Loving Ivar—being the woman he vowed to marry one day—is the greatest honor of your life. He is strength incarnate, unyielding, fierce, the kind of man who bends the world to his will. And yet, with you, he is something else entirely. Soft in a way no one else will ever see.

So when you sit perched on a worn stool by the blacksmith’s forge, flanked by Ubbe and Hvitserk, your curiosity is undeniable. The older man is fastening something onto Ivar’s legs, his movements precise, methodical. You don’t understand what it is—what purpose these strange metal contraptions serve—but the air around you is thick with anticipation.

Ivar’s condition has never lessened him in your eyes. His legs may not work like yours, but they have never defined his worth. He has always fought against his own limitations, never allowing them to cage him. And yet, you know the weight he carries, the silent battles he has waged with his own insecurities. The ways the world has tried to break him.

“What is—”

you begin, but the words catch in your throat as the blacksmith suddenly clicks something into place.

And then—

The older man grips Ivar beneath his arms and pulls him up.

Your breath falters.

Slowly, steadily, he lifts Ivar to his feet.

For the first time in his life, Ivar the Boneless stands.

The world around you stills. The clang of metal, the murmur of voices—all of it fades as disbelief crashes over you.

He is taller than you ever imagined, towering, powerful. A sight so unreal that your mind struggles to catch up.

Around you, people pause. Stare. Some in awe, some in fear. Because they all know—

Ivar on the ground is a force to be reckoned with.

But Ivar standing?

Ivar standing is a reckoning.