Chapter 208
The three wounded Bloodwolves ran for nearly thirty minutes, their breaths ragged and uneven. Mud splashed beneath their boots as they pushed through the tall grass, blood soaking through torn furs. None spoke. The only sound was their harsh breathing and the dull thud of their steps. Fear, not rage, drove them forward.
They broke through the mist and reached their makeshift camp, a rough ring of tents and wagons huddled around a dying fire. Twenty of their kin turned toward them, eyes narrowing at the sight of blood.
One of the wounded stumbled to his knees, gripping his side where Daniel's blade had grazed him. "They're coming," he gasped. The camp went silent. Even the crackle of the fire seemed to fade. Skarn Bloodbane was more than a leader, he was their strongest fang. The thought that anyone could bring him down so easily froze them in disbelief.
A broad warrior with a scarred jaw stepped forward. "What do you mean? Skarn doesn't fall to outsiders."
The lead survivor shook his head, trembling. "You don't understand. That man, he moved faster than sight. One step and Skarn was on the ground. The woman… her hands became blades. And there was another, watching, silent. They aren't normal. They aren't like us."
Among the countless Bloodwolf Clans that roam the North, none inspire more dread and reverence than the Red Bloodwolves, the elite fang of Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane himself. They are hunters, assassins, and spies who move unseen through the wilderness, loyal only to the Bloodmane name. Yet loyalty, in their captain Kaelen Skarvald, is a twisted thing.
Kaelen "Ironfang" Skarvald, captain of the thirty Red Bloodwolves, was a man both feared and despised within his own ranks. Once hailed as the "Shadow of the North," his brilliance as a commander was matched only by his arrogance. At forty-two, he was broad-shouldered, battle-scarred, and carried himself with the swagger of a man who believed the gods themselves had chosen him to rule over lesser wolves. His red-streaked hair and cold gray eyes gave him a regal, almost predatory aura, one that masked the rot within.
Kaelen preached discipline but obeyed none. He demanded respect yet offered none in return. To him, honor was a lie told by the weak to comfort their failures. Strength, cunning, and fear, that was the law he lived by. And those who followed him learned quickly that failure meant punishment, not mercy.
He still bore the title of captain, but his loyalty to Jarl Eirikr was self-serving. Every mission he took, every battle he fought, fed his hunger for recognition and power. The Bloodwolf banner meant little to him beyond the prestige it brought.
His command of Seiðr, the "spirit force" of the skald-born, was real, though twisted. What once was a gift for insight and guidance he wielded as a weapon of domination, using it to break wills, to impose his intent upon those beneath him. He could sharpen his senses, anticipate an ambush, and crush hesitation in his warriors, but beyond that, his spiritual force was limited. His arrogance blinded him to its true nature; he mistook control for mastery and failed to see how fragile his bond with Seiðr truly was.
Among those who followed Kaelen, only one dared question him openly, his younger cousin, Freyja Skarvald. At twenty, two Freyja was the youngest among the Red Bloodwolves but already known across the northern clans for her integrity and fierce sense of justice.
Lean, athletic, and unyielding, she carried herself with quiet confidence. Her auburn hair was usually tied back, her eyes sharp as a winter hawk's. Unlike Kaelen, she revered the old ways—the honor of kinship, the oath of protection, the balance of Seiðr and nature. While Kaelen saw Seiðr as a weapon, Freyja saw it as a bond, a thread between the soul and the world.
She had studied under the old skalds, learning that Seiðr's true strength lay not in control, but in harmony. She could sense life's subtle rhythm, the pulse of animals, the whisper of the wind, the presence of hidden intent. It made her both an exceptional tracker and a voice of conscience among wolves who often drowned morality in bloodlust.
Kaelen loathed that about her. To him, Freyja's sense of honor was naïve, an echo of a dying age. Yet deep down, her presence unsettled him. She reminded him of what he once was before ambition consumed him.
