> In a dream, he saw an endless coil. It circled the world, silent yet alive, its scales the color of midnight. When it blinked, the mountains trembled. When it sighed, the seas parted. He stood at the center, a nameless child beneath a storm that tasted of salt and fear.
> He tried to speak—to ask if the creature was friend or foe—but only darkness answered.
---
Arngrim jolted awake, heart pounding like a hammer on steel. For a moment, he thought he still heard the thunder of that distant dream. But it was only his own ragged breathing echoing against the rough stone walls of his tiny room. He pressed a palm to his forehead, sweat chilling on his skin in the early morning cold.
A single flickering lantern, nearly spent, cast trembling shadows across the cramped space. He lived in the old storehouse behind Valdrheim's modest blacksmith shop, where he slept among broken ploughs, crates of rusted nails, and half-finished horseshoes. It was better than nothing. The blacksmith, Jorn, had taken him in out of pity. An orphan, after all, had few choices in a place like Valdrheim.
He exhaled slowly. The dream again—always the dream. That impossible eye, those coiling scales, the echo of a roar he couldn't quite remember. He'd been having it more frequently these past weeks, each time more vivid, more insistent. And each time, it left him drenched in sweat, struggling to recall a face he'd never truly seen.
Shaking off the lingering images, he pushed himself off the straw pallet that served as his bed. It was cold enough for his breath to fog, so he rubbed his arms briskly and shrugged on a threadbare tunic. Outside, dawn's light barely crept over the mountainous horizon.
Valdrheim was no bustling city. It was a harsh, wind-battered settlement carved into the base of the Granite Crown range. Tall peaks loomed on all sides, like silent judges peering down at the mortals who dared call this place home. The settlement itself was a patchwork of stone houses, muddy roads, and watchtowers. At its center rose the Great Chapel of Aurakiel, dedicated to the highest of the pantheon's gods—Aurakiel of Law.
Though calling it great was an overstatement. Compared to the temples in far-off capitals, Valdrheim's chapel was modest. But in this remote region, it was the undisputed authority. High Priest Maelrik ruled with austere devotion, and his faithful knights enforced the church's edicts with zeal. To many, they were the shepherds protecting the flock from heresy. To others, they were an iron cage, choking the last breath of freedom.
Arngrim stepped outside, wincing as the cold air nipped his face. The sky was pale gray, tinged with a hint of rose. He could see a faint line of smoke curling from the blacksmith's forge. Jorn must already be stoking the fires. The old man never slept past dawn—work began as soon as the night receded.
Despite the chill, Arngrim took a moment to gaze at the mountains. They towered so high that the sun's first rays often took hours to truly bathe Valdrheim in warmth. He used to wonder if the mountains were walls keeping out the world, or a prison fence keeping them in. In truth, it felt like both.
He set off toward the forge. His boots crunched in the thin layer of frost that coated the dirt path. Most houses were still shuttered, but he could hear a few distant voices: farmers readying their carts, a bleary-eyed watchman cursing the cold, a mother calling her children to morning chores. Ordinary life in a place that didn't welcome the extraordinary.
Arngrim had always been extraordinary in the worst possible way. Or so people said. He was taller than most boys his age—seventeen, if his guess was correct—his hair dark as the midnight sky, and his eyes a shade of gold that made villagers uneasy. In the right light, they gleamed like a predator's. Some claimed they saw slitted pupils, though that was just rumor. But rumor was enough to make them wary, and wariness was enough to breed contempt.
When he reached the forge, the warmth was a welcome relief. The air inside was heavy with the smell of charcoal and molten metal. Jorn was at the anvil, hammering a heated rod of iron, shaping it into what looked like a scythe blade. Sparks danced around him like fireflies. He paused only long enough to nod at Arngrim.
"You're late," Jorn said gruffly.
"I—I'm sorry," Arngrim mumbled, though he wasn't sure he actually was late. He'd barely taken a moment outside. But Jorn had a habit of complaining about tardiness even if Arngrim was on time. It was how the old man expressed affection—by finding small faults.
Jorn was thickset, his beard streaked with silver, arms corded with muscle from years at the forge. He had a stern face, but Arngrim knew him to be fair. Fair, and somewhat fatherly in his own distant way.
"Don't stand around gawking," Jorn continued, sliding the iron back into the coals. "Bellows need working. Then take the scrap pile out back and sort it. After that, we'll see if we can salvage that old plow you're always tripping over in your room."
"Yes, sir." Arngrim moved to the bellows, pumping them in a steady rhythm. The coals glowed brighter, spitting embers that danced along the anvil's edge. He let the heat wash over him, trying to banish the memory of his nightmare.
