The mist hovered over Dalir like a shroud, casting the town in shadow. A glint of sunlight broke through and Halvar clung to it, walking about as to never let darkness touch him. But the sun marched on, soon to hide behind the mountains.

Darkness was any man's truest enemy, but it had become something more for the Jarl. It had become succor, and so had the mist. But the forces of chaos only gave such kindness to those born to it.

Halvar walked the town, greeting his people and checking on the preparations. They were going to war. They needed him, their strongest fighter, and he wanted to die a man. Not too long now.

“Father.”

Halvar jumped at the sound of his own son's voice. He'd seen the like before in men who wandered the mist without flame. Called them foolish as he banished them to death. Now, he'd done the same, running through the mist hoping Gry's flaming dagger would be enough protection. What a fool he'd been.

“Hadding,” Halvar said, holding himself back from embracing his own son. Might rip out his throat. He'd seen that too in men possessed as he was.

“Why do we wait? Should we not take the fight Vargr Tribe?” Hadding asked, his grip tight on a blade that had yet to taste blood.

He was tall like his father, blonde like him too. Felt like looking at a reflection save the smaller beard. But his heart had not been forged in fire, not yet, but in the coming days, it would be. War did that to a man.

“Why do you think I wait?” Halvar asked his son as he walked, still following the last beams of light before the darkness reigned supreme.

Hadding scratched his beard. “You wait for summer. Can't be too far off now, so why risk death chill?

“Son, Fimbulwinter has us in its grasp and it will not release, not ever.” Halvar gestured at Aslaug's home. “Go to the Völva after I'm gone. Listen to what she says and know that it is the truth.”

Hadding laughed at that. “After you are gone? Father, you killed a troll by yourself. Cracked its skull like a fucking egg. What could kill you but the wheel of time?”

A vaettir could kill him, like the one squirming inside him, eating away at his soul even now. There was no great battle to be had. No tales of glory to present his valkyrie when the time came. Just slow creeping death, like a flame sputtering before winking out.

“Cnut and a band of huntsmen have left for the other tribes,” Halvar said. “If we march on the shifters by ourselves, we'll be picked off in the forest. And even in victory, If any number of them escape, vengeance will fall upon us in the years to come. Best to end the bloodlines save for the babes. They can be fostered and put to good use.”

A growl escaped Hadding, one of joy. Hard to tell with most berserkers, but the Jarl knew his son.

“Looking forward to having more shifters,” he said. “Too few of us as of now.”

Hadding kept on speaking but Halvar heard none of it as the last beams of sunlight vanished. Something stirred in his gut, woken by the darkness. It grew, exploding outwards, pressing against his body, trying to tear him open.

It had been there, sneaking into his body the day he ran with Gry in his arms and Aslaug on his back. Pumped his legs faster than a horse. Had him bursting through trees. And by the gods, it had felt amazing, still did as it threatened to consume him.

Halvar lurched and fell to his knees. He stood as his son came to his side, lifting him by the shoulder. He couldn't meet Hadding's eyes, didn't want to see a red glow reflected back at him.

“I'm fine! I'm fine!” Halvar said and turned, making his way to the hall.

The Jarl grabbed a torch off a wall. Firelight might hide the fel glow of his eye, but the heat, the crackling of the flame had the vaettir inside roiling. Its hands slithered up his spine to clutch his heart. Made him want to retch and sent the world spinning.

Still, Halvar kept walking, back straight and head held high while his stomach rolled. The Vargr Tribe would be coming and he needed to face them, give the Hastingy one more victory before the mist took him.

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Halvar entered his hall and was met with raised drinking horns but only half of his fighting men. The rest were on the wall keeping watch for the enemy Halvar hoped would attack.

The braziers about the hall sent a shudder through Halvar. Hadn't felt the cold in days, but the heat was scorching.

Aslaug entered just behind him as he sat on his throne, Gry following soon after. The younger Völva was back on her feet, wearing the glory of her battle as scars on her neck. Thank the gods. At least he hadn't wasted his life charging through the wood without the protection of flame for naught.

“Erik,” Halvar called out to his Thane.

Man was a berserker shifter like Hadding. Always good to have one as a Thane, a pact leader of sorts for the other shifters in the tribe.