The camp erupted into murmurs as the survivors recounted their story, how Skarn Bloodbane was struck down by two outsiders who wielded impossible power. Kaelen listened in silence, seated upon a log, sharpening his twin axes with slow, deliberate strokes. Sparks flew from the blades as his jaw tightened.
When the tale ended, Kaelen rose. His eyes gleamed with cold fury.
"So," he said, his voice low but sharp as iron. "Some southern magelings think they can butcher my men and walk free?"
"Kaelen," Freyja interjected, stepping forward, "we don't know what they are. If they defeated Skarn so easily, they might be beyond us. We should warn the Jarl"
"Warn the Jarl?" Kaelen cut her off, his voice rising. "You think I'll run crying to the old wolf because a few pups got mauled?" He spat into the fire. "No. I'll hunt them myself. I'll make them kneel and beg before I skin their bones."
Freyja's eyes narrowed. "This isn't about vengeance. It's pride. That's what'll get you killed."
Kaelen smirked, his teeth flashing in the firelight. "Pride's what keeps the weak from forgetting who leads them. You'd do well to remember that, cousin."
He turned to his warriors. "Ready your mounts. We move before dawn. They're headed toward the nearest city. We'll intercept them on the trade road—before they vanish into the south."
Freyja crossed her arms. "Then I'm coming with you."
Kaelen paused, his back to her. "You'll do as you please, little fang," he said, voice dripping with disdain. "But stay out of my way. When I find them, there'll be no mercy."
As Kaelen strode toward his tent, the fire cast his shadow long and jagged across the camp. Freyja watched him go, her gut heavy with unease. She could feel the ripples in the air, the way Kaelen's Seiðr flared erratically, fueled by anger, not focus.
Somewhere out there, the strangers who felled Skarn were moving toward the path were many merchants traveled in, and though Kaelen believed he was the hunter, Freyja could sense the truth whispering in the wind: this hunt would test more than their skill. It would test the very soul of the Bloodwolf name.
…but unlike the mighty warlord Jarls, whose command of the arcane lets them bend the raw forces of the world to their will, skald-born warriors like Kaelen "Ironfang" Skarvald walk a narrower path. Their strength lies not in grand sorcery, but in Seiðr, the ancient spirit-force of the North, drawn from the breath of life itself.
Seiðr is the whisper between the soul and the world—the unseen pulse that guides a hunter's aim or sharpens a warrior's senses before the strike. It is a living thread, subtle yet powerful, requiring balance rather than domination. Through it, the skald-born can glimpse danger, stir courage in their kin, or steady their will in battle.
But Kaelen's mastery of Seiðr was flawed. Where others sought harmony, he sought control. His Seiðr burned unevenly, bright in rage, dim in calm. It could heighten his instincts, sense a lurking ambush, or steady his men's fear, yet it faltered before forces greater than mortal spirit. When Daniel struck down Skarn, Kaelen had not even felt his presence, because Seiðr, for all its insight, could not grasp what dwelled beyond its reach.
To the skald-born, all energies flow from one great source, but they differ in how they touch the world:
Seiðr, the breath of spirit, is delicate and bound to life's rhythm, used to sense, to guide, and to harmonize.
Aura is the echo of that rhythm, the glow of a soul's intent, seen by those attuned, felt by those near death or great passion.
Mana is the structured current of life and magic, channeled through discipline, the fuel of spell and craft.
Chaos Energy is something far older, a storm without form or mercy, raw creation before the gods gave it law. It does not flow; it devours.
Where Seiðr listens, Chaos screams. Where Mana builds, Chaos unravels. No skald-born can stand against that kind of power unaided.
Kaelen could not know it then, but what he hunted was no simple foe, no mortal mage or southern spellcaster. The ones who felled Skarn wielded energies that bent the very air around them. Their presence was a silence so deep, even Seiðr could not touch it.
