The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the largest building in Akerholt, its imposing structure made of heavy stone and timber. Smoke from chimneys nearby mixed with the faint scent of earth and sweat, and the muffled roar of voices filtered through the building's thick wooden doors.
"This is the town hall," Rorik said as he climbed down from the carriage. "It's where the guards are stationed, and where the man sent by the Elderman oversees the village."
I stepped down after him, staring up at the intimidating building. "The guards?"
"Aye," he replied, leading the way. "Men of the Wolf Clan. They keep order here and make sure everything runs smoothly. They answer to the Elderman, but they also answer to the clan first."
The weight of his words settled heavily in my chest. Men of the Wolf Clan. Warriors.
---
Inside, the noise hit me like a wave.
The hall was enormous, its high ceiling supported by massive wooden beams. Torches lined the walls, their flames casting flickering shadows across the room. The air smelled of sweat, leather, and the faint tang of ale.
Guards stood in small groups along the walls, their uniforms striking and authoritative. They wore chainmail beneath cloaks of fur, their helmets polished and their weapons sharp. But what stood out most was the mark on their right arms—a black, swirling tattoo that seemed to shift subtly in the torchlight.
"Their marks," I muttered, staring.
Rorik nodded. "Every warrior has one. It's a sign of the changing. Without it, you're nothing more than a farmer with a sharp stick."
The reminder was like a punch to the gut. No matter how hard I trained, no matter how much I learned, it wouldn't mean anything if I didn't go through the changing.
I tore my eyes away from the guards and focused on the center of the hall, where a crude fighting ring had been set up. Ropes tied to wooden posts enclosed a circle of dirt, and inside, two boys about my age were circling each other. Neither of them had marks on their arms—they must have been too young or hadn't gone through the changing yet.
The crowd around the ring was wild. Men and women shouted encouragement, insults, and everything in between. Coins clinked as they changed hands, bets being placed with feverish excitement.
One of the boys feinted to the left, then drove a fist into his opponent's jaw with brutal force. The smaller boy crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he hit the dirt.
The crowd erupted, some cheering, others groaning in frustration as they handed over their coins.
"What is this?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the noise.
Rorik glanced at me, his expression unreadable. "This is where you're going to fight."
"What?" I turned to him, my stomach lurching.
"You want to be a warrior, don't you?" Rorik said, his tone calm but firm. "This is your chance to prove it."
---
The victorious boy climbed out of the ring, his friends clapping him on the back. He was grinning, blood dripping from his knuckles as he accepted a small handful of coins.
Rorik guided me toward the edge of the ring, the crowd parting slightly to let us through.
"The rules are simple," he said, gesturing toward the ring. "No weapons, no biting. You lose if you get knocked out or if you give up."
I nodded, swallowing hard.
Rorik's eyes narrowed slightly, and a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "If you lose, you're walking home."
The words hit me like a challenge, and I felt a spark of determination flare to life in my chest.
---
The crowd began to notice me as I stepped closer to the ring. Whispers spread like wildfire, their curious gazes making my skin prickle.
"Who's the kid?" someone muttered.
"Looks scrawny," another said with a laugh.
I ignored them, my focus narrowing as I climbed into the ring. The dirt felt cool under my bare feet, and the sounds of the crowd faded into the background.
"Remember," Rorik called from the sidelines, his voice cutting through the haze. "This isn't about winning. It's about learning."
But all I could think about was proving him wrong.