Erik nodded to his Jarl. “Found no shifters in the area but our own.”

“Good,” Halvar lied. He needed the vargr wolves to attack now before the vaettir in his chest burst free.

He took his seat at the head of the long table, Hadding sitting closest with Erik at his side. He was still too close to the fire. The vaettir recoiled from it. Felt like it was bigger than he was.

Halvar groaned from the pressure of it and gasped, breath sounded like rocks grinding together, but no eyes were on him, not even Aslaug. If anyone could see what had him, she could.

“Jarl, are we supposed to just wait for the Vargr Tribe?” Erik asked, sloshing mead around his drinking horn.

Halvar took a bite of elk meat before speaking. It was foul, like he could taste fire on it. “We wait for Cnut. I suspect the Wodanar, Vandali, and Dudini have also sent Thanes with word. Attacking as one leaves none of us lame. And besides,” Halvar added as he noticed Gry staring at him like trying to see through his soul. “The Völvas haven't spoken ill of the strategy.”

Erik downed the rest of his drinking horn. “Can't doubt the words of a Völva.”

A howl rang out in the distance followed by screams. Halvar stood, smelling blood and hounds and bears, far too many to be his own shifters.

“Erik, you said there were no-”

Halvar lost his words. A river of blood spilled from his mouth and pain from his chest. His hands went up, finding a spear jutting from his chest and his Thane holding its shaft.

“Erik!” Halvar spat through the pain.

“Sorry Lord,” the Thane said. “But I'd rather not go to war with my own kind.”

Erik spun, hefting Halvar off his feet and crashing into Hadding. Both slammed into a wall while the clanging of steel filled the hall.

Hadding was shouting something Halvar couldn't hear. Fool boy had his hands pressed against the spear wound instead of a weapon. Good way to die in battle, and battle this was, one of traitors.

“Kill!” Halvar shouted through gargled breaths. “Fight!”

The Jarl freed a dagger, shoving it at his son. Hadding took the weapon with tears in his eyes, still moving too fucking slow!

Halvar grabbed his son by the collar, lifting him as he rose. By the time he found his footing, Hadding's was dangling off the ground, held aloft by a single hand with a red light reflecting off his eyes.

“I said fight!”

The Jarl's command became an inhuman roar, and then there was quiet. Half-shifted vargr wolves and berserkers stared at him along with the men they'd been fighting a moment before.

“Fucking traitor!” Halvar roared when Erik caught his eye. Man had already shifted, his loose armor now tight against his bulging muscles and fur.

Halvar released his son and leaped, crashing into Erik and through the wall of the great hall. Suddenly, the pain in his chest was a distant thing as they entered the darkness, falling end over end in a heap.

Halvar didn't let go, one hand on Erik's armor and the other slamming into the bear's jaw. Claws raked across his face and chest with a shower of blood as they rolled about. Erik's jaw bit down on the Jarl's arm. Good, he could have it, that's why a man had two.

Roaring like a landslide, Halvar's free hand came down on the bear's head. It exploded in a shower of gore.

Hefting the bear off of him, Halvar raced at the first vargr wolf he saw. The beast was tearing the throat out of a slave and died with a bone-crunching kick to the head. He kept going, kept killing. Found a spear at some point, skewering any shifter attacking one of his people, but not all.

Several hounds and bears became bundles of teeth and blood, impossible to discern friends from foe, at least at first.

The air was filled with foreign scents marking the enemy as good as a bonfire as well as those Halvar had somehow known his entire life.

His spear caught a bear in the side. He spun, launching it at a wolf leaping at a screaming child. His blade ended six more shifters before breaking but the shaft still rammed its way inside a bear's chest. His hands. He still had his hands! Used them to pry a jaw apart, crush a skull and soon after, punched a hole through a bear, ripping out its heart.

“They retreat!” someone called out.

Well Fuck!

His wounds hadn't taken him yet. Needed to die. Needed a glorious death and it was running farther into the wood.

Halvar ran. He'd kill every shifter he could, force them to face him, to tear him apart. His eyes were gleaming red and hands turning gray. Couldn't go back now, but he could still make a difference.