20- No matter the Era, Faith stands above all else.

The salt-scoured wind that had pushed them across the Sea began to change. It was a subtle shift at first. Then it carried a new scent, one woven from damp earth, pine, and the familiar, reassuring tang of woodsmoke. It was a scent every man on board knew better than his own name: Home.

On deck, the boisterous celebration of their sucess had subsided into a focused, anticipatory silence. The crew stood by the rails, their gazes fixed ahead. Leif pointed a steady finger towards a dark shape piercing the morning mist. "The sea-stack. Another hour."

Ragnar stood at the dragon-prow, his hand resting on its carved neck. The wind whipped his hair and beard, but his eyes were steady, scanning the familiar shoreline.

Beside him, Bjorn was a mirror of Ragnar's stillness. The ache of his loss was still there, but it was now shielded by a stoic mask, a resolve forged in grief. He looked at the approaching village not as a man returning home, but as a general surveying the staging ground for future wars.

"I can feel it in you," Ragnar said quietly, his voice a low rumble that didn't carry beyond his son. "The anger. The thirst for blood. It is a good fire, but a fire that is not controlled will burn the house down with the enemy inside. Do not rush it, and more importantly, do not do anything stupid." He placed a heavy, reassuring hand on Bjorn's shoulder, a rare gesture of physical comfort.

Bjorn met Ragnar's eyes for a long moment, blue staring into identical blue, then gave a curt nod. "I know. No hasty moves." His tone held an edge, less a promise of patience, more a warning of controlled intent.

Ragnar watched him a moment longer, but said nothing more.

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In Kattegat, the day was like any other. Women sat on benches outside the longhouses, their fingers moving with practiced nimbleness as they mended nets, their easy chatter mixing with the shrill cries of children chasing each other through the mud. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of an axe splitting firewood provided a calm beat to the village's life.

A boy, perched on the rocky outcrop that served as a lookout was chewing on a piece of dried fish when he saw it. A single sail, dark against the grey water, rounding the far bend of the fjord. He squinted, his heart giving a sudden, hard thump against his ribs.

The sail was unfamiliar, a deep, brooding red. The figurehead on the prow was a dragon, but not one they'd seen before. The boy narrowed his eyes. This wasn't one of the Earl's ships. Not one that had ever sailed from these shores. And yet, it was coming towards them,.

"Ship!" he shouted, his voice cracking with a mix of fear and excitement. "An unknown ship in the fjord!"

Heads lifted. The women's chatter stopped, their hands frozen over their nets. The rhythmic chopping of the axe paused mid-swing. Men left their work, hands instinctively reaching for the axes tucked in their belts, and began to move towards the docks, their faces a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

The boy scrambled down the slope, his feet skidding over loose stones, lungs burning with urgency. His bare legs pumped as he tore through the outskirts of the village, weaving past startled goats and ducking under hanging fish racks. Breathless, he shouted again; "A strange sail! A dragon ship in the fjord!"

The alarm rippled through Kattegat like a stone tossed into a still pond, eventually reaching the great hall and the Earl himself.

After a while, they came. Not a panicked mob, but ten of the Earl's Skjaldmenn, his Shield-Men, . They moved as a single unit, The only sounds were the soft slap of leather boots on wet stone, the muted creak of their jerkins, and the steady tap of spear-shafts resting on their shoulders. Round shields, painted in dark earth-tones of black and deep red, were slung on their backs, and heavy-bladed axes hung at their belts.

At their head rode Hrafn Gormson. Once the captain of the Guard, the Hirðstjóri, he had been demoted after his humbling defeat against Bjorn. Now he was Miðstjóri, right-hand man to the new captain, Torvald Ketilsson. Hrafn sat easily on his horse, a privilege of his rank. He wore no helmet, just a simple leather cap, its edges hardened with oil. A thick, grey wool cloak was pinned at one shoulder. His tunic and trousers were patched in places, but meticulously cared for, proof that a leader needn't shine in steel to command respect.

Hrafn lifted a hand, and the column halted as one. They fanned out, forming a loose arc along the dock's edge. It was not a welcome line, but a ring of wary guardianship.

A younger warrior beside him, , whispered, "No banners, and no clan markings on the sail."

Hrafn's gaze was unflinching as it stared out over the water. "Then they sail without the Earl's name on their prow," he stated, the words flat and cold.

