At the end, at the very end, they lay panting, spent, almost like lovers worn out by a night of passion, and Eyvind looked into the wolf’s eyes one last time. The creature was still now; the golden gaze grew dim as Eyvind’s hands maintained their merciless grip about the neck. The wolf bled from mouth and belly; Eyvind knew his own blood flowed from countless wounds on his body, on his chest, his shoulder, his face, his hands, somewhere in another world. He stared into his adversary’s eyes and the truth looked back at him. This was the moment: the moment of changing. There were no words, simply the recognition of place, of tribe, of kingship: the knowledge of being, wild, free, strong. Then the shadow, and the darkness. The wolf shuddered and grew limp. The shining eyes clouded and were blank. Time to draw a single breath, and to begin to sense a weariness bone-deep, a pain in every corner of the body, a cold sudden and fierce that numbed his heart and froze his very blood. An instant only; and then with a rustling and a stirring, the waiting circle of beings rose and moved and closed in around him. The world reeled; the stars began to shift in crazy patterns. Beyond them, he thought he saw a man, a great, tall man like a giant with the mask of a wolf and eyes of brightest gold, and the man said, Son, well done. Then for Eyvind, too, came the darkness.

He woke, and for an instant thought he was home in his bed. Then he remembered, and disappointment hit him like a hard fist. A dream; imagination, the whole thing, and all he had done was sleep here by the fire like some lad too young and weak to hold his ale. They had not even let him attempt the trial. He moved, rolling to sit up, and felt pain lance through every part of his body. He rubbed his eyes against the daylight, and when he lowered his hands he saw the crust of dried blood on them. He was naked under the blanket, and on his chest, scored deep in flesh still coated with powdery ash, were four angry red stripes. A drum pounded inside his head; his mouth was dry and foul-tasting.

“Here,” said Eirik, appearing at his side with a skin water bottle in his hand, and a big grin on his bearded face. The others were behind him: the toothless one, the earless one, the sharp-featured Hakon, the whole band of Wolfskins, and now they were laughing and congratulating him, and he winced in pain as someone thumped him on the back, and someone else was saying now there were twelve again, and Thor would be glad indeed.

“I–I passed, then?” Eyvind croaked, clutching the water bottle and wondering greatly about a number of things. “That was…real?”