Chapter Nine: House Of Lothbrok

After being released from his aunt's embrace, Ragna finally exhaled, his gaze trailing over her as he tried to sense her power level. Like with his mother and Aksel, he couldn't discern anything about her strength. That alone was telling. She must be powerful, he concluded. Princess Ingrid smiled warmly and ruffled his hair as though he were still a child. Ragna clenched his jaw, doing his best to suppress his irritation. Bestla, observing her son, smirked in approval of his composure.

"I bet you're eager to see your cousins," Ingrid said as they ascended the stairs leading into the grand palace. She guided them through a wide corridor where rows of servants waited, ready to assist with their belongings. Ragna's eyes flickered over the servants, his sharp instincts catching the subdued aura of strength hidden beneath their polite demeanors. His aunt eventually led them into a room so expansive it could easily occupy the space of ten ordinary chambers.

His mother's expression shifted slightly as they entered, her eyes sweeping over the familiar surroundings. The walls were painted a soft golden-yellow, adorned with intricate runes and portraits of legendary weapons. The vast living area was lavishly furnished with elegant pieces, exuding both luxury and heritage. Bestla gravitated toward a large window overlooking the garden below, her gaze softening.

"You've kept this place in remarkable condition," she remarked, her tone tinged with nostalgia. It was clear this had been her room once, back when she resided in the palace. Ingrid took a seat, gesturing for a servant to pour tea. Bestla joined her, sinking into one of the cushioned chairs, and Aksel soon followed, quietly observing the exchange.

"Father insisted the servants maintain it," Ingrid replied, sipping her tea before turning her attention to Ragna, who was browsing a towering shelf lined with books. "I've heard you're something of a scholar, Ragna."

He froze for a moment, eyebrows knitting in surprise. How does she know that? His gaze shifted to his mother, who met his unspoken question with a knowing smile and a casual shrug. The secrecy surrounding him was beginning to wear thin, gnawing at his patience.

"I'm curious about history and knowledge," he said with a measured nod. "So yes, I suppose you could call me scholarly."

Ingrid's smile deepened. It was rare for a Viking to show such interest—most cared only for physical strength and martial prowess. Cultivation of the body and spirit dominated their lives. Knowledge, especially about the past, was largely ignored, pursued primarily by the Volur, a reclusive group dedicated to preserving and guarding the wisdom of the world. Thankfully, the House of Lothbrok had its own loyal Volur, who worked to record and archive valuable information for the Kingdom of Norland. Within the palace, an extensive library housed a treasure trove of knowledge accessible only to the royal family.

"The palace library contains many texts on the world's history, should you wish to explore them," Ingrid offered. "Some even detail the state of the world before the Great Catastrophe—at least, those few records that were salvaged."

Ragna's head snapped up, his interest instantly piqued. He turned toward his mother, searching her expression. Back in Kattegat, she had allowed him access to the local archives, but those texts had been frustratingly limited, devoid of any significant details about the old world. The thought of finally finding answers filled him with anticipation, though he quickly tempered it.

Before he could dive into the depths of history and uncover the truths he sought, Ragna knew there was something more important to accomplish. First, he had to awaken.

"How does the Awakening happen?" Ragna asked, his tone steady but laced with curiosity.

Princess Ingrid blinked, momentarily surprised by the question. Her gaze shifted to Bestla and Aksel, her brow arching inquisitively.

"You didn't tell him?" Ingrid asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

"No," Bestla admitted with a small shrug. "Most children outside the royal family don't know much about the Awakening ceremony. We thought, living outside the capital in Kattegat, it would be better to raise Ragna as one of them."

Ragna exhaled, his thoughts briefly flickering over his upbringing. There were both advantages and disadvantages to the way he'd been treated. He appreciated the semblance of normalcy his mother had tried to provide—something he had been denied in his former life. However, he also recognized the lost opportunities. Certain privileges, which might have been helpful in his development, had been deliberately withheld. Still, he couldn't bring himself to resent it; in many ways, he preferred the simplicity of his life in Kattegat.

"I suppose that's your choice," Ingrid said with a shrug, though a flicker of doubt crossed her face. She couldn't understand why Bestla would restrict her son in such a way. From their brief interaction, she could already see how intelligent Ragna was. Now, she was curious to see how his sharp mind would translate into cultivation potential.

"My daughter, Freya, shares your interest in knowledge," Ingrid said, shifting the topic. "I suppose being a Volva makes her that way."

"Freya," Ragna repeated, the name catching his attention. "Isn't that one of the names of the Old Gods?"

"Yes," Ingrid said with a proud smile. "A powerful name for a powerful future sorceress."

Ragna nodded thoughtfully. Names carried immense weight in this world, holding the essence and power of the entity they belonged to. To invoke a name was to tap into that power. It was no different in his former world, and here it seemed even more significant. To be named after a god was to inherit part of their essence and potential—if one had the strength and resolve to claim it. It was no wonder so many Norsemen named their children after the gods.