And so Kaelen mistook blindness for control. He believed his spirit-force would guide him to vengeance, when in truth it had already failed to warn him of what awaited in the dark beyond the trade road.
The dawn broke over the northern highlands like a blade through mist, sharp, cold, and merciless. Frost clung to the ferns and pine needles, glimmering faintly as Kaelen's hunting party rode out beneath the rising sun.
A few dozen Red Bloodwolves moved in silence, cloaked in furs dyed the color of dried blood. Their breath came in clouds, their mounts snorting steam into the morning air. Kaelen rode at the front, his wolf-pelt cloak sweeping behind him like the shadow of some ancient predator. Beside him rode Freyja, her eyes scanning the horizon, her instincts taut as a drawn bowstring.
They followed the faint signs left by Daniel's group, boot prints half-swallowed by mud, a snapped branch here, a faint scent of smoke drifting from a distant campfire. Freyja's senses reached outward through the still air, her Seiðr flowing gently through the forest. The world whispered back: the flutter of wings, the movement of beasts, the faint echo of footsteps far ahead.
The mist thickened until it clung to the skin like breath. The forest had gone utterly still, no bird, no wind, no whisper. Only the faint hum of something vast and unseen trembled through the air.
Freyja slowed her horse, her heart pounding. Her Seiðr stretched outward like a net of light, brushing against the presence ahead, and recoiled. What she felt was not mortal. Two presences pulsed before them like twin suns veiled in fog: one steady and cold, the other alive with sharp, cutting motion.
It was as though the forest itself bent around them.
"Kaelen…" she whispered, her voice trembling. "These are not ordinary foes."
But Kaelen didn't hear. His pride roared louder than sense.
Through the mist, two silhouettes emerged. The man stood tall and calm, his cloak stirring in the faint wind. Beside him walked a woman with eyes of liquid silver, her hands faintly shimmering as if they carried the reflection of moonlight.
Daniel stopped ten paces away, his gaze unreadable. "You've come far enough."
Thirty Bloodwolves surrounded them, axes raised, spears leveled. Kaelen stepped forward, his grin sharp as broken glass. "You're the one who killed Skarn. Good. I was hoping to finish what he couldn't."
Daniel didn't reply. He simply inhaled, his shoulders relaxing—his entire body falling into stillness so complete that Freyja's breath caught.
Then she felt it.
His energy shifted, not like Seiðr, which flowed outward in gentle rhythm, but inward, spiraling through his veins and bones like molten steel being forged. His body itself was the conduit, his strength condensed into every motion. It wasn't external magic—it was an internal awakening, a form of power the North had no words for.
The air tightened around him.
Kaelen spat. "Kill them."
The Red Bloodwolves roared and surged forward as one, twenty-five men thundering through the fog, their axes flashing, their Seiðr flaring like crimson fire.
Daniel moved.
He stepped sideways, not fast, but precise, letting the first axe pass an inch from his chest. His hand snapped up, catching the shaft mid-swing. A twist. A pull. The warrior was airborne before he realized it, crashing into his brothers behind him.
Another came low with a spear, Daniel pivoted, the motion fluid as water, his elbow dropping onto the man's wrist. Bone cracked. He snatched the spear mid-fall, spun, and hurled it like lightning. Three Bloodwolves went down before the others blinked.
Kaelen roared, his Seiðr flaring red. "Surround him! Now!"
They obeyed, wolves in formation, their spirits burning as one. Axes clashed, the air filled with the roar of battle. Yet Daniel slipped between them like a ghost. His movements were too efficient, too deliberate. Every motion had purpose, no wasted steps, no hesitation.
He parried an axe with his forearm, redirected the force, and shattered a knee with a single kick. He caught another's strike, turned his hips, and drove a palm into the man's chest. The sound was like thunder. The warrior flew backward, armor buckling inward.
To the Red Bloodwolves, it was impossible, this man fought as if he knew their attacks before they came. Every rhythm, every stance, every shift in weight, he read them like words on a page.
