The Silent Warrior

Torvald had always believed that strength announced itself. At every feast, he was the loudest man in the hall — boasting of raids he had barely survived, challenges he had barely won, glories that grew larger with every telling. The younger men laughed at his jokes and cheered his toasts, and for a long time, Torvald mistook their laughter for respect.

The Seer never joined the noise. He sat near the fire, mending nets or sharpening blades, speaking only when a question was placed directly in front of him. Some in the village whispered that the old man had lost his fire, that age had made him timid. Torvald believed it too — until the night the wolves came.

It was deep winter, the fences half-buried in snow, when a pack of starving wolves slipped past the outer wall at dusk. Screams rose from the yard. Men who had boasted for years of their courage stood frozen, weapons forgotten in their hands. Torvald himself felt his throat close, his legs lock in place, his voice —...