"I'm sure she will be," Bestla said, a note of pride in her voice. "She's a Lothbrok, after all."

"Well," Ingrid added, her tone lighter, "I, for one, can't wait for Ragna to meet his cousins. Fortunately, you'll see them tonight at dinner."

Ragna noted how his initial question about the Awakening had been conveniently ignored. He decided to let it slide, for now, and returned his attention to the shelves of books. Using his internal sight and heightened mental processing, he scanned through them quickly, absorbing their contents at an impressive pace.

When he finally finished, Ragna leaned back in his chair, his thoughts swirling. The books were filled with texts on the art of war and combat—treatises on the most efficient ways to kill one's enemies. He glanced at his mother, a mix of disbelief and bemusement crossing his face. He hadn't realized she was such a battle maniac.

Ingrid didn't linger long. After finishing her tea and exchanging a few more words with Bestla, she excused herself, citing her royal duties.

Bestla and Aksel soon retired to the room they would share, while Ragna took the opportunity to claim one for himself. His new quarters were larger than he was used to, with a spacious bed and a stunning view of the palace grounds. Wolf heads were mounted on the walls, their frozen snarls lending the room a primal energy. A chandelier-like artifact hung from the ceiling, its intricate design catching the light in a mesmerizing way.

Ragna noticed his belongings had already been unpacked and arranged neatly within the room. He sighed as he sank onto the bed, the soft mattress molding to his frame. His thoughts drifted back to the palace library Ingrid had mentioned earlier. He cursed himself for not asking her how to access it.

A knock at the door broke his train of thought. He sat up, turning toward the sound. His mother stood in the doorway, her figure framed by the dim hallway light. She was smiling, her face radiant in a way that only added to the mystery surrounding her.

"How are you doing?" Bestla asked softly as she leaned against the doorway, her warm smile masking the tension in her voice.

"I should be asking you that," Ragna replied, sitting up on the bed. "How does it feel being back home?"

Bestla glanced around the room, her gaze distant for a moment. "Hmm, the place hasn't changed much," she said, walking over and sitting beside him. "I know I haven't talked much about my family... or my past."

Ragna tilted his head, sensing the heaviness in her tone. "Not much to talk about, I guess," he joked lightly, attempting to ease the mood.

Bestla gave him a surprised look before chuckling faintly. "No, there's plenty to talk about," she admitted. "I just... I wanted to give you a different life."

"A different life from what?" Ragna asked, raising an eyebrow.

"My life," she said simply, her voice quieter now.

Ragna studied her face, his curiosity deepening. Bestla rarely opened up about herself.

"I love my family, my kingdom, and the role our clan plays in the world," she continued. "All my life, I worked hard to uphold that role. I trained relentlessly, I became stronger, and I've done things I'm proud of—and things I'm not. But... I didn't want you to live the same way I did. I tried to raise you differently, to give you a life that wasn't just about duty or strength."

"And I appreciate it, Mom," Ragna said sincerely. He didn't know much about her past, but the bits she revealed painted a picture of a woman who carried both pride and burdens. Now, he understood the contradictions in her parenting—strict and nurturing, firm yet indulgent. It all made sense now.

"Even so," Bestla said, her expression softening with a trace of regret, "fate seems to have its own plans for you."

"You're not worried about my Awakening, are you?" Ragna asked, sensing there was more she wasn't saying.

Bestla hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "Our family... the Lothbrok clan... has always been different. Different from other families in this world. Our blood is special."

"Is this about the rumors of us being descendants of the gods?" Ragna asked. He had heard the stories back in Kattegat—whispers of divine lineage. Every time the Rune Walkers attacked and his mother repelled them, the people's faith in her seemed unshakable.

"It's not a rumor," Bestla said firmly. "My grandfather, Ragnar Lothbrok, was a demigod. He passed on the divine bloodline of the Aesir to us. That's why our family is so gifted in cultivation. Every Lothbrok is special, but I know—" she reached out and touched Ragna's hand, her gaze steady—"there's no one more special than you."

Ragna stared at her, processing her words. He had always wondered if there was truth to the divine bloodline rumors. Now, hearing it confirmed, his mind raced. In his past life, he had been born with a Divine bloodline, and it had propelled his cultivation to glorious heights.

Bloodline was everything in cultivation. It determined potential and opened doors to unimaginable power. There were six tiers of bloodlines: Mortal, Epic, Rare, Legendary, Immortal, and Divine.

If his mother carried a Divine bloodline, that meant she had the potential to become a god. And if he had inherited that same bloodline...

Ragna felt a flicker of excitement, tempered by practicality. He already knew he could ascend. His soul was halfway through the Transcendent process; it was only a matter of refining his body to match his soul. Once that was done, godhood was within reach.

But did he want it?

He had no reason to chase godhood in this world. In his previous life, he had been driven by vengeance—by the need to destroy Arkus and Lilin. Now, those feelings felt hollow, and distant. He carried no lingering attachments to his old world.

