Below the seated guests, warriors and villagers lined the edges of the grassy field, craning to see the two finalists preparing to compete. The tantalizing aromas of sizzling meat, freshly baked bread, and spiced mead drifted up from the market stalls, mingling with sea brine and the scent of dew-soaked grass.
As she approached the elevated seating where her crimson-cladfaðirsat among hisroyal guests,Brynhildr spotted the carved oak chair draped in blue velvet and embroidered with a golden falcon sigil for her as the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden of Hrafnfjall.
She climbed the steps of the dais and inclined her head to herfaðir,then to King Álfr and Queen Hjördis at his side, and finally to King Eirikr and Princess Dagny, who graced her with a gentle smile. As thehúskarlarseated Brynhildr in the place of honor, her eyes met Sigurd’s across the field and theouroborosblazed beneath her blue silk gown.
Yrsa settled into a reserved chair on her right, next to Skallagrímr, the Skáld of the Sólhjarta Tournament, whose long fingers softly strummed the strings of his gifted golden lyre.
As the salty wind whipped her blonde braids and stung her cheeks, Brynhildr smoothed her gown and regally lifted her royal chin. She was ready to watch the Sólhjarta Championship between Sigurd and Agnar, the warriors whose blood oath of brotherhood she had witnessed in the early light of dawn.
Budli rose from hisöndvegithrone, which had been brought from the Great Hall and placed upon the elevated dais. He raised a bejeweled hand to silence the excited crowd. His deep voice bellowed like a bronze bell. “Royal guests, noble jarls, wolf warriors of theSjórúlfar, and all who honor the spirit of the Sólhjarta Tournament!”
As banners snapped in the salty breeze and Brynhildr’s heart hammered in her chest, she spotted a pair of ravens perched atop a nearby pillar.
Huginn and Muninn—the ever-watchful eyes of Odin. The Allfather is observing the Sólhjarta Championship as well.
Budli’s booming voice carried across the cheering crowd and over the sunlit fjord. “After three weeks of valor, skill, and unyielding resolve, we have come to the final trial. Today, the Champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament shall be crowned!”
While warriors thumped their shields and theSjórúlfarhowled, Budli gestured to the two finalists standing at the edge of the long grassy field. “And now, let us watch the Sea Wolfand the Bear test their strength, their skill, and their fate—before gods and men alike! Let the championship begin!”
As the crowd erupted in cheers, Ulric Ironshield strode across the field and stopped before Sigurd and Agnar. Blue beads glittering in his silver-streaked red beard, leather armor gleaming in the golden sun, he shouted above the clamorous din. “Each champion shall hurl one spear for distance. Sigurd Sea Wolf shall throw first!”
Brynhildr’s breath hitched as Sigurd shed his wolfskin cloak and handed it to Eynvindr Waverunner, theSjórúlfarwarrior who had taught him to sail and fight aboard adrakkarship.
The blond hair, deep blue tattoos, and rippled muscles across Sigurd’s broad, bare chest glistened in the morning light.
And theouroborosring above his heart glowed golden in the summer solstice sun.
Sigurd stepped back from the line of pale stones that marked the starting point, theÚlfspjótWolf Spear—carved with snarling silver wolves and deep blue rolling waves— resting heavy in his long hands.
From her seat upon the dais, Brynhildr watched him deeply inhale the crisp, salty breeze blowing over the fjord, his tense muscles coiling like a spring beneath his gilded bronze skin. With long, purposeful strides, he surged forward to the launch line, planting his feet and twisting his torso as he flung the ashwood spear with all his might. The lapis gem at the base of the curved blade glimmered in the sun, flashing like a falling star. The spear arced high, slicing the salty air, and thudded deep into the misty grass far beyond the scattered stones.
While the seated crowd shot to its feet with raucous cheers, theSjórúlfarroared and howled. Along the sidelines of the tournament field, wild warriors thumped axes upon wooden shields in riotous applause.
Ulric Ironshield stepped forward onto the field and shouted to the ecstatic crowd. “Agnar, the Bear of Bjarkhölm, shall now hurl his spear.”
Though not as tall as Sigurd, Agnar was broad-shouldered and burly as a bear. He shed his bearskin cloak, handing it to one of his royalhúskarlar,yet his muscular body was so covered in thick brown hair that he still seemed clad in his namesake hide.
Hefting his own spear—its smooth oak carved with bear paws, curved claws, and blackened runes—he lunged forward and heaved the blade with a guttural grunt. The spear arced through the sunlit sky, but the sheer distance of Sigurd’s incomparable throw left him short. Agnar’s weapon sank into the field a full pace behindÚlfspjót, eliciting a howl of approval from theSjórúlfar,a thunderous roar from the crowd, and a fierce, triumphant grin on Sigurd’s blond- bearded face.
As cheers rippled across the tournament field, Sigurd’s gaze locked on Brynhildr.
Theouroborosmark of the dragon scorched the skin beneath her gown.
Ulric stepped forward, raising one scarred hand for silence. Agnar’s spear still quivered in the grassy field.
“By cast and distance,” he bellowed, his voice carrying across the crowd, “the spear throw is won by Sigurd, Sea Wolf of Sjóborg.”
Another roar rippled over the wildflower-strewn meadow and out across the glistening fjord. Brynhildr watched as Agnar seized Sigurd’s forearms in the same warrior grasp of brotherhood that she had witnessed at dawn when they swore the blood oath beneath her clifftop tower.
Eyvindr Waverunner offered Sigurd a horn, and Agnar’s man handed one to the Bear of Bjarkhölm.
Bronze skin glistening in the summer sun, the two competitors drank quickly, wiping sweat from their brows, while Ulric paced from the line of stones, counting twelve measured steps. When he turned and nodded, four of Budli’shúskarlarhauled a massive tree trunk onto the field to the very spot where Ironshield stood.
Its bark had been stripped away. Three great rings marked its face: black at the outer edge, yellow within, and a blood-red circle at the heart.
The heavy trunk struck the earth with a dull, final thud.
Ulric strode back across the field and shouted to the expectant crowd.