The hours passed in the steady clamor of metal on metal. He lost himself in the work, his mind lulled by the repetition. Every so often, Jorn barked an order or a half-compliment—"Better, boy, better!"—and Arngrim found a small flicker of pride at being useful.
Around midday, Jorn ordered him to fetch water from the well. Arngrim peeled off the heavy leather apron, letting the cold air hit his sweat-soaked shirt. As he stepped outside, he heard a distant commotion coming from the main road. Voices raised, footsteps hurrying.
He grabbed the empty buckets and followed the sound. The well was near the chapel, so he had to pass through the central square. By the time he got there, he saw a small crowd forming. At first, he couldn't tell what was happening—only that people were muttering and pointing at something near the chapel steps.
Curiosity tugged at him, though experience warned him to keep his distance. But the crowd parted just enough for him to see a shape on the ground: a small, trembling figure—someone who looked half-frozen, face caked with dirt, hair plastered to their head. A child?
No, not quite a child. Maybe around thirteen or fourteen, wearing ragged clothes that looked more like torn rags. He or she—Arngrim couldn't tell—was kneeling before a scowling guard in church livery. The guard brandished a short spear.
"Stand aside," the guard barked, voice dripping with disdain. "This wretch is a heretic, found wandering the slopes last night. We're taking them in for questioning."
"But he's just a kid," someone in the crowd muttered.
"Heretic is heretic," the guard snapped, spear butt striking the ground. "Now step back, all of you!"
Arngrim felt a jolt of indignation. This was how the church handled strays? Label them heretics? The child was so gaunt, so obviously terrified, that Arngrim's chest tightened in empathy.
The guard grabbed the child's arm, hauling them upright. The kid cried out in pain, stumbling. Something in Arngrim's gut twisted. He should walk away. He should mind his own business. People in Valdrheim avoided conflict with the church. But his feet moved anyway.
"Wait," Arngrim called. His voice sounded oddly loud in the hush. Heads turned, and he felt the weight of their stares. He swallowed. "What—what has this child done wrong?"
The guard sneered. "Wrong? This filth was found defacing a holy marker up in the hills. Scribbles of some serpent nonsense. That's heresy."
A cold wave of fear rippled through Arngrim. Serpent nonsense. The church banned any mention of serpents—particularly the old legends of a world-coiling beast. Even speaking of it could be considered blasphemy. Still, the child hardly looked like some cunning heretic. More like a starved wanderer.
"Did...did they say why?" Arngrim ventured.
"You questioning church authority?" the guard snapped, taking a step forward. The spear point aimed at Arngrim's chest. "Who are you to meddle?"
Arngrim's heart hammered. He wasn't looking for a fight, but the child was trembling, obviously in shock. "I'm—nobody," he said quietly, lifting his hands in surrender. "Just...someone with eyes who sees a kid being dragged away."
Someone in the crowd gasped. The guard's lips curled in a snarl. "Hold your tongue," he hissed. "Or I'll brand you a heretic too."
Arngrim's fists clenched. He saw the fear in the child's eyes, a reflection of every moment Arngrim himself had felt alone and powerless in this town. The guard yanked the child's arm again, making them yelp.
The air around Arngrim felt suddenly hot, despite the mountain chill. A faint pressure gathered behind his eyes—an anger he'd never fully understood. He fought to control it. If he attacked a church guard, he'd be condemning himself. But letting the child be taken like this—
"Stop!" he barked. He didn't mean to sound so forceful, but the word echoed off the chapel's stone façade. The guard froze, momentarily startled.
"You," the guard said, regaining composure. "You've got nerve. Maybe you're the one who taught this whelp about serpents, hmm? That would explain your devilish eyes."
The crowd murmured. Arngrim's unusual eyes had always sparked gossip. A flush of shame and anger heated his cheeks. "I don't teach anyone anything," he muttered. "But...why not just let the kid go with a warning?"
The guard's laugh was cruel. "Let them go? We found the symbol carved into the rock—some nonsense about a serpent coiling the sky. That's not a child's doodle; it's forbidden. They'll be questioned. Possibly purified by flame. If they repent, maybe the High Priest will show mercy."
Arngrim stared at the child's face. Terror shone in those eyes, and something else—resignation. As if they expected no kindness from the world. A memory flickered in Arngrim's mind: a younger version of himself, pinned down by older boys who called him "snake spawn." No one had helped him then. He had learned to endure.
