Bjorn Ironheart stepped through the gates of the wooden village at dusk. He came to win the shieldmaiden, the one who swore only the greatest warrior would have her hand. Smoke curled from the thatched roofs. Voices spilled from the great timber hall ahead. Outside the hall, a banner snapped in the cold wind. A bear's snarling face stared down from the cloth. A broad warrior stood beneath it, axe raised, shouting that he would fight any man for the shieldmaiden's hand. The crowd roared. Bjorn said nothing. He only watched. He turned from the noise and walked to the carved totem at the edge of the gathering ground. The wooden pillar bore the runes of Tyr, god of war and justice. Bjorn knelt in the cold dirt. He pressed his palm to the wood. He asked for a steady arm and an honest blade. He did not ask to win. When he rose, his doubt was gone. He crossed the open ground to the round stone arena where warriors had tested each other for generations. The bear-clan rival still shouted from its center. Bjorn stepped onto the worn stones. The crowd hushed. "I accept," Bjorn said. His voice was low, but every ear caught it. The rival turned, grinning, and lifted his axe. Drums began to beat. The shieldmaiden, somewhere in the woods beyond, would hear of this night by morning. Steel met steel under the torches. The fight was no longer a thought or a plan. It was here, and Bjorn would be measured.