything other than weak, but mistaking weakness of the body for weakness of the mind is an error one can make but only once. Enough hugr, the power of the mind, and a man can do anything just by thinking about it hard enough. Sink ships far away from shore, curse a man from half-a-world away, summon storms, and soften swords, such and more are the purview of the wise.


    Still, family is family, even when separated by generations, for Solrun was once a concubine of the Blackhand and, thus, half-step kin to Dad and I.


    Solrun sighs, breaking eye-contact with a hang of the head as long wispy locks drape across her face, "Kolla, prepare the kettle. We have guests."


    A lurking shadow shifts in the darkness, emerging in the shape of a girl no older than eight. With pale gray eyes blanker than my mind whenever someone asks me an unexpected question, Kolla maneuvers through the dim space without even bothering to move eyes let alone head. She pauses just before the kettle''s resting place, a tentpole-braced shelf, and inclines her head towards the group, "Do you wish for milk?"


    "No, but Halla does," Dad answers for the both of us as I turn a quizzical stare his way. He shrugs, "You''ll want it." I shrug back, uncertain but trusting.


    Kolla nods and collects the kettle before disappearing once more into the darkness.


    Solrun''s lips thin as she gestures for us to enter. Soon, Dad and I find ourselves seated across from the Seeress with Eric''s wrapped body between both sides.


    "Tell me, then," Solrun begins as wizened fingers reach for the cloth, "what have you brought to my door?"


    "My son, Eric," Dad explains the situation to Solrun. She nods along, calmly thinking matters through while unwrapping Eric''s body. I brace myself, fingers gripping the armrests, as Eric is unveiled once more.


    Even prepared, I nearly vomit as the charred hole greets my gaze. I gag, body shaking, as all eyes fall on me.


    "Halla," Solrun''s voice is gentle and soft, a soothing balm to my open wound, "I think it best if you waited outside."


    "N-no!" I force out, managing to keep myself upright despite the painful sight. I need to stay strong, I need to face my fears.


    "Halla," Dad speaks this time, his voice adding the firmness Solrun''s lacked, "you should wait outside."


    I open my mouth but find nothing there. Eric''s pale, waxy face sits shrouded in shadows, the only thing keeping me from losing my pride. I swallow.


    They''re right... I''m not ready, not yet.


    But I will be.


    Taking flight from the chair, I soon find myself swaddled in the fresh air of the ocean''s breeze. Though I''ve left the tent, I am far from alone.


    "He is not dead, you know," Kolla''s empty eyes drill straight through my back. Her speech is slightly stilted, like her voice can''t handle her words.


    "I-I know that!" I snap at her, twisting away from her stare. It''s unfair of me, I know, but I just can''t help it.


    "No, you do not," Kolla''s words draw me up short. "You believe that he is dead, but can be brought back to life. This is not the case."


    I blink, brows furrowing as heat builds in my chest, "I..." a scowl creases my face, fury ignites my gaze, "Alright! So if he isn''t dead, then what in all the worlds is he, huh? He''s not breathing, his heart doesn''t beat! He''s dead, dammit!"


    "Your definition of death is incorrect." Kolla continues to stare, eyes completely unblinking, "Eric''s soul is in a state of shock, but it is still in his body. It has not left for other worlds."


    "I... what?"


    "A sudden burst of sufficient pain sends the soul into shock. It cannot control the body in this state. It is similar to sleep. You do not die when you are sleeping, but you cannot control your body."


    "So..."


    "He is not dead. Once his soul is awoken, he will have control over his body once more."


    "Even with the...?" I wave a hand at my chest.


    Kolla blinks, tilting her head to the side, "The condition of his body does not matter. It is not his Fated Day. Nothing can kill him until then."


    "And nothing can save him when it comes, yeah," I finish for her, recalling the first and most important of all the laws.


    All Men Die.