But now, faced with this, he felt a spark of defiance. His breathing grew unsteady. A faint pressure gathered behind his sternum, a tingling in his limbs. No...calm down, he thought. You can't fix this with a fight.
Yet his voice trembled with barely contained rage. "You're—hurting him."
The guard's eyes narrowed. "Take one step closer and I'll consider you an accomplice." He gave the child's arm another vicious tug, dragging them up the chapel steps.
Arngrim's vision blurred at the edges, like the world was vibrating. A faint buzzing filled his ears. Something in his blood roared. He took a step forward, half-blind with adrenaline. The crowd gasped as if they expected the guard to run him through.
But before the confrontation could escalate, a sharp voice rang out: "That's enough."
High Priest Maelrik emerged from the chapel doors, robes fluttering in the breeze. He was tall, gaunt, and bald, with eyes that seemed carved from ice. Behind him stood two more guards, each armed with a halberd.
"Brother Tarn," Maelrik said calmly, addressing the spear-wielding guard. "Bring the heretic inside. I will handle this personally."
Brother Tarn bowed stiffly. "As you command, High Priest." He shot Arngrim a glare that promised retribution, then dragged the trembling child up the steps and into the chapel's dim interior.
Arngrim's pulse pounded. He felt the eyes of the High Priest upon him—cold, assessing. "Arngrim, is it not?" Maelrik said softly. "The blacksmith's stray?"
Arngrim bristled. "I—I work for Jorn, yes."
"You do more than work, it seems," Maelrik said, his tone emotionless. "You intervene where you shouldn't."
The crowd watched in tense silence. No one dared speak on Arngrim's behalf. He felt a sudden surge of loneliness. But he forced himself to meet Maelrik's gaze.
"That child was terrified," Arngrim managed. "Is it a crime to question cruelty?"
Maelrik's expression didn't flicker. "Cruelty? We protect souls from heresy. The serpent is an ancient lie, a symbol of chaos. This is how we preserve order."
Arngrim swallowed. "But—"
"Enough," Maelrik cut him off. "You've made your feelings clear. Next time, hold your tongue. The church has no patience for meddling from orphans with strange eyes."
Arngrim stiffened. A spark of heat ignited in his chest, but he forced it down. He couldn't risk it. Not now.
"Go back to your forge," Maelrik said, turning away. "Pray we have no further cause to question you."
And with that, the High Priest disappeared into the chapel, the heavy doors slamming shut behind him.
---
Arngrim stood there, fists clenched at his sides, heart racing. The crowd began to disperse, some giving him wary glances, others whispering in hushed tones. He felt their fear—fear of the church, fear of what might happen if they, too, spoke out. Fear of *him*, the odd-eyed orphan who had dared to challenge a guard.
His anger simmered, threatening to boil over. But he knew better than to chase after them. What could he do? Storm into the chapel and fight half a dozen guards to save a stranger? That would end with him dead, or worse.
He exhaled, turning to walk away. As he did, he noticed a smear of blood on the stone step. The child's. Something in him twisted with guilt. He hadn't done enough.
Carrying the empty buckets he'd forgotten to fill, he made his way to the well. His mind churned with questions. Why would a child carve serpent symbols? Did they even do it, or was it a setup? The church was notoriously swift to punish anything that smelled of heresy.
He reached the well, lowered the bucket, and hauled up water. His reflection wavered on the surface. His golden eyes stared back, and for a moment, they seemed to glow with an inner light. He blinked, and the illusion vanished.
Strange eyes. The church had called him that for years. "Snake spawn," "devil's child," "abomination"—he'd heard them all. In his earliest memories, he'd lived in a rundown orphanage. He didn't remember his parents, only the rumor that his mother died in childbirth and his father was unknown. The caretaker used to say that if the gods wanted him, they would have claimed him already.
As he carried the buckets back to the forge, the memory of the child's terror wouldn't leave him. He wanted to do something—anything—but felt powerless. Yet that buzzing anger in his blood hinted otherwise, as if part of him believed he could have shattered that spear with a single blow. But that was absurd. He was just a blacksmith's helper with a questionable lineage.
---
When he returned to the forge, Jorn was waiting, arms crossed. "Heard a ruckus by the chapel," the blacksmith said. "You involved?"
Arngrim set the buckets down, water sloshing over the sides. "I... saw a child taken by the guards. They said it was heresy."
Jorn's eyes flickered with concern. "And you intervened?"
Arngrim shrugged, feeling suddenly foolish. "I tried. It didn't help."
A heavy sigh escaped Jorn. "Boy, you're too kind for this place. The church... they don't like questions. Next time, keep your head down."
