Oddvarr claps Oleksandr hard on the back, the blow reverberating through his still-buzzing muscles, a signal that the battle is over and something else is about to begin. His eyes gleam with a mixture of pride and curiosity, and with a brief, satisfied chuckle, he gestures for Oleksandr to follow him.

  "Come, I have something to show you," Oddvarr mutters, leading the way back toward the longhouse. They pass by several of his men, who watch Oleksandr with wary respect, their faces still marked with disbelief from the savage display of his strength. The snow crunches underfoot, the chill of the wind biting at their backs as they make their way to the rear of the hall.

  Once inside, Oddvarr shuts the door with a heavy thud, cutting off the sounds of the evening revelry outside. The room they enter is far removed from the simple hall, its lavish interior a stark contrast to the cold, harsh world outside. The air is thick with the scent of alcohol, perfume, and the staleness of a long night’s revelry. A large bed with rumpled furs is pushed against the far wall, a lazy reminder of the room's more carnal purpose. Animal trophies, some with gleaming eyes and sharp fangs, hang proudly on the stone walls, casting ominous shadows in the flickering light of the hearth.

  A concubine, a young woman wrapped in a thin blanket, is sleeping in the bed. Her chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, her body curled tightly against the cold. Oddvarr doesn’t pause, his hand gesturing dismissively toward her. "Out," he barks, his voice gruff and commanding. The concubine stirs, opening her eyes slowly, glancing between the two men before reluctantly rising from the bed. She gathers her furs around her and leaves, casting one last look at Oleksandr, her expression unreadable.

  Oddvarr says nothing as he moves to a large chest tucked in the corner of the room, the worn wood creaking under his weight. He opens it slowly and he rummages through the contents, the sound of metal scraping against wood faint in the silence. After a moment, he pulls out a sword—its hilt wrapped in dark braided leather, the blade gleaming in the dim light of the room.

  The scabbard is made of silver, intricately decorated with runic designs and knots, the patterns winding their way down the length of the sheath like a story carved into the metal. The ends are dressed in gold, each line a work of art in itself, the craftsmanship of a master. Oddvarr unsheathes the sword with a smooth motion, revealing a blade that gleams with deadly intent, catching the light from the hearth in a flash of cold brilliance. He turns the blade over in his hands, his eyes tracing its edges with a glimmer of approval.

  "Beautiful, isn’t she?" Oddvarr whispers, his voice tinged with pride as he admires the weapon. He holds it out, the blade pointed toward Oleksandr, and there's a moment of silence, where the two men simply look at the sword, the weight of its significance hanging in the air between them.

  “Aye.” Oleksandr can’t help but admire the blade's elegance, its deadly grace. Oddvarr's pride is evident, and for a brief moment, the man seems almost human, his usual brutality softened by a quiet reverence for this weapon. Oddvarr nods slowly, his gaze never leaving the gleaming blade as he holds it up to the low light. His voice is quiet but firm, as if sharing something deeply personal.

  "This is no ordinary sword," he says, his fingers tracing the intricate runes and designs etched into the blade. "It's a relic from the old gods, a weapon of power and glory. It was passed to my father by his father, and then it was passed to me." A shadow crosses his face, and for a moment, the weight of history seems to pull at him. "I meant to pass it to Finn when he reached his twentieth winter. But… we know how that story ended."

  There’s a deep sigh, and for the briefest of moments, Oddvarr seems lost in thought, his rough exterior cracking just enough to reveal the ache of loss. The sword, however, remains in his hand, gleaming as if untouched by the years. He shakes himself out of his reverie, his rough fingers still caressing the runes on the blade.

  "I want you to have it," he says, his voice less cold now, more deliberate. He looks up at Oleksandr, his gaze sharp but no longer the same. There's a sense of finality in his words, an offering of something far more meaningful than just steel. Oleksandr looks at Oddvarr with a mixture of surprise and disbelief.

  His voice is cautious, almost incredulous. "You're gifting me such a valuable heirloom?" He asks, still trying to make sense of the gesture. The sword gleams in Oddvarr's hands, its significance now looming in the silence between them. Oddvarr meets his gaze, his eyes softening just a touch. He sighs, the weight of years pressing on him.

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  "I'm old, Oleksandr," he says, his voice uncharacteristically vulnerable, the harshness of his usual tone tempered by a quiet weariness. "This is one treasure I don't wish to take with me to my grave."

