The longhouse smelled of pine shavings and oil, the floor swept clean but scarred from many feet and many drills.

Branulfr's hands, small but stubborn, wrapped tight around the grip of the wooden sword.

His fiery red hair clung damp to his brow as he squared his feet on the packed earth, shield rim trembling against his arm.

He was seven winters now, all knees and elbows, but with the same cold fire in his eyes that burned in his father's.

"Again," Vetrulfr said.

The boy raised the shield and swung.

The wooden blade cracked against the iron boss of his father's practice shield.

The blow rang, but too high, and the recoil sent Branulfr stumbling.

Vetrulfr stepped past, rim-checking lightly, and sent the boy sprawling onto his back.

The thud echoed through the rafters. Branulfr lay still a moment, his pride bruised worse than his ribs.

He did not cry. He gritted his teeth, rolled over, and clambered back to his feet.

"Good," Vetrulfr said. "A wolf cub falls. But a wolf cub rises."

Branulfr snatched the shield from the dirt and set himself again, mud streaked across his cheek, eyes bright with defiance.

From the doorway, Erikr came running, shorter by two heads, barely five winters, still soft in the jaw.

He carried a stick instead of a sword, waving it as though he were already on the battlefield.

"Me too, Father! Let me fight too!"

Vetrulfr's mouth curved at one corner.

"Then stand beside your brother, and learn how to die before you learn how to kill."

Erikr planted his feet beside Branulfr, shieldless, gripping his stick with both hands.

He swung wild, a boy's blow full of eagerness but empty of balance.

Vetrulfr swept the swing aside with the rim of his shield, sending Erikr spinning half a turn before he caught himself, cheeks flushed.

Branulfr frowned. "He makes me weaker. He cannot even hold a shield yet."

Vetrulfr's gaze hardened. "A wolf runs with his pack. Alone you may strike harder, but together you will strike longer. That is how legions are made, Branulfr."

The elder boy bit his lip but said no more.

Together, the two pressed again, one striking too high, the other too low, the rhythm ragged.

Vetrulfr moved easily among their clumsy efforts, his shield guiding theirs, his wooden blade tapping shoulders, helmets, knees.

Each correction was a lesson, each bruise a word hammered into flesh.

Róisín's voice came from the far side of the hall. "You will break their bones before you've even finished your lesson."

She stood with one hand at the swell of her belly, the other holding back the edge of her cloak.

The firelight caught the copper in her hair, though her face was pale from the summer's heat.

She watched the boys with sharp eyes that softened only when they turned to her.

"They must learn," Vetrulfr said.

"They are learning," she answered, stepping closer, the weight of pregnancy in her stride.

"But they are children still. Children grow faster with care than with the whip."

Vetrulfr lowered his shield and gestured for the boys to stop.

They sagged with relief, Branulfr clutching his wooden sword like a trophy, Erikr puffing as if he had fought a dozen men.

"They will thank me when they are men," he said, voice even.

Róisín touched Branulfr's cheek, brushing away the streak of mud with her thumb.

"Perhaps. But until then, they will thank me for watching over them while you make soldiers out of sons."

Erikr pressed against her side, grinning up at her.

"Mother, did you see? I struck Father, and he could not stop me."

She laughed softly, ruffling his hair.

"A mighty blow, little wolf. Soon even your father will tremble before you."

Vetrulfr snorted, but there was no anger in it.

He rested his shield against the wall and crouched before Branulfr, who stood stiff, still trying to look older than he was.

"Do you know why I strike you down?" Vetrulfr asked.

Branulfr's chin lifted. "Because I am weak."

"No," Vetrulfr said. His hand pressed against the boy's chest, just over the heart.

"Because you must learn to rise. No shield will hold forever. No sword will strike true every time. The man who rises each time he falls is the one who wins wars."

Branulfr swallowed, nodding slowly.

His fingers tightened on the wooden hilt until his knuckles whitened.

"And me, Father?" Erikr piped up, tugging at his tunic.

Vetrulfr glanced at him, eyes crinkling faintly.

"You? You must learn patience. Strike too soon and you will strike air. Strike too late and you will strike death. But strike in time…" He tapped Erikr's stick with a finger.

"Strike in time, and even a boy's blow may change a battle."

Erikr beamed, chest swelling.

Róisín watched them all, her hand drifting back to her belly.

"And what of this one, wolf-king? Will you train him before he can walk?"

Vetrulfr rose, stepping close enough that his calloused hand brushed over hers, feeling the stir of the child within.

His eyes, so cold in war, softened a moment.

"This one will be born into a world we build now," he said quietly.

"If we make it strong, he will grow strong. If we falter, he will be nothing but meat for another man's fire."

Róisín's gaze searched his face, and though she said nothing, her silence spoke.

She knew the truth of it, yet her heart still wished for gentler things.

The boys squabbled in the background, Branulfr correcting Erikr's stance, Erikr insisting his blow had been true.

Their voices rang in the hall, high and earnest, the sound of youth that had not yet seen blood soak the earth.

Vetrulfr looked upon them and saw more than sons.

He saw heirs to the discipline he had forged, the first cubs of a pack that would grow to span nations.

"Enough for today," he said at last. "Lay your swords aside. Tomorrow you will drill again. Tonight you are sons, not soldiers."

Branulfr hesitated, then set down his wooden sword with care.

Erikr dropped his stick and ran laughing toward the fire.

Róisín herded them with a hand on each shoulder, leading them to sit with the younger children who waited with wide eyes.

Vetrulfr lingered in the center of the hall, staring at the wooden practice weapons on the floor.

His hand flexed, remembering the weight of true steel, the cries of dying men, the smell of charred churches in the Rus.

War was coming. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones. But for now, for a heartbeat, he let the sound of his sons' laughter fill the longhouse.

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