The blacksmith wipes the sweat from his brow, stepping back from where Ivar sits on the ground. The dirt beneath him is scattered with metal tools and bits of leather strapping. His crutch lies abandoned to the side, replaced by something entirely new—metal braces fitted snugly along his legs, held with buckled leather straps.

You’re walking toward him with Ubbe and Hvitserk, laughter from a passing group of warriors fading as you near. From where you stand, you can see the tension in Ivar’s jaw, the way his pale eyes are fixed on the ground in front of him, as if willing himself to move.

Hvitserk’s brow furrows. “Ivar… what are you doing?”

Ubbe stops beside him, glancing from the odd contraption to his younger brother’s determined expression. “Is this—did you have the blacksmith make these?”

Ivar doesn’t look up right away. He runs a hand along the cold metal, fingers brushing over the rivets and leather. “Yes,” he says simply, voice steady but carrying that edge he always has when he feels cornered. “I’m going to stand. On my own.”

You stay a few paces back, watching intently, heart pounding—not from doubt, but from a swelling pride at his resolve. You’ve seen Ivar fight with every breath for his place in the world, but this… this is different.

Hvitserk shifts uneasily. “You don’t have to prove anything to us, brother—”

Ivar snaps his gaze upward, cutting him off. “I am not proving it to you. I am proving it to myself.”

His hands press into the ground as he adjusts his position, the metal braces glinting in the light. Slowly, with a sharp breath, he plants his feet and begins to push upward. Every movement is deliberate, his arms straining as his legs tremble under unfamiliar weight. The leather creaks. Dirt shifts under his boots.

And then—he’s up. Standing.

For the first time without anyone’s hands on him.

His chest rises and falls rapidly, but his chin lifts with fierce pride. His brothers’ expressions shift from shock to awe, but Ivar’s eyes seek only you.

That sharp grin of his—half defiance, half triumph—spreads across his face. “See?” he breathes, almost to himself. “I told you.”

You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips, your heart swelling at the sight. He’s standing tall, unyielding, the way you always knew he could. And though he keeps his pride aimed at his brothers, you see the flicker in his gaze that tells you he wanted you to see this most of all.