Two years had passed since the seer's ominous words, and the world had become a clearer, sharper place for Sigurd. His infant body had grown stronger, and his movements were deliberate and confident. At just two years old, he walked with surprising steadiness and spoke in short but articulate sentences, feats that earned him awe-struck gazes from the villagers. His early development—walking, talking, and even mimicking the sagas told around the fire—had the people convinced he was blessed by the gods. Some whispered that he had inherited Ragnar's greatness; others believed he was destined for something far greater.
Ragnar's longhouse was a world unto itself, filled with the chaos of a sprawling family, the laughter of warriors, and the quiet footsteps of thralls. Sigurd had come to understand the rhythms of his new life, observing everything with sharp, calculating eyes.
His mother, Aslaug, was a striking woman, her golden hair flowing like the sun's rays and her sharp features softened only by the love she showed her children. A shield-maiden and a descendant of a powerful lineage, Aslaug commanded respect and admiration. She moved through the longhouse with an air of authority, her presence like the stillness before a storm.
Then there were his brothers—at least, the ones he had met so far. Ivar, the youngest after Sigurd, was pale and slender, his sharp mind already evident in the way he observed and calculated before speaking. Hvitserk, with his playful nature and constant laughter, was a magnet for trouble and delight alike. Ubbe, the most level-headed, often acted as the mediator among his siblings, his sturdy frame hinting at the warrior he would grow to become. And Bjorn—the eldest—was the embodiment of strength and determination, his dark hair and piercing blue eyes a reflection of Ragnar himself.
Sigurd's own appearance had begun to set him apart. His golden hair shimmered brightly even on cloudy days, and his eyes—particularly his right eye—drew attention. Encircling the iris was a faint, snake-like tattoo, black and intricate, as though etched by an invisible hand. The villagers whispered about it, some calling it a blessing from Odin, others a curse. To Sigurd, it was a reminder of the strange system that had tied him to this world and its destiny.
Ragnar's legacy stretched far beyond the walls of the longhouse. Sigurd had not yet met all of his father's children; Ragnar's lineage was vast, scattered across the land like seeds of a great tree. With two legal wives and numerous concubines, Ragnar was a man of great ambition, and his bloodline was a testament to his power and charisma.
Sigurd had also come to notice that this world was not quite like his old one. For one, there were two moons, their silver glow illuminating the skies each night. And then there was the red-moon event—a day that occurred once every three years when both moons turned crimson. The villagers spoke of it in hushed, reverent tones, calling it a sacred time when the gods' attention turned to Midgard. Sigurd's curiosity about this phenomenon had grown, though he had yet to witness it himself.
The system had remained dormant for much of the past two years, offering little in the way of guidance or quests. But Sigurd had not been idle. He had explored the village, absorbed tales of the gods and their deeds, and quietly tested the limits of his young body. Though he longed for the system to awaken, he knew that patience was key.
One crisp morning, as the longhouse buzzed with activity, Sigurd found himself alone in a quiet corner. Aslaug had taken Bjorn and Ubbe to inspect the livestock, while the younger children played outside. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows on the wooden walls.
Eira, one of the thralls, entered the room with a basket of linens. She was barely older than Sigurd, perhaps five or six years of age, with dark hair braided neatly and bright green eyes that belied the hardships of her station. Though young, she carried herself with a quiet determination, her movements precise and deliberate as she went about her tasks.
"Young master," she said softly, dipping her head in respect. "I didn't realize you were here."
Sigurd's gaze lingered on her, his mind sharper than his youthful appearance suggested. There was a simplicity in her presence that contrasted with the complexities of his own thoughts, a reminder of the innocence that still existed in this world.
"You don't have to call me that," he said, his voice still high-pitched but carrying an unusual gravity. "You're not much older than me."
Eira blinked, surprised by his words, and a small smile tugged at her lips. "Perhaps, but you're still a son of Ragnar Lothbrok. That makes you important."
Sigurd tilted his head, studying her. He had seen how the other thralls were treated—some with kindness, others with disdain. Eira, however, had always been treated fairly by his mother, and she seemed to hold a quiet pride in her work.
"Do you believe in fate?" Sigurd asked suddenly.
Eira hesitated, her brows furrowing. "I think we all have a path to walk," she said carefully. "But whether that path is chosen for us or made by our own steps… I don't know."
Her words struck a chord in Sigurd, who was still grappling with the weight of his own destiny. Before he could respond, Eira moved closer to place the linens near the fire. As she leaned down, her braid slipped over her shoulder, and Sigurd caught the faint scent of lavender. Something stirred within him, a flicker of emotion he couldn't quite place.
The silence between them was broken by the creak of the door and Aslaug's voice calling out. "Sigurd? Are you here?"
Eira straightened quickly, gathering her basket. She dipped her head to him once more before slipping out of the room, her presence like a fleeting shadow. Sigurd watched her go, his thoughts lingering on the conversation and the strange warmth her presence had left behind.
Aslaug entered, her sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on him. "There you are," she said with a smile. "Come, my son. There is much to do today."
Sigurd stood, his small frame steady despite his young age. As he followed his mother out into the crisp air, he couldn't shake the feeling that Eira's words—and her presence—would play a role in the path that lay ahead.
And as the sun climbed higher, casting golden light over the village, the serpent in his eye seemed to shimmer, as though the gods themselves were watching his every step.