Ivan and Oleksandr exchange quiet conversation, speaking in Russian, their words low but filled with a sense of familiarity and understanding. The warmth of the longhouse, the food, and the mead create an atmosphere of ease.

Oddvarr’s voice cuts through their private moment, his words carrying a teasing edge. "Ah. Father and son. What a merry thing. It warms the heart to see such a close bond."

They glance over at him, and Oleksandr nods, patting Ivan’s shoulder. "Aye." Oleksandr, his curiosity piqued by the brief flicker of something more guarded in Oddvarr’s previous response, decides to ask again, more directly. "You have sons, Chieftain?" Oddvarr chuckles at the question, his sharp gaze narrowing just slightly. He takes a long swig of mead from his horn before answering.

"Ah, you're quite the curious one, aren't you?" For a moment, he doesn’t answer, his eyes flickering around the room, as if weighing the question. Then, slowly, his bravado slips just a touch, and his voice loses its usual edge. "I had, once. Ages ago, it seems." For a brief moment, the larger-than-life figure of Oddvarr seems smaller, almost vulnerable, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly as his eyes fall away from Oleksandr’s.

“What happened?” Oddvarr glances back at him, his sharp eyes lingering a moment longer than usual, before he finishes his drink with a grimace and sets the horn aside.

"Aye, I suppose I might share it with you, since you're here, among my kin." Oddvarr says, his voice quieter than usual, a flicker of vulnerability passing across his usually impassive face. His eyes are distant now, no longer filled with the pride and menace that usually defines him. "I had two boys," he continues, the words coming slowly, as though he’s had to dig them out of the past. "Finn and Sondre. They were the world to me. Strong, fierce, just like their father." There’s fondness in his tone, a nostalgia, as though he’s remembering the sound of their laughter, the sight of them training with their axes. "My pride and joy. I thought they'd grow up to be great leaders, make me proud as a father."

The room is silent for a moment, the fire crackling softly in the background as Oddvarr’s gaze turns inward, the sorrow in his eyes deepening. "But the fates had other plans." Oleksandr’s gaze doesn’t leave Oddvarr, his sharp eyes now catching every nuance of the man before him. This was the same man who had wielded power and fear as effortlessly as a sword. But now, for the first time, he is not the ruthless chieftain or slaver that Oleksandr has come to know. He’s just an old grey-beard, a man, a father who has lived too long in the shadow of loss.

As Oddvarr speaks, Oleksandr sees the cracks in his armor, the grief that no amount of conquest or treasure can mask. The silence lingers a moment longer, and Oleksandr feels the weight of Oddvarr’s unspoken words, his presence suddenly more human than it ever seemed before. For once, Oddvarr is not a force to be reckoned with, but a man who has faced a kind of defeat that no amount of power or wealth can undo.

Oddvarr's gaze drifts off, lost in the past as he continues his tale. "Finn was the elder of the two. A promising warrior. Quick and smart. Sondre, the younger, was more soft-hearted, but tough in his own way. They were like the sun and the moon. So different, yet... they balanced each other out. I trained them, I molded them into the warriors they were. They were fierce, feared on the battlefield. But they weren't invincible. One day, after my men and I had just departed for business, our home was attacked. My sons, -barely men yet- they fought bravely, they died with iron in their hands." His eyes cloud, the flicker of regret and loss finally surfacing.

It’s in this silence that Oleksandr realizes the weight of Oddvarr’s grief. The man who had been hardened by a life of raids and bloodshed, the man who had taken slaves and destroyed villages, was now a hollowed figure who had lost his legacy.

“It was a terrible day,” Oddvarr says quietly as he looks into the flames, his eyes reflecting the fire’s warmth but not feeling it. “When I came back home, to find that my house still stood, but it was empty, barren… The warmth and light in my life, put out.” There's a long pause. "I had never felt such pain before. I was consumed by an anger, a rage that burned deeper than the fires of Hel. I swore to the gods I would find those who did this, and make them suffer, just a fraction of how I suffered."

"Did you?" Oleksandr asks. Oddvarr's eyes narrow, his gaze turning cold.

"Aye," he replies gruffly. "It took some time, but I hunted them down, one by one. They thought they were safe, that they were free to live after what they did." He lets out a low, derisive chuckle. "But I'm a northern man. I don't forget, and I certainly don't forgive. I made sure they knew my fury." Oleksandr nods. “You know the feeling, don’t you, boy?” Oddvarr’s voice is low, knowing, almost as if he’s peering into the soul of the younger man. It’s not a question so much as a statement, the weight of shared pain hanging between them.

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Oleksandr nods again, his thoughts flashing to the rampage he went on after Thekkur’s death, the bloodshed that had consumed him in a futile attempt to fill the hole left by his twin. He can still feel the ache in his chest, the yearning for a vengeance that didn’t bring peace. "Aye," he says quietly, his voice carrying a weight of its own. His silence speaks volumes, and Oddvarr nods, the understanding in his eyes a rare glimpse of something more human than the hardened chieftain he usually portrays.