Ragna exhaled deeply, meeting his mother's watchful gaze. Whatever fate had in store for him, he would face it in his own way.

"Are you worried about me going through the same things you experienced?" Ragna asked, his tone curious rather than accusatory. Bestla smiled gently at her son, brushing a strand of his dark hair behind his ear.

"At first, I was," she admitted. "But once I realized you have memories of your past life and an interest in Awakening, I knew you weren't a stranger to cultivation or its dangers."

Ragna nodded, his expression pensive. Cultivation—a path he had walked before—was not for the faint-hearted. Pain, suffering, and sacrifice were woven into its very essence. He'd endured it all once, and while his second life promised to be smoother, surpassing his past self would demand even greater trials. Yet a part of him hesitated. A peaceful life was within reach; the Rune Walkers were contained, and the world felt stable. Did he truly want to take up this burden again?

"No, I'm not a stranger to it," he said finally. "But I'm not much for battle or conquest. I care about knowledge—understanding this world and its truths."

Bestla's smile widened, her pride evident. "And I'm glad for that. But only the Volur can grasp the deepest truths of this world. Their connection to its natural forces gives them a unique advantage. Still, if anyone outside their ranks could achieve it, it'd be you."

"Thank you for your confidence," Ragna said, inclining his head.

"It's my job as your mother to believe in you," she replied warmly. "Now, you should rest and prepare for dinner. Meeting the rest of the family can be... strenuous."

As Bestla left the room, Ragna settled onto his bed in a lotus position. Something had been gnawing at the edges of his mind since they arrived in the capital. Closing his eyes, he projected his internal senses outward. His awareness expanded beyond the palace walls, touching the energy that permeated the atmosphere.

Essence.

It was everywhere, flowing like an unseen river, but something—or someone—was emitting an extraordinary concentration of it. As he tried to pinpoint the source, he felt space itself bending and shifting, concealing the entity's location. Frustrated but undeterred, Ragna turned inward, drawing Essence from the air into his body using his psychic energy. Normally, one would channel Essence through their core's Spiritual Gate, but lacking one, Ragna bent the energy directly into his cells. His vitality surged, invigorating him. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

****

When Ragna and his parents entered the dining hall, the grandeur of the room struck him. A long table stretched across the space, laden with an impressive variety of dishes. Servants flitted about, placing final touches on the arrangements. Nearby, three figures stood with wine in hand: Prince Magnus, Prince Harbard, and Princess Ingrid. In the corner, children whispered among themselves, stealing glances at the table as they awaited the call to dinner.

The Lothbroks turned toward the newcomers as a servant opened the door. Ingrid's smile was radiant as she spotted her sister, while Harbard's hand unconsciously brushed his ribs, a nervous tic as memories of childhood "beatdowns" at Bestla's hands resurfaced. Magnus's gaze lingered on Bestla only briefly before locking onto Ragna. The boy's exotic appearance—elf-like but without pointed ears—stood out starkly among the Lothbrok's robust, Nordic features. Only his piercing blue eyes marked him as kin.

Magnus's warrior instincts stirred as he studied the boy further. There was a sharpness in Ragna's aura, an edge that reminded Magnus of his late brother, Sigurd.

"This must be Ragna," Magnus said, his deep voice commanding attention.

"Uncle Magnus," Bestla greeted with a nod. "Ragna, this is your granduncle, Prince Magnus Lothbrok."

Ragna bowed his head respectfully. "A pleasure to meet you, Granduncle."

Magnus returned the nod, his eyes narrowing slightly. "The pleasure is mine."

"And this is your uncle, my elder brother, Harbard," Bestla continued, wrapping her arm around the frail-looking man beside Ingrid. Harbard stiffened, his eyes darting warily as if anticipating some form of ambush. Bestla's grin widened mischievously, but she restrained herself.

"Nice to meet you, Uncle," Ragna said, his tone polite.

Before Harbard could respond, a young man who bore a striking resemblance to him stepped forward. Unlike his father, this boy was muscular and healthy, his golden hair cropped short. Two identical girls trailed behind him, their features marking them as Ingrid's daughters.

"Who is this, Father?" the boy asked, his tone curious but tinged with suspicion.

"Hvisterk, this is your aunt and uncle, Princess Bestla and Earl Aksel," Harbard said. Hvisterk's gaze shifted to Bestla, and he swallowed hard, clearly recalling the tales of her ferocity. His attention then fell on Ragna, lingering on the boy's otherworldly appearance.

Sensing his cousin's scrutiny, Ragna smiled. "And I'm Ragna, your cousin."

Hvisterk hesitated, then extended a hand. "Hvisterk Lothbrok. Welcome to the capital."

As Ragna shook his hand, he felt the unspoken weight of judgment in Hvisterk's grip. This family, it seemed, would not accept him without proving his worth. Ragna's smile deepened. He welcomed the challenge.