They waited. The fjord lay hushed, its mist curling. Then the longship appeared from the fog, sliding forward on the shallow water . As the mist parted , they saw him. Ragnar Lothbrok.

He stood at the bow, his sea-stained cloak whipping behind him, his eyes as calm as the sea he'd just crossed. His crew fell silent behind him, a wall of weathered faces and watchful eyes. There was no sign of panic, only the quiet, coiled tension of men ready for whatever came next.

Hrafn's lips pressed into a thin, hard line. Ragnar had vanished west in secret, defying the Earl's direct orders, and now he returned without a word.

A grizzled warrior next to Hrafn shifted, his hand unconsciously brushing the haft of his axe. "What are your orders, Hrafn?"

Hrafn's eyes never left the ship. "Let him step ashore." His voice was low, but every warrior heard the iron authority in it. Behind them, the gathering crowd of villagers held its breath, waiting for the first move in this quiet standoff.

The longship eased beside the dock, its oars dipping one final, synchronized time. It bumped the timber gently, a soft, final groan.

Ragnar stepped down first. No ceremony, no hesitation. His boots hit the dock with a thud. Bjorn followed a heartbeat later, then Rollo, and Floki, his movements jerky and bird-like. The rest of the crew began to follow, hauling heavy chests bound in iron and leading five bewildered, pale-faced slaves in strange cloth.

Hrafn dismounted, letting the reins fall without a word. He didn't posture or puff out his chest. He was a soldier. Orders brought him here, and duty would take him back. He approached slowly, his men parting for him, his eyes locked on Ragnar. "Ragnar Lothbrok," he said, his voice steady and formal. "The Earl is waiting. He'll want to hear everything."

Ragnar met his gaze, a faint, unreadable smile touching his lips. "Of course. I have much to tell. Of coin and rich land, of a new god, and of what truly lies beyond the western sea."

Hrafn lifted a hand, gesturing toward the path that snaked up to the great longhouse. "That is for Lord Haraldson to judge. My duty is to guard this dock. Yours is now to explain your defiance." Hrafn's eyes flicked to the chests being unloaded, a glint of gold visible through a crack, then swept the length of the weary crew, then to the slaves, the monks, 'So, they truly found the west'. But when his gaze reached Bjorn, it stopped. For a moment, and the world seemed to quiet.

Without another word, Hrafn turned on his heel and started walking, the warriors parting to let Ragnar and his men pass through their ranks.

As they marched up the path, surrounded by the silent guard and the whispering villagers, Hrafn glanced back at Ragnar. "If the gods favour you today, you'll find Haraldson merciful. If not…" He shrugged, the gesture eloquent. "You'll learn the price of disobedience."

Ragnar acknowledged him with a slight nod, his eyes fixed forward on the imposing roof of the great hall.

Hrafn then slowed his pace slightly, falling in beside Bjorn. His voice was lower now, meant only for him. "I still remember our fight in the circle. I remember your eyes. You looked at the world like it was still opening up to you. There was light in them. Like you expected good things."

Bjorn looked at him, his face impassive. "The world did open up, just not in the way i expected. And it seems you got demoted, Hrafn, since you are the one who greets us now instead of leading the guards from the hall."

Hrafn blinked, the insult landing squarely. Then, a low chuckle escaped him, a sound of dry, weary surprise. "Well," he muttered, shaking his head slightly. "It seems that boy really is dead, huh. And a man walked back in his place."

He turned slightly, walking beside them now. His voice dropped lower still, just enough for Ragnar and Bjorn to hear over the tramp of boots. "Whatever happens in that hall… remember it's not personal. I follow my Earl's orders. That's all."

Ragnar didn't break stride. "We all do what we must, Hrafn."

Bjorn backed up a litttle to one of the crew, Alf," Do you remember what i told you."

Alf then looked at his friend Alvis, then back to Bjorn, "Ah, yes, all of it."

Bjorn then nodded and tapped him on his shoulder, "Thank you."

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Through the carved wooden doors of the hall they passed, leaving the chill of the fjord behind for the heat of the longhouse. Inside, torches cast light on shields and weapons.

At the high seat, on a throne of dark, polished wood, sat Earl Haraldson. He was draped in wolf and bear furs, and his gaze was already fixed on them. To his right sat Siggy, her fingers tight around a beaded pouch of amber.

To his left perched the local goði, the law-speaker, Jorund Rekk, sat upright on a bench beside the law-staff, both hands resting on his knees, spine straight as a spear. His wool cloak was unadorned.

