"Rise of the Viking King."

The morning mist clung to the fjords, the sea breeze whispering through the thatched roofs of Hrafnsfjord. The village was waking, but for Dikun Silver, the world had already shifted. Yesterday, he had stood before the Jarl and faced the trial. Though bruised and weary, he had proven his resolve. He was no longer simply the farmer's son. He was now on the path of a warrior.

But a trial alone did not make a man worthy of the gods' favor.

"Strength must be tempered," Sigvard had told him the night before. "A sword without a purpose is nothing more than iron."

Dikun understood. Strength would be his weapon, but wisdom would be his shield. And to claim his fate, he needed more than just determination. He needed to learn the ways of war.

---

A Father's Warning

The sky burned gold as Dikun returned to his father's field. The ground was still damp with the morning dew. Halvard was already at work, his hands gripping the plow with the ease of a man who had spent a lifetime breaking the earth.

But Dikun was not alone. Behind him trailed two boys — his brothers, Marcus and Sarich. At 14 years old, the twins were only two years younger than Dikun, but both were already eager to prove themselves. Though they shared the same father, they came from different mothers.

Marcus, the bolder of the two, was quick with his words and quicker with his fists. His hair was the same dark hue as Dikun's, but his grin was sharper, always dancing on the edge of trouble. Sarich, in contrast, was quieter. He watched, listened, and calculated. His presence was steady, his dark eyes filled with unspoken thoughts.

And then there was Deen, the youngest of them all — a boy of 10 years. Though still a child, he had grown quickly, with a fierce determination that rivaled his older brothers. His unruly blond hair gleamed under the sun, and in his hands, he clutched a small wooden sword that Dikun had carved for him. He swung it wildly, his laughter ringing through the air.

"You'll miss the fields when you're gone, brother," Marcus teased, his grin wide. "Or maybe not."

"Not likely," Dikun replied with a smirk.

"And when you return as a warrior, we'll be old enough to join you," Sarich added, his voice calm but filled with certainty. "We'll stand by your side, just like the sagas say."

"And I'll fight too!" Deen declared, standing proudly with his chest puffed. "I'll grow strong and be the best warrior of all of us!"

Dikun laughed, kneeling down to ruffle Deen's hair. "Then train hard, little one. The sea doesn't wait for boys. But one day, if the gods will it, I'll welcome you as a warrior."

"I promise I will," Deen said fiercely, determination shining in his eyes.

The brothers' laughter echoed through the field, but as Dikun rose, the weight of his decision returned. He was leaving. For the first time, he would walk a path that would take him far from his family. Yet he vowed silently that one day, when the time was right, they would stand together.

"When you are ready," Dikun said, his gaze firm. "We will fight as brothers. I promise you that."

And the gods bore witness to that promise.

---

The Warrior's Training

Sigvard did not wait long to put Dikun to the test. That very day, he led the young man to the edge of the village where a patch of rough, uneven ground had been cleared for sparring. The air smelled of damp earth and sweat. Wooden training dummies lined the field, their straw-stuffed bodies slashed and splintered from countless blows.

"Before you can lead, you must fight," Sigvard said, tossing Dikun a wooden practice sword. "Show me what strength you possess."

Dikun gripped the sword, its weight unfamiliar compared to the crude farming tools he had wielded all his life. Across from him stood Hakon, one of Sigvard's warriors — a massive man with a broad chest and a tangled mane of dark hair. A deep scar ran down his left cheek, a reminder of battles survived.

"Try not to die too quickly, farmer boy," Hakon sneered, brandishing his own wooden blade.

Dikun ignored the taunt, focusing on his stance. He had no formal training, only the instinctual knowledge of how to survive. But instinct would have to be enough.

"Begin!" Sigvard roared.

Hakon lunged forward, his movements quick for a man of his size. Dikun barely managed to raise his sword in time, the force of the blow sending a jolt through his arms. He staggered, his boots slipping against the dirt.

"Too slow," Hakon growled.

Dikun grit his teeth, steadying himself. The next strike came faster, and this time he dodged to the side, his sword swinging in retaliation. The wooden blades clashed, the sharp crack echoing through the air.

For what seemed like an eternity, they fought. Dikun's arms burned, his chest heaved with ragged breaths, but he did not yield. He learned with each swing — the subtle shift of Hakon's footing, the angle of his blade, the small openings in his guard.

And then, at last, Dikun saw it.

Hakon's next blow came with the same predictable force, but Dikun twisted away, letting the strike graze past him. In the same motion, he drove the hilt of his sword into Hakon's side. The warrior stumbled, cursing under his breath.

The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers. Even Hakon, after catching his breath, chuckled in amusement.

"Not bad, farmer's son," Hakon grunted, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "You've got fight in you."

---

A Warrior's First Oath

That night, as the fires of the great hall burned high, Sigvard gathered his men. The long tables were lined with roasted meat and overflowing horns of mead. The sound of laughter and the clash of drinking horns filled the space.

Dikun sat among them, his body still aching from the day's trial. But the pain only served as a reminder — a reminder that he had endured.

"Men of Hrafnsfjord!" Sigvard's voice thundered, silencing the hall. "Tonight, we welcome a new brother into our ranks. Dikun Silver has shown the heart of a warrior. He stood his ground, fought without fear, and earned his place among us."

The warriors roared in approval, their fists pounding against the wooden tables.

"But strength alone is not enough," Sigvard continued, his gaze locking onto Dikun. "A warrior must swear his loyalty. Speak your oath now, Dikun Silver. Swear it before your brothers, before the gods, and before the sea itself."

Dikun rose, the weight of the moment settling upon him. He clenched his fists, the words rising from his heart.

"I swear upon the gods of the North, upon the wind and the waves, and upon the blood that runs through my veins. I will fight with honor, stand by my brothers, and face death without fear. I will seek my fate upon the sea, and may the gods judge me worthy."

The hall erupted in cheers once more. Horns were raised, and the warmth of the fire seemed to burn even brighter.

But even as Dikun celebrated, the distant sea called to him.

He had taken his first step. Yet the road ahead would be paved with blood and bone. And with each battle fought, his name would either rise in glory or be forgotten beneath the waves.

The gods would decide.

To Be Continued...