A Warborn’s Welcome

The village was deathly silent in the aftermath. The bodies of the slain bandits lay sprawled across the square, their blood seeping into the dirt. The villagers, ragged and hollow-eyed, stood in the shadows of their ruined homes, watching Hakon with the wary caution of men who had long since learned not to trust saviors.

Hakon let out a slow breath, his grip still firm on his sword. The fight had been brief, but his ribs throbbed where his wounds had yet to fully heal. He ignored the pain. Pain was a companion now, an old friend whispering reminders of the past.

A man finally stepped forward—an elder, gray-bearded, with a deep scar running down his cheek. His tunic was torn, his hands dirt-stained, but his back was straight. He studied Hakon, gaze sharp as a blade.

"You killed them." It was not a question.

Hakon flicked the blood from his sword before sheathing it. "I did."

The elder's jaw tightened. He glanced at the corpses, then at the scattered villagers. Some clutched makeshift weapons, pitchforks and knives, as if they still expected treachery.

"What do you want?" the elder asked.

Hakon met his gaze. "A night's rest. And a horse, if you can spare one."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A woman, no older than twenty, cradled a child to her chest. "He saved us," she whispered. "We owe him that."

Another man scoffed. "How do we know he won't just bring more trouble?"

Hakon remained still. He understood their fear. Warlords, brigands, and would-be kings had long since burned away whatever trust these people might have once had in men with swords.

The elder sighed, rubbing a hand over his scarred face. Then, with a nod, he turned to a younger man. "See that he gets food and a place to rest."

Hakon inclined his head. "I won't stay long."

The villagers parted as he walked past, their gazes lingering on him with something between gratitude and unease.

They gave him a small hut on the edge of the village, barely more than four walls and a roof, but it was shelter. A young boy brought him food—stale bread and dried venison, but he ate without complaint.

As he sat by the dying hearth, sharpening his blade, the door creaked open. The elder stepped inside, arms crossed.

"You fight like a warborn," the old man said.

Hakon glanced up. "I was one, once."

The elder studied him. "You're no common sellsword. What are you, then?"

For a moment, Hakon considered lying. Keeping his past buried. But then he remembered the boy's corpse in the mud. The stench of burning homes. The weight of his oath.

"I am Hakon Blackwolf."

The elder stiffened. A sharp inhale. A flicker of recognition in his weathered face. "Blackwolf." He exhaled. "We heard you were dead."

"I was," Hakon said. "Now I'm not."

The elder's expression darkened. "The Five Kings will know, soon enough."

"I count on it."

A long silence passed between them. Then, the elder nodded, as if something had been decided. "I'll have a horse ready by dawn. Best you be gone before then."

Hakon gave a small nod. "I will be."

The elder turned to leave, then hesitated. "Blackwolf… if you truly mean to make war on the Five Kings, you won't do it alone."

Hakon watched the flames flicker in the hearth. "I won't be."

The elder left without another word.

Hakon sat in silence, his sword resting across his knees. He closed his eyes, listening to the wind howl outside.

The first step had been taken.

The hunt had begun.