  In that moment, Oleksandr truly sees him—not as the fearsome warlord or the ruthless leader of men, but as a man who has lived through too many winters, watched too many sons die, and now finds himself at the mercy of the destroyer of all things— time. Oddvarr’s weathered face and calloused hands speak of a life lived hard, but the weariness in his voice tells of a battle not yet won—the battle against age, against mortality. For the first time, Oleksandr sees the depth of Oddvarr's years, the strain in his movements, the frailty hidden beneath the rough exterior. Oleksandr is taken aback by Oddvarr's words, a sense of unease settling in his chest.

  The sword in his hands feels heavier now, not just in its physical weight, but in its significance. He runs his fingers over the intricately engraved runes, the artistry of the blade striking him with its beauty and power. The weapon seems almost alive in his grasp, the hum of its ancient history vibrating faintly through the air. For a moment, he just stands there, the enormity of the gesture sinking in. Oddvarr’s trust, his vulnerability, and the passing of a legacy now rests in his hands.

  Oleksandr stands still, the sword now feeling like a foreign object in his hands, its weight pulling at his conscience. The gleaming blade seems to mock him, reminding him of the mission he’s been given—the very mission that has brought him here. His heart beats harder in his chest, confusion swirling in his mind like a storm.

  He had always thought that Oddvarr was just waiting for the right moment to turn on him, to reveal his true intentions. His distrust had grown with every encounter, every glance, every word.

  But now, standing in Oddvarr’s presence, with this relic being offered to him—this very weapon, tied to Oddvarr's bloodline, a treasure meant for his son—Oleksandr can’t reconcile it with the mission he’s been tasked with. He feels guilt, deep and uncomfortable. It’s as if he’s holding not just a weapon, but a burden, one that pulls him between duty and something far deeper—something personal. The weight of the sword now feels heavier, as if he’s holding the very sins of his deception in his hands.

  He looks at Oddvarr, his voice tinged with confusion. "Why me?" He asks, the question slipping out before he can stop it. "I’m a stranger to you.” His eyes search Oddvarr’s face for an answer, looking for a sign of manipulation, a trace of the coldness he had once feared. But Oddvarr only watches him quietly, and the old man’s expression is almost unreadable, save for a glint in his eye that Oleksandr can’t quite place. He never imagined Oddvarr to be the type to give away such a valuable heirloom, much less to someone he barely knew. The conflicting emotions crash over him—his loyalty to his mission, his role as a bounty hunter, his understanding of the betrayal he must commit—and the strange sense of respect and understanding that is beginning to grow between him and the elderly man.

  Oddvarr watches him for a moment, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Because you have the heart of a true warrior," Oddvarr says, his voice low, steady, yet almost filled with a trace of sorrow. “You remind me of someone. Someone I used to know,” he says cryptically, his eyes never leaving Oleksandr’s.

  “I…” Oleksandr begins, the words catching in his throat. He’s stunned by the sudden sincerity in Oddvarr’s voice, but his hesitation remains. “I cannot accept this from you.” Oddvarr chuckles, a deep rumbling sound that reverberates in the stone walls of the room. His eyes glint with a knowing light, though there’s no malice behind them.

  “Oh? You would turn down such a gift, given out of the goodness of an old man’s heart?” He asks, his tone playful, yet there’s something more beneath it. He steps closer to Oleksandr, his presence imposing despite his age. “After all, it’s Yule. It would be bad luck to deny such a gift.” The holiday, the winter solstice, is a time of gifts and good fortune—of honoring the gods and ancestors. It would indeed be considered a grave offense to reject such a gift, especially one that is offered with such weight and meaning. But Oleksandr, ever the soldier, struggles with the feeling that he’s being drawn into something he can’t yet understand.

  "I do... not deserve such a fine gift," Oleksandr mutters, his voice heavy with humility and doubt as he holds the sword in his hands, the blade glinting in the dim light. His gaze flickers to Oddvarr, conflicted by the weight of the offer. It feels too much—too generous, too personal. His mind races, questioning if he’s worthy of this weapon, this symbol of power and legacy. Oddvarr, as if reading his thoughts, steps closer, his old eyes narrowing with a sharpness that belies his age.

  “You are a fine man, Oleksandr. A great one, even,” Oddvarr says, his voice full of authority but also with a depth of understanding. He places a hand on Oleksandr’s shoulder, the touch surprisingly soft. “This sword was gifted to me, and it is mine to give. Take it.”

  He stands there, silent for a long moment, not sure whether to feel honored or haunted. Finally, he speaks, his voice thick with gratitude. "Thank you..."

  “It is your destiny to have it, Oleksandr,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost reverent, like a blessing. “May it serve you well.”