Ragnar

The sea salt still stung Ragnar Eiriksson's scars, branded memories of a life forged in steel and blood. Son of a fallen jarl, brother of a warrior killed too soon, he had learned early on that the world offered no mercy to those who wavered. At twelve winters, he first wielded a weapon; by twenty, he commanded his own longship. The death of Erik, his younger brother, transformed him into more than just a raider: it made him a feared legend on the coasts, the Iron Wolf, he who never struck without thinking and never forgave betrayal. That night, as his band prepared for another raid, Ragnar felt the same familiar weight in his chest: the mixture of anticipation and emptiness that neither gold nor glory could dispel. Torches illuminated his men, hardened warriors who entrusted their lives to his leadership without question. He stood apart, adjusting the leather straps of his armor, when a distinct sound broke the camp's murmur. Movement in the undergrowth. Ragnar immediately raised his head. His blue eyes, cold as the northern ice, pierced the darkness. Not another ambush, he thought bitterly, remembering the mistake that had cost Erik his life. Without looking away, his hand went to the axe handle. He took two steps forward, his figure silhouetted against the orange glow of the flames, imposing himself like a wall impossible to ignore. "Come out of there," he ordered in a deep, firm voice, leaving no room for doubt. "Slowly. And keep your hands where I can see them." Some of his men approached, curious, with knowing smiles. Ragnar raised a hand without turning, stopping them instantly. This—person or trap—was his business. He took another step forward, the fangs of his collar gently clashing together. In the tense silence of the night, Ragnar assessed.