Vikings. The Great Age. It was a time of strong men who lived by harsh, yet noble values. For them, strength and honor weren’t just words — they were the foundation of existence. The air carried the smell of salt and pine, the sound of waves crashing against the shore a constant backdrop to their lives. Everyone dreamed of slaying a dragon — the ancient enemy whose very name struck fear. Dragons spared no one: they destroyed supplies, took livestock, and burned villages to the ground.

One day, refugees arrived in Svarnstad — a village ruled by strict but fair people. Vikings who had lost their homes. Among them were women with children and wounded warriors. The children cried, hiding behind their parents, their tears freezing in the cold northern wind. Their settlement had been destroyed in an instant, and only those who lived far from the village center had time to escape. Among the survivors was a boy about six years old — his name was Ragnar.

The people begged for shelter, and the chieftain Sigurd, stern and respected, agreed. He gave them land and later held a ritual of initiation, making the newcomers full citizens of Svarnstad.

Sigurd had a son of his own — weak, unremarkable, lacking the strength his father was known for. People looked at him with doubt, their whispers carrying on the wind like the rustle of dead leaves. Ragnar avoided him altogether, found him strange, even though the boy followed him everywhere like a shadow.

Ragnar grew up determined. He dreamed of becoming a leader like Sigurd and trained relentlessly. The cold mornings found him already at the training grounds, his breath fogging in the air as he swung his practice sword until his arms ached. By the age of fifteen, he excelled in competitions, handled weapons skillfully, and stood out among his peers. Sigurd noticed his potential and began to seriously consider mentoring him.

Although Sigurd loved his son, he knew — the boy could never become a leader. But the son longed for his approval. He trained, participated, tried his best to earn his father’s attention, but it was all in vain.

When both turned eighteen, Ragnar had become a strong, resilient warrior. He had learned to dodge strikes and protect the weak. And that year, dragons attacked the village again. At night, without warning. The sky was ablaze, fire and screams echoed all around, the heat searing Ragnar’s face as he ran to defend his home.

Ragnar grabbed his war hammer and ran outside. Dragons soared above the rooftops, setting everything on fire with their fiery breath. He fought — striking beasts in the face, saving people. The weight of the hammer felt like an extension of his arm as he swung it again and again. He was like a grown man, holding his own alongside seasoned warriors.

Then, through the chaos, he spotted the chieftain’s son — running around with some strange tool in his hands, shouting like he had caught a dragon. His loud voice only drew more beasts. One of the dragons rushed toward him, its jaws open wide. Ragnar didn’t hesitate — he leapt into action. His hammer smashed into the dragon’s face just as it was about to incinerate the boy. As the creature roared in pain, Ragnar grabbed the youth, pulled him close, and dragged him to safety, the boy’s body trembling in his arms.

When it was over, he shoved him away harshly: — “Stay out of the way,” he growled, his voice rough with anger and something he couldn’t name.