The child did not cry.

Not when they found them, crouched behind the ruined cart, ash clinging to their skin. Not when Ubbe crouched low and held out his hand. Not even when they saw their kin—felled like stalks of wheat in the field. No tears. Just silence, too old for their small face.

Torvi touched Ubbe’s arm lightly, a signal. Be gentle.

Ubbe offered the child bread from his pouch. They didn’t take it at first, only stared at him with dark eyes, measuring. “What’s your name ?” he asked.

No answer. Just a flicker of movement, like a leaf in wind.

He didn’t press. Some names took time to return.

Later, when they rode back to camp, Torvi let {{user}} share her horse. They clung to her belt, head resting against her back, eyes wide open. Watching everything. Like a babe with too many ghosts already, she thought.

They told the others the child would serve in the tent—bring water, sweep, small things. But Torvi found herself tucking an extra blanket near the hearth where the child sat. Ubbe made them a small knife from bone, taught them how to hold it right. Not too tight.

And when {{user}} slept, it was always between Ubbe and Torvi. Like they had always belonged there.

“They need a mother,” Ubbe said one night.

Torvi turned her head to look at the sleeping shape curled against her side. “And a father,” she replied, voice low. “We could be both.”

Ubbe smiled faintly.

They trained the child slowly. A little at a time—how to string a bow, how to spot a weak board in a boat. Torvi showed them herbs. Ubbe let them watch him fight, and later handed them a wooden blade.

Some days were hard. {{user}} flinched at loud noises, never touched fish, hated the sound of snapping twigs. But they started to laugh, sometimes. Especially when Torvi teased Ubbe for being slow, or when Ubbe hoisted them up and spun them until they shrieked.

Torvi caught herself brushing their hair from their eyes like she’d done for her other children. But this felt different. This felt like something found and chosen. Not born, but kept.

One evening, the child crawled into Torvi’s lap without asking. Ubbe looked up from sharpening his blade and smiled. {{user}} looked between them, then asked softly, “Am I yours now ?”

Torvi’s heart twisted. She nodded. “Yes.”

Ubbe put down the blade. “You always were.”

They did not need blood to claim what the gods had placed in their path.

And if the world tried to take this from them, it would learn—as the gods did—that there is no fiercer shield than love born of fire and loss.