Supreme Viking System-Chapter 47: More than One

Sigvald did not leave Skjoldvik angry.

That alone made him dangerous.

The city gates closed behind him with the steady confidence of a place that knew it would still be standing long after men finished arguing about it. Walls rose like stacked certainty, crossbow towers watched without drama, and the galleons in the bay did not boast—they waited. Sigvald rode in silence for a time, letting the rhythm of hooves and the smell of pitch and salt settle into his bones.

Only when the city had slipped fully behind the tree line did he lift a hand and call for a halt.

His men gathered loosely, not in disorder but in comfort—these were veterans, not boys hungry for noise. A small fire was struck quickly, low and smokeless. Cloaks were loosened. Weapons stayed within reach.

Sigvald crouched near the fire, palms open to the heat, eyes reflecting flame.

"Well," he said lightly, "that was... educational."

A few men chuckled. One spat. Another shook his head.

"They’re too many," one said. "Too organized."

"And the boy—" another began.

Sigvald raised a finger. "Careful."

The man nodded, chastened. "The lord," he corrected.

Sigvald smiled thinly. "Yes. The lord."

He poked at the fire with a stick, thinking aloud now. "He didn’t threaten us. Didn’t boast. Didn’t beg. That’s what worries me." He glanced around the circle. "Men who need to tell you they’re strong usually aren’t."

"Anders Skjold is strong," one of the older warriors muttered. "Or cursed."

Sigvald shrugged. "Both can be true."

Across the fire sat a younger man, hood drawn low despite the warmth. He had said little since leaving the city. His posture was alert without being stiff, eyes tracking movement the way trained men did when they were trying not to look like they were watching.

Sigvald’s gaze flicked to him. "You’ve been quiet."

The young man inclined his head. "Listening."

Sigvald grunted approval. "And what do you hear?"

The hood shifted slightly as the man lifted his face just enough for the firelight to catch it.

For a heartbeat, the resemblance was striking.

Same jawline. Same shape to the brow. Same steady eyes that suggested patience learned the hard way.

If someone had placed him beside Erik Skjold, even a drunk might have done a double take.

But no one did.

The man’s hood fell back into place almost immediately.

"I hear a man who already thinks he’s won," the young man said carefully.

Sigvald smiled. "And does that frighten you?"

"No," the man replied. "It clarifies things."

Sigvald nodded, satisfied. He did not ask more. Some knives were better left quiet.

They broke camp soon after, riding on toward the edge of decisions not yet made.

Back in Skjoldvik, the night had softened.

Torches burned lower, replaced by hearth fires and quiet conversation. The city exhaled after tension, the way a body does once the blade is no longer pressed to its throat. Preparations continued, but without panic—this was not a place that rushed blindly.

Anders sat on the edge of a low stone wall overlooking the inner yard, boots dangling, armor set aside for once. The air smelled of woodsmoke and bread. Somewhere, someone laughed—not loud, just enough to remind the world it still contained simple things.

Freydis sat beside him, shoulder brushing his. She had removed her sword belt and leaned back on her hands, face tilted up to the stars as if daring them to blink first.

"For a place full of warriors," she said softly, "it’s very quiet tonight."

Anders hummed. "Quiet before people start convincing themselves they’re ready."

She smiled faintly. "You are."

He glanced at her. "I have to be."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, watching embers drift upward like tiny, brief lives.

Freydis spoke again, quieter. "Do you ever miss it? Being... just a boy?"

Anders didn’t answer immediately. He watched a patrol pass, the men moving with the easy rhythm of those who trusted the walls.

"Yes," he said finally. "And no."

She turned her head toward him. "That’s not fair."

He smiled, small and real. "Neither is any of this."

Before she could reply, a knock echoed nearby—firm, respectful.

Anders straightened. Freydis rose with him, already sensing the shift.

A guard stood a few steps away. "Lord Anders. Wulfric has returned."

Anders frowned slightly. "Already?"

"He requests a private audience," the guard added. "Your parents are with him."

Freydis’s brow creased. "That doesn’t sound like posturing."

"No," Anders agreed. "It sounds like intent."

They followed the guard through torchlit corridors into a quieter chamber near the long hall—one used for counsel rather than ceremony.

Erik stood near the hearth, arms crossed, expression guarded. Astrid sat at the table, hands folded, eyes sharp with assessment. Across from them stood Wulfric—unarmed, cloak unfastened, posture respectful but unbowed.

And beside him—

A girl.

She stood straight-backed, hands clasped in front of her, hair a soft chestnut that caught the firelight. She was Anders’ age—perhaps a little younger—and dressed plainly but well. Her eyes moved with open curiosity, taking in the room, the carvings, the weapons on the walls.

When Anders and Freydis entered, the girl looked up—and smiled.

Not shy.

Not calculating.

Just... glad.

"This is Anders," Wulfric said simply. "And Freydis."

The girl dipped her head politely. "I’m Anne."

Freydis felt something twist—not sharp, not angry, just unfamiliar.

Wulfric turned to Anders. "I won’t circle this," he said. "I didn’t come back to bargain with steel."

Anders nodded. "Then speak."

Wulfric gestured to the girl. "Anne is my niece. She came willingly." His voice was firm, as if daring anyone to imply otherwise. "She has seen your city. Your people. Your discipline."

Anne nodded quickly. "It’s beautiful," she said. "I’ve never seen walls like this. Or ships that big." Her eyes flicked briefly to Freydis, then back to Anders. "I’m not afraid."

Astrid watched her closely, reading posture, tone, breath.

"And what is it you’re offering?" Astrid asked.

Wulfric met her gaze. "Peace that binds deeper than words. A marriage pact, when the time is right."

The words settled heavily.

Freydis’s fingers curled slightly at her side, but she did not step away.

Anders felt the weight of it—not as a threat, not as pressure, but as reality. This was what power did. It attracted proximity. It turned people into bridges.

He looked at Anne again. She met his gaze steadily.

"I wanted to come," she said quietly. "Not because I was told to. Because I wanted to see if the stories were true."

"And?" Anders asked.

She smiled, nervous but honest. "They didn’t exaggerate."

Erik shifted, uncomfortable. Astrid’s expression softened a fraction.

Wulfric spread his hands. "No demand. No haste. If you refuse, we leave with honor intact."

Anders studied him. "You’re not like the others."

Wulfric nodded. "I know when a tide has turned."

Silence followed—not awkward, but thoughtful.

Then Anders spoke. "I’ll talk with them."

Wulfric blinked. "Them?"

"And Freydis," Anders said, glancing at her. "And Anne."

Freydis looked at him sharply. "All three?"

"Yes," Anders said simply. "Privately."

Astrid inhaled, then nodded once. Erik said nothing, but his eyes searched Anders’ face for signs of strain.

Wulfric bowed his head. "That’s fair."

The chamber cleared slowly, respectfully. When the door closed behind them, the room felt smaller—but truer.

Anne clasped her hands tighter, then relaxed them. "I’m glad," she said. "I didn’t want to speak like a gift passed between men."

Freydis studied her, then nodded once. "Good."

Anders gestured toward the bench. "Sit."

They did.

Three children standing on the edge of something far larger than themselves, with no blade drawn and no crown between them.

Outside, Skjoldvik burned steady and bright—quiet knives sheathed, quiet gifts waiting to be unwrapped.