Ivan’s eyes narrow as he watches Oddvarr, his expression unreadable. His fingers tighten around his cup, but his face remains calm, stoic. He knows all too well the pain Oddvarr is speaking of, the loss, the grief. But Ivan’s loss wasn’t a son. It was everything. He remembers all too well, the feeling of helplessness, of being torn apart as he watched his family vanish into the night. It wasn’t just the death of loved ones for Ivan. It was the brutal, lasting aftermath—being forced to live in a world without them, a world that had been made by Oddvarr’s cruelty.

Ivan's control is tight, but it’s wearing thin. Every word from Oddvarr cuts deeper than it should. The quiet rage swells within him, simmering just below the surface. He wants to shout, to stand up and tear this man apart, but he holds it back. His companions are watching, and he needs to keep it together—for them, for the mission. But every moment that passes in this longhouse feels like another second he’s forced to sit next to the monster who destroyed his world.

Oddvarr gives a humorless smile, tilting his head in understanding. "A man's wrath is a powerful thing." He comments, swirling the mead in his horn. "It can either consume you, or drive you." His eyes then flick to Ivan, as if he's acutely aware of the tension in the air. Ivan meets Oddvarr's gaze, his expression cold as ice. There's a silent challenge hanging in the air between them. It's clear there's an unspoken history between them. Oleksandr glances back and forth, sensing the unspoken tension.

"Easy, Ivan." Oleksandr mutters in Russian. "You'll have your time. It's not now." Ivan's eyes narrow, clearly on edge, but he relents, his muscles relaxing slightly as he looks away. It's clear he's not happy, but he respects Oleksandr's judgement. Oddvar observes the exchange with a knowing smirk, silently filing away the interaction for later.

"You have any siblings, Olek?" Oddvarr asks, returning his gaze back to him. Oleksandr nods, his heart heavy, but he remains stoic.

"Aye. A twin."

"A twin, eh?" Oddvarr repeats the words, almost as if tasting them. His tone is carefully neutral, but Oleksandr catches the way his eyes momentarily narrow, the flicker of something imperceptible in his expression. Oddvarr seems to be deep in thought for a moment, before he casually turns his attention back to his mead horn. "What's he like? Strong, like you?" His words are lightly tinged with a probing curiosity, but there’s something more beneath them, something personal, like he's asking for more than just the surface-level answer. His question hangs in the air, and Oleksandr feels the weight of it, the unexpected tension building between them.

Oleksandr, sensing the hidden layer to the question, keeps his answer simple, though it’s difficult to conceal the lump in his throat. "Aye. Strong. And smart."

Oddvarr raises an eyebrow. "Where is he now?"

"He's dead." Oddvarr, for a brief moment, seems to hesitate, as if the mention of Oleksandr’s twin has momentarily thrown him off balance.

"Ah," Oddvarr mutters quietly, his voice lower than usual. "I'm sorry." Oleksandr gives a curt nod, not quite accepting the condolences, but acknowledging the statement. Ivan, who has been watching the exchange closely, narrows his sharp eyes as he catches the subtle nuance in Oddvarr’s voice. His gut tightens as he realizes what Oddvarr is truly saying—not just a passing acknowledgment of death, but a deeper, more regretful apology. He glances over at Samorix, who gives a very tiny, almost unnoticeable nod, confirming he too picked up on the nuance.

The sudden shift in Oddvarr’s demeanor is almost too quick to follow, a sharp transition from a moment of rare vulnerability to the brash, larger-than-life persona that the others know so well. The smile he flashes is wide, too practiced, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s a mask, and it’s a convincing one, but it doesn’t fool everyone at the table. Ivan’s sharp gaze never leaves Oddvarr. He senses the fragility beneath the bravado, the way the chieftain has shoved away something raw, something personal, and replaced it with forced cheer. It’s a familiar tactic, one Ivan has seen before in his own darkest moments—a way of burying pain beneath false laughter and empty toasts.

Samorix, ever observant, gives a tight smile of his own, though his eyes flick briefly toward Oleksandr, offering a silent, subtle warning. His expression suggests caution, a reminder that they are not yet among friends, no matter how much Oddvarr tries to make this seem like a celebratory feast. The old veteran’s instincts are sharp, and he knows better than to let their guard down too easily. Oddvarr, oblivious to the silent exchange, lifts his horn high, the hot mead sloshing inside as he calls to the table.

“Drink, to fathers,” he says, his voice taking on a mocking, exaggerated warmth as he gestures first at Ivan, then at himself. “And to lost sons,” he adds, his gaze shifting to Oleksandr with an almost unsettling intensity.

Oleksandr’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t yet grasp the full weight of Oddvarr’s words, the undercurrent of tension that hangs between them. He raises his own horn in a silent toast, his expression neutral. But Ivan sees it all. He watches Oddvarr closely, sensing the hidden layers behind that forced smile, the fragile mask barely concealing the churning emotions within. The older man’s posture has shifted too—he’s leaning forward slightly, his eyes fixed on Oleksandr with an intensity that goes beyond simple interest.