Brandr Galti, the lore keeper, was standing near the high seat, slightly back. His grizzled hair caught the firelight. He watched Ragnar and his crew enter and put the treasure on the earth than take their positions.

Along the dais lined Haraldson's inner circle: chieftains of neighboring farms, wealthy traders in furs, and the Earl's finest bodyguards, helms tipped forward.

Svein, Haraldson's enforcer, was weighting the treasure that Ragnar and his crew brought.

At last, Earl Haraldson rose. Every sword‐arm and spear‐shaft in the hall shifted slightly, as if waking from a long, uneasy slumber. He let his gaze sweep down the line of his finest bodyguards, Svein, then settled on the seer, whose presence was unusual as he often stayed in solitude, he was sitting slightly apart in a shadowed corner.

Turning back to Ragnar, Haraldson allowed the silence to press in. He raised one arm, letting the torchlight dance across the braided silver ring on his wrist. He began, "Tell me," he said, each word measured, "what is this?"

Svein, ever quick to serve, raised his voice. "An arm-ring, my lord."

"And what does it signify?" Haraldson's eyes gleamed with deliberate calm.

Haraldson did not look at him. He kept his eyes on Ragnar without blinking. "And what," he continued, "does it signify?"

Svein’s tone grew formal now, sensing the shift. "Sworn fealty, my lord. A bond of loyalty between lord and man."

A beat of silence, and the air grew tighter.

Haraldson tilted his head just slightly, like a wolf before the lunge. His voice dropped further, calm. "Then...do you bear such a ring of mine?...Have you sworn your faith to me?", then he pointed to the silver arm on Ragnar's Wrist.

The silence that followed was no longer quiet, it was oppressive. Ragnar stood still, his eyes on the Earl, unreadable. He said nothing.

A hush spread across the hall.

Haraldson’s jaw flexed. "You were told not to sail west. You were forbidden from taking a ship, or making one."

Then he paused. Not just silence now, instead it's expectation. And the whole hall was waiting for the blow. "Yet you defied my word. The word of your Earl."

He leaned forward slightly with his eyes narrowing. "You stand before me...a traitor."

He turned, just slightly, to where Jǫrund Rekk, the Law-Speaker, sat with his staff upright. "What does the law say," Haraldson asked, "is the punishment for betrayal of one's lord?"

Jǫrund’s voice came clear and without haste, nor hesitation. "Exile, if the lord is merciful. Death, if he is not."

A hush fell over the hall. You could feel the weight of those words press against every chest in the room.

Haraldson looked back at Ragnar, and now his calm was cracking. "Which do you believe I am, Ragnar Lothbrok?"

The hall held its breath.

"My Lord," Ragnar said, his voice calm in the suffocating silence.. "It is true that I went against your wishes. I did not do so out of defiance, but out of the belief that there was a better future for our people than scratching at the poor lands to the east."

Haraldson sneered, a twisting of his lips that was more contemptuous than a shout. "A belief? You risked the lives of these men on a belief? On a wanderer's tale?"

"And my own life," Ragnar replied, his voice hardening slightly. "And my son's." He turned and nodded to his men. Leif and Thorstein came forward, carrying a heavy closed wooden chest between them. They set it down before the fire with a solid, echoing thud. "We risked our lives for this."

With a gesture from Ragnar, Leif threw back the heavy lid.

A collective gasp swept the hall. Even the hardened housecarls shifted on their feet.

In the dim, smoky light, the contents of the chest seemed to possess a light of their own. It was a hoard unlike any they had ever seen. Golden goblets decorated with images of strange beasts, silver plates thick enough to stop a blade, intricate crosses studded with polished, glowing stones, and books bound in rich, red leather crusted with gems.

The Earl's eyes narrowed, a flicker of raw avarice warring with his anger. Beside him, Siggy leaned forward, her mask of indifference momentarily cracking.

"My lord, it was easy to take all of these things." Ragnar said, pressing his advantage. "The priests in their temple, they had no weapons. They were like babies." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the huddled, terrified priest, Athelstan. "Here is one of their priests. We captured several of them to sell for slaves. It must be true that there are many more such holy places in this England and other lands to the west likewise filled with such treasure, and to sail there will benefit us all."

Excited murmurs broke out, a low hum of greed and wonder that was quickly silenced by a look from the Earl.