Arngrim's temper flared. "So I should just ignore it when they hurt people?"
Jorn regarded him quietly. "I didn't say that. But you can't help anyone if you're dead. Or if the church takes you away."
Arngrim bit his lip. He knew Jorn was right, in a pragmatic sense. But every bone in his body resisted the idea of silence in the face of cruelty.
"You've got a good heart," Jorn continued, his tone gentler. "But the world's not kind. And your eyes—people see them and assume the worst."
Arngrim nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He picked up a rag to wipe the spilled water, focusing on the mundane task. The forging fires crackled behind him, filling the silence.
---
The rest of the day passed in tense monotony. Arngrim helped Jorn repair a broken wagon wheel, then hammered out nails. The physical labor usually soothed him, but today it only fueled the restless frustration in his gut. His thoughts kept drifting to that child.
By dusk, the sky bled orange and purple, the setting sun trapped behind the peaks. Jorn closed the forge, muttering something about going to the tavern for a stiff drink. Arngrim excused himself, not wanting the company of rowdy villagers tonight.
He walked the winding path back toward the storehouse. The air had turned bitterly cold, and the silhouettes of the mountains looked like colossal teeth against the darkening sky. He paused, glancing at the chapel's spire in the distance. No movement. No sign of the child.
His conscience gnawed at him. He didn't want to return to his pallet without at least trying to do something. But what? He couldn't very well barge into the chapel. He had no plan, no allies, no power. And yet...
A whisper of a memory tugged at him—like the dream of that coiling beast. The dream that kept returning, stronger each time. He couldn't place it, but the image of those massive scales, that singular golden eye, felt intimately linked to the symbol the child had carved.
Serpent nonsense, the guard had called it. But was it nonsense? Or was there a hidden truth?
---
He found himself wandering the outskirts of Valdrheim, where the terrain sloped upward into rocky foothills. He had no clear destination—just a restlessness that wouldn't let him stay still. The wind whipped around him, carrying the scent of pine and cold stone.
Before he realized it, he was climbing a narrow path that led to a small plateau. From there, the entire settlement was visible below, lights flickering in the windows. He stood on the edge, breath visible in the moonlight.
Something crunched behind him. He spun around, heart pounding. But it was only a goat, wandering loose from some nearby farm, its bell jingling softly. Arngrim exhaled, smiling wryly at his own jumpiness.
Then, in the distance, he noticed a faint glow. He squinted. Was it a torch? Someone was out here, beyond the town's boundaries. Curiosity stirred—who would be wandering the hills at night?
Quietly, he made his way toward the light, careful not to slip on the rocky terrain. As he drew closer, he heard voices—low, urgent murmurs. He flattened himself behind a boulder, peering around the edge.
In a small clearing, a group of three figures huddled around a lantern. Their faces were partially hidden by cloaks. One was tall and broad, the second shorter, and the third... the third was the child from earlier, the one the guard had dragged away. Arngrim's eyes widened. How had they escaped?
He strained to listen. The taller figure spoke in a hushed tone. "They'll be looking for you. You have to hide. Next time, be more careful. The church is not merciful."
The child's voice trembled. "I—I'm sorry. I just... wanted to see if the old markings were still there."
"Don't apologize," the shorter figure said. "But remember, these people are not kind to any talk of the serpent. We told you to wait until the new moon, didn't we?"
The child sniffled. "I—couldn't. I felt something calling me. Like the mountain was speaking."
Arngrim's pulse quickened. The mountain... speaking? He recalled the dream again, the sense of an ancient presence lurking beneath the world.
"I'll take the kid further east," the taller figure said. "There's a hidden pass leading out of Valdrheim. The church rarely patrols that route."
"What about the next gathering?" the shorter figure asked.
"We'll postpone," the taller one replied. "Too dangerous now that the High Priest is on alert."
Arngrim's mind whirled. A gathering of serpent worshippers? Or was it some other forbidden cult? He felt an odd mix of intrigue and caution. The child they called a heretic was indeed part of some clandestine group.
He shifted to get a better look—and dislodged a loose pebble. It tumbled down the slope with a sharp clack, clack, clack. The three figures froze. The lantern's light swung toward Arngrim's hiding spot.
His heart seized. He pressed himself tight against the rock, hoping they wouldn't spot him. For a moment, silence. Then the tall figure whispered, "Someone's here."
Arngrim considered running, but the terrain was steep and dark. They'd likely see him if he bolted. His mouth went dry as footsteps approached. The lantern's glow brightened, casting shifting shadows.
He tensed, preparing for confrontation. But then the child spoke, voice wavering: "Wait... I think... I know that shadow."
