Brokkr took another swig of his drinking horn. The mead was strong and sweet but hadn't done its job. His anger was still there, simmering, threatening to burst while those around him sang songs of father, the late Jarl Ivaldi.

Father was dead, killed by the Vargr Tribe's betrayal and yet Brokkr was meant to celebrate. Words of honor had already been said and now ash filled the air, banishing mist while consuming father’s remains.

Brokkr gestured to a slave woman to refill his drink, downing the ale in one great swig. Horns raised and whooping resounded. Should have filled him with joy, but he couldn't feel the barest hint of elation, not until father was avenged.

“It is a new age for the Diduni!” Sigyn shouted over the cacophony of the feast.

A crack appeared in Brokkr's drinking horn as his fist clenched. He wanted to strangle the Völva. She’d been at father's side during the ritual. Watched him burn to death from a horror summoned from Muspelheim. Useless fucking witchcraft hadn't done a thing and still she raised her horn thinking it an honor.

“To our new Jarl!” she said, facing him.

Jarl? Brokkr couldn't be Jarl. First of three born on the same day to the same mother gained him the right, but his left leg. It was misshapen, shooting pain into him with every step. At least he'd kill the mammoth that left him so lame. Still felt like it won though.

Sindri or Eitri, Brokkr's brothers should be Jarl, but father could never see it. He only cared for shipbuilding and most of all smithing.

The man had been an artist, forging the finest blades, armor, rings, and chains. Anything made from metal he worked better than any other, better than his own son's, better than Brokkr.

“You must forgive her,” a man said, joining Brokkr at his side. “You will have need of Sigyn.”

“Shut up, Laufey!” Brokkr shouted. He needed to tear the throat from something, whether he deserved it or not.

Laufey's expression never changed though, his almost too dark eyes boring into Brokkr, waiting.

Brokkr groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. It was like the south realmer didn't know how to take offense. Good thing, because his dark skin and curled hair offered many a reason to challenge him.

Brokkr thumbed through a pocket, pulling out a circlet of silver. Its scale-covered surface also held runes while its design was that of a lindworm, a dragon, biting its own tail.

“Take it,” Brokkr said, handing the dragon band over to Laufey.

He took the circlet, raising an eyebrow where other men would be on their knees. “There are only six of these, Brokkr, and you and your brothers would never part with yours. Unless you can forge more.”

“You know I can’t,” Brokkr said.

“Then this belongs to a Thane.”

Brokkr's scowl deepened. “It belonged to a Thane that is no longer a Thane. Man is lucky that's all he lost after letting father die.”

Laufey sighed and placed the circlet on the table in front of Brokkr. “There are forces in this world no man can hope to face. You judge too harshly.”

“Just take the fucking circlet, Laufey!”

“But if I do, I'm a Thane, and only the Jarl can raise a man to a Thane.”

Brokkr's drinking horn finally shattered. Laufey was his friend and most trusted ally, and the most infuriating man on Midgard.

“I am Jarl until I am not, so I'm making you a Thane,” Brokkr took up the dragon band and smacked it against Laufey's chest. “Whether you want to or not.”

Laufey chuckled and placed the circlet on his right bicep. “So I'm a Thane until I'm not then.

“Eitri and Sindri can't resend my choice unless you give them cause.” Brokkr leaned in close, seeing his own dark eyes reflected in Laufey's. “Don't give them cause. I’ll need an ally when I lose my birthright.”

A full day passed when Sindri made his challenge for jarldom. It wasn't soon enough if Brokkr had a say in it. The tension in the air had grown thicker than the mist as all knew this was to come.

In the great hall of the Diduni stuffed with over 50 free men and slaves to serve mead, Sindri smashed a fist on the long table. “I challenge my brother! The tribe needs more than he can offer as Jarl!”

An explosion of sound shook the hall as shields were bashed in agreement, not that Brokkr was surprised. What man would want a lame Jarl. And what Jarl would want to be the leader of men while unable to charge into battle ahead of them. Still couldn't help feeling like a knife was inching into his back though.

“Take it then,” Brokkr said, hands spread wide and already tired of sitting on such an uncomfortable throne. “It's yours to have, brother.”

Another crash came from the other side of the long table, this time from Eitri smiling a challenge at Sindri. “Then I challenge you brother! Make the fucking square and let our steel decide!”

"Enough!” Sigyn called out, her voice echoing, growing louder until not a single man spoke. “The sons of Ivaldi shall not spill each other's blood.”

“Then you fucking choice between my bothers, Völva!” Brokkr commanded. “We waste time sitting and talking when father's ghost lingers in anguish, thirsting for revenge and unable to move on.”

Eitri chuckled.“Father is not some wraith looking for revenge.”

Brokkr’s breath caught in his throat as his vision swam with anger. But, it only grew as Sindri spoke.

“He died to a vaettir, Brother. Do you want us to charge into Muspelheim to find the thing?”

Something inside Brokkr broke. “What fuckery is this!” Shadows crept into his vision. His heart pounded so hard he thought his chest was apt to burst. “Not looking for vengeance!” Brokkr stood, fire lancing up his mangled limb to fuel his rage. “You know!” he accused. “You know what the Vargr tribe did, breaking their oath, putting us all in danger!”

The gathered crowd looked on with confusion. They were ignorant of what broke the Fimbulwinter, but the sons of Ivaldi knew. They knew it would be their children to burn when their time came to banish the mist and how the Vargr tribe’s treachery ended their father's life.

Sindri’s palms patted the air. “Let the rest of Germa war with vargr wolves, doesn't mean we have to.”

“I want to go raiding on the sea again,” Eitri said, crossing his arms.

“Cravens!” Brokkr bellowed. “Cravens! You are all fucking Cravens!”

Brokkr leaped from the throne, his leg screaming. The dragon band around his arm warmed, silencing the pain as he ribbed an ax off the wall with the strength it gave him.

His brothers were afraid of fighting vargr wolves, fine. He’d give them a good death so they could be better in the next life.

Every step was awkward. Brokkr was forced to use the ax as a cane, but he would reach them. Split their skulls despite his injury. Couldn't run, but he didn't have to. Just needed to get close.

Laufey appeared from the crowd in Brokkr’s path. A hand lashed out. Brokkr swerved but Laufy followed him with the same motion catching the ax and twisting it free.

“Get out of my way!”

“That depends,” Laufey said, just like it was any other day. “If you are still the Jarl, then I’ll move, but if not.”

“I’m the fucking Jarl!” Brokkr declared to the entire hall. He wouldn't let his craven brothers lead. Lame or not, he was the only choice now.

Sigyn's voice cut through the hall once again. “A contest then! This tribe is not great just for its warriors. Our late Jarl was the greatest smith in all of Germa. His sons should prove themselves the same.”

“What does that mean?” Eitri asked while Brokkr wondered if he could split his skull with a well-aimed throw of a dagger.

Sigyn’s voice grew to new heights, shaking the hall and causing men to shy away, all but the sons of Ivaldi. “Forge as your father did. Make the greatest of weapons and armor and beautiful things. Then we shall see who shall be Jarl.”