Haraldson walked slowly around the chest, his eyes devouring the contents. He then looked at Ragnar, a cold smile forming. "But you understand that the law is clear," he declared, his voice booming, reasserting his power. "That all wealth discovered by any man who lives on my land, belongs to me. It is all forfeit to me."

Ragnar’s jaw tightened. "My lord, Floki and I paid for the boat. We built it. Surely my crew and I are entitled to a share..."

"A share?" Haraldson cut him off with a sharp laugh, and the crowd, taking its cue, joined him. "You want me to reward you for disobeying me? For taking things as easily as from babies?" He let the laughter die down.

"Here is what I have decided." He spread his hands, playing the magnanimous lord. "Each of you may take one thing from this chest."

Leif’s jaw dropped. "One thing?"

"Yes," Haraldson said, his smile widening. "One. And you will still be richer than you were yesterday. Now, all the world can see how generous I am, even to those who defy me." He gaze returns to Ragnar. "So, Ragnar Lothbrok. What will you choose?"

Rollo, who was close to ragnar, had so much anger, that he was ready to draw his axe and tore his way through and kill Haraldson, right there and then? But he was stopped by Bjorn, who was behind him, by a shake of head.

All eyes were on Ragnar. The humiliation was thick in the air. Ragnar surveyed the treasure, then looked past it, his eyes landing on the captive. "I will take the priest."

Haraldson blinked, surprised. Siggy let out a sharp, mocking laugh, and again the hall joined in. The idea of choosing a scrawny, terrified young man over a fortune in gold was absurd to them.

"The priest?" Haraldson chuckled. "Granted. But first, you will tell me. How did you find this place when all before you failed? What secret, did you use?"

Ragnar met his stare. "There was no secret, my lord. We had something better." He paused, letting the silence build again. "We had the Thor on our side."

The man behind him, remembering that moment, all said in unison. "Thor."

Haraldson’s smile faltered. This was a dangerous claim.

Alf knowing his moment came as Bjorn told him, stepped forward. "My lord," He said, "During a storm that would have broken all kinds of ships. Thor himself came to visit us, and he left a mark to prove his favour." He pointed toward Bjorn.

Haraldson's expression sharpened. Divine favor was a serious claim, one that could not be dismissed lightly. If the gods had truly blessed Ragnar's expedition, then opposing him might be opposing the gods themselves.

All eyes turned to Bjorn. The young man had been silent since entering the hall, but now he stepped forward. Without a word, Bjorn reached up and unfastened the brooch at his shoulder.
Slowly, he pulled the tunic aside, baring the skin beneath the collarbone.

There, carved into his skin and still healing, was a rune unlike any the assembled warriors had seen. It was the rune of Thoriz, Thor's thunder, but it was larger and more elaborate than any normal carving.

A wave of awe and fear washed over the hall. The rune was clearly fresh, but the scarring around it suggested it had been made with more than human tools. The edges were too precise, the depth too even, the healing too clean.

"How?" Haraldson breathed, his voice suddenly quiet, all mockery gone.

Bjorn met his gaze steadily. "I have the heard the voice of Thor during a storm." Then turned around to the people. "He said the old ways of thinking were ending, and that new paths were opening. He marked me as a sign that the gods approve of what we've done."

The hall fell silent. Everyone understood the implications. If Thor had truly blessed Ragnar's expedition, then everything changed. The gods' favor was not something any mortal could ignore, not an earl, not even a king.

But Haraldson had not held power for twenty-two years by being easily impressed. Divine favor was a claim that could be made by anyone, and the gods were notoriously difficult to interpret. Still, the rune was undeniably real, and its appearance was beyond the skill of any normal craftsman. Perhaps.

He opened his mouth as if to speak further, but then his eyes shifted, to where the seer sat, watching.

Haraldson stiffened slightly. He saw what was coming. If he let this go on, the room would fill with talk of omens, prophecy, fate. And only one man could claim the right to interpret what the gods wanted.

And that man was not him.

So he raised a hand.

"We will speak more of this later," he said finally, composed.

He turned slightly on the dais, speaking to the crowd now more than Ragnar. “But understand this: the gods may favor bold men, but they also test them. And they are never clear in their meaning.”

Then he looked again toward the Seer, just for a breath. “Until their will is made plain...This meeting is ended.”

And with that, he stepped down from the high seat with his cloak sweeping behind him, eyes forward, leaving the silence behind to ferment.