Freyja could barely keep up with her eyes, but her Seiðr saw the truth: Daniel wasn't reacting. He was in rhythm with the world itself. His mana flowed through him like a living current, binding body, thought, and instinct into one.
It was similar to Seiðr, yet infinitely deeper.Where Seiðr sought harmony, his energy commanded it.
Kaelen charged, bellowing as both axes blazed with red spirit-fire. He swung low, high, then crossed each blow capable of felling trees. Daniel ducked, turned, and with a single step, his knee slammed into Kaelen's ribs. The crack echoed.
Kaelen staggered back, eyes wild with fury and disbelief. "You… bastard!"
Daniel's voice was calm, detached. "You channel power through anger. That's why you lose control."
He blurred forward, one palm strike to the jaw, another to the chest, then a sweeping kick that dropped Kaelen to the ground. Before the Bloodwolf captain could rise, Daniel's hand gripped his throat, pinning him with ease.
Around them, twenty-five Red Bloodwolves lay broken and groaning in the mud. Their Seiðr had burned out, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of Daniel's presence.
The air shimmered with quiet devastation.
Freyja and her five hunt-sisters stood frozen. None dared move. None could. Their Seiðr rippled uncontrollably beneath Daniel's aura, it wasn't chaos, nor magic, but something older. Pure will, sharpened into perfection.
In that moment, Freyja understood.This was no mere warrior.
This was war itself, given form.
Daniel released Kaelen, letting him fall gasping to the earth. "Remember this," he said softly, his voice cutting through the silence like steel. "Power without balance destroys its master first."
He turned away, his cloak brushing against the fallen leaves as the woman beside him followed in silence. The mist parted for them, as if the forest itself dared not stand in their path.
As their figures faded into the gray, Freyja knelt beside Kaelen. He stared blankly into the earth, trembling, eyes wide with something she had never seen in him before.
Fear.
Freyja's voice was quiet, almost sorrowful. "You always said the gods had abandoned us. Perhaps they didn't. Perhaps they simply sent us a reminder of what power truly is."
She looked once more toward the fading mist, where Daniel had vanished.
And for the first time in her life, she whispered a prayer, not to the gods of Valdyrheim, but to whatever force had just walked through them like a storm made flesh.
Daniel and Melgil did not stop.The battle had ended, but neither turned to look back.
The mist thinned as they descended the ridge, revealing the narrow trail that wound through the frost-veiled forest toward the south. Behind them, somewhere beyond the trees, the faint cries of the wounded still echoed, a reminder of what had transpired.
The caravan trailed far behind, still struggling through the jagged wilderness that marked the outer reaches of Ormheim. Ahead lay the land many called Huldmark , a sacred refuge said to be where all wandering paths converged when the thawing moons returned. Resting just beyond the cursed borders of Ormheim, Huldmark stretched endlessly: a vast plain of wind-carved hills and shattered stone ridges, its frostbitten grasses shimmering like silver threads beneath the pale sun.
It was also known as the largest open merchant trade route in the northern realms — a crossroads where wanderers, traders, and warriors alike passed through. Daniel had chosen this path for that very reason. The open expanse offered few places to hide and fewer chances for ambush, yet he had sensed their intent long before they made their move. By confronting them here, far from the caravan and its innocent travelers, he ensured that no one else would be caught in the storm that was about to break.
Melgil walked a few paces behind, her cloak trailing through the dew. Her silver eyes flicked toward him as she adjusted the strap of her weapon. "You knew they'd come."
Daniel nodded once. "Their kind always do. Hunters who think they understand what strength is."
She tilted her head slightly, a faint smile playing at the edge of her lips. "And you let them find us."
"I needed to see how far they'd go," he said quietly. "And to remind them that not every predator walks on four legs."