Arngrim blinked. Slowly, he stood, hands raised in a gesture of peace. The three figures turned to him, hoods drawn. The child's eyes widened. "You... you're the one who tried to help me."
Arngrim nodded, swallowing hard. He was close enough now to see that the taller figure was a woman with stern features, and the shorter was a wiry man with scars across his jaw. Both looked at him with a mix of suspicion and surprise.
"You're from the forge," the child said softly. "I remember you."
Arngrim cleared his throat. "I... I saw you earlier today, near the chapel. They said you were carving serpent symbols?"
The woman's expression hardened. "So you're the meddler. Did you follow us to report to the church?"
"No!" Arngrim said quickly, stepping back. "I—no. I have nothing to do with them. I just saw a light and... I was worried. I wanted to make sure the child was safe."
A beat of silence passed. Then the man with the scarred jaw spoke in a low tone, "If you have no ties to the church, then you'd best forget what you saw here. We're not criminals. We just... revere truths the church forbids."
Arngrim nodded slowly. "I'm not looking for trouble. I... just want to understand." He glanced at the child, who looked both relieved and fearful.
The woman stepped forward, sizing him up. "You have the eyes, don't you? Golden... like a serpent's. I've heard rumors."
Arngrim stiffened. "I don't know why my eyes are like this."
She studied him for a moment. "There are old stories. Bloodlines said to carry remnants of powers older than the pantheon. But the church silences such tales." Her gaze flickered to the child. "We've seen your kind before."
His heart pounded. My kind? "I—I'm just a blacksmith's helper," he managed. "I don't know anything about old powers."
The man with the scarred jaw scoffed. "That might be for the best. Knowing too much can get you killed here. But if you truly want to help, keep silent. The child's life depends on it."
Arngrim looked at the kid, who clutched a small wooden carving in trembling fingers—a crude depiction of a coiled serpent. Despite everything, the child offered him a shy, grateful smile. "Thank you... for speaking up," they said quietly. "I thought no one would."
He felt a pang in his chest. "Are... are you going to leave Valdrheim?"
The woman nodded. "We must. The High Priest won't rest until every rumor of the serpent is snuffed out. We have a safe place beyond the eastern pass, at least for a while."
A gust of wind whipped through the clearing, making the lantern flicker. The child's teeth chattered. The man placed a protective hand on the child's shoulder. "We should go."
Before they departed, the woman turned to Arngrim one last time. "If you value your life, forget this meeting. But if you ever need answers about your eyes—or the serpent—look for the sign of the coiled fang. We gather in secret, and we do not abandon our own."
With that cryptic offer, the trio vanished into the darkness, lantern bobbing as they descended a hidden trail. Arngrim stood there, heart pounding, mind reeling. The sign of the coiled fang. A group that worshipped—or at least studied—the serpent. He had so many questions.
---
It was nearly midnight by the time he returned to the storehouse behind the forge. Exhaustion weighed on him, but his thoughts were too tumultuous to allow immediate sleep. He lay on his straw pallet, staring at the ceiling.
The church called them heretics, but were they truly evil? They seemed more afraid than anything else. And that child... so innocent, so desperate. Arngrim's hand drifted to the faint mark on his shoulder—the strange birthmark that sometimes felt warm, especially when he was angry or frightened. Was it linked to these forbidden serpent tales?
His eyes closed, and in the silent darkness, he thought he heard the distant echo of that dream-roar again. A coil of something ancient, something vast, shifting beneath the mountains.
He drifted into uneasy sleep, half expecting nightmares. Instead, he dreamed of swirling water and an endless night sky. No monstrous eye this time, no deafening roar. Just a whisper, soft as a breeze:
> Remember...
When he woke, dawn had barely touched the horizon. His body ached, but he felt a flicker of purpose. He might be just a blacksmith's helper, but he had to do something. He couldn't let that child's terror go unanswered. And perhaps—just perhaps—this was the beginning of understanding his own mysterious eyes.
I won't run from it, he thought, no matter what the church says.
Outside, the mountain wind howled, carrying the distant cries of ravens. Another day in Valdrheim began. But for Arngrim, it was no longer the same world. Something in him had awakened, a silent promise that the darkness and fear gripping this land would one day be challenged.
He rose, heart pounding with a resolve he'd never felt before, and stepped into the cold morning light—unaware that far above, behind the granite peaks, a celestial presence watched him with silent, calculating interest.
And so, with nothing but stubborn courage and a spark of forbidden truth, Arngrim Asura began the path that would one day shake gods and unravel the sky itself.