Melgil studied him for a long moment. The light that broke through the clouds brushed across his features, calm, unreadable, utterly composed even after the slaughter. There was no arrogance in him, no thrill of victory. Only focus, like a man who viewed the entire encounter as a necessary equation solved.
In that silence, she understood something unspoken.Daniel wasn't merely fighting to survive, he was shaping the path ahead. Every decision, every confrontation, was deliberate.
And so, she followed. Not as a subordinate, but as a partner who knew that support, when given at the right moment, was stronger than any blade.
She stepped closer, her voice softer now. "You didn't need me to fight beside you."
Daniel glanced at her, his tone even. "No. But I needed you to watch. To understand what happens when we draw attention. They won't be the last."
Melgil smiled faintly. "Then I'll be ready. Next time, I'll stand beside you."
He met her gaze for a heartbeat, then looked back toward the path ahead. "No," he said simply. "Next time, you'll lead beside me."
Melgil said nothing more, but her heart stirred, an unfamiliar warmth blooming beneath her composure. She realized then that strength wasn't always about power or dominance. Sometimes, it was the ability to walk beside someone like him and still remain unshaken.
Far behind them, the northern winds carried whispers through the trees.
Freyja Skarvald stood amid the wreckage of the battle, her fur cloak heavy with mist and blood. Around her, the surviving Red Bloodwolves tended to the fallen, silent and pale. None spoke Kaelen's name. He sat slumped against a tree, eyes hollow, spirit broken.
Freyja's gaze drifted toward the south, the direction Daniel and Melgil had gone. Her Seiðr still trembled faintly, resonating with the echo of their presence. It was unlike anything she had ever felt… something vast, ancient, and utterly beyond mortal reach.
She thought of Daniel's words. Power without balance destroys its master first.
And in her heart, she feared what his arrival meant.
The North had long told tales of wandering spirits and god-born champions, of beings who appeared when the balance of the world began to tilt. But those were stories—legends spoken by firelight.
Now, she had seen one with her own eyes.
The Red Bloodwolves would never forget this day.And soon, the rumors would spread—from hunter to village, from skald to hall, of a being who fought like a god and walked away without looking back.
The God of War had come to Valdyrheim.And whether he brought salvation or ruin, only the winds would tell.
The wind carried more than the scent of pine that morning. Across the frostbitten reaches of the north, ravens and hawks soared — each bearing tiny leather tubes tied beneath their claws. In a land where distance was vast and silence often deadly, these birds bore words sharper than steel: rumors.
It began in the border hamlets near the frost plains, where Freyja's trembling voice first spoke of the being who walked through blood and shadow — a spirit-devourer, untouched by Seiðr or steel. Her account was penned by a weary scribe whose hands shook as he wrote:
"He walks as a man, yet the Seiðr cannot feel him. His power is unbound neither of mana nor spirit, but something greater. Even the Bloodwolves' banners trembled when he passed."
From there, the tale took wing. Each settlement that received the letter added its own flavor — some called him the Dark Wanderer, others the Spirit-Eater or the Southern Shade. By the time the message reached the city roads leading to Skjorn Fjord, where Jarl Ragnar Stormbreakeror ruled from his thunder-wrought halls, the story had grown like a storm cloud.
The ravens came in droves. Each bore a warning, each with a slightly different truth. And the letters flew still , over tundra, through forests where elk herds roamed, past the ice-choked rivers of Valdyrheim , until they reached the Central Plains beneath the Skjorn Peaks, where thunder never slept.
At the mountain's base sprawled Skjornhall, the heart of the storm-born realm. Its walls were carved from black stone veined with runes that glowed faintly blue, alive with the caged energy of lightning. The air reeked of iron and ozone. Thunder rolled constantly above, echoing through the peaks like a god's laughter.
Nearly seventy thousand souls lived here , seven lesser war clans bound under one ruler, one storm, and one creed:"Through thunder, we are reborn."
Inside the city's taverns, where the air was thick with smoke and mead, the rumor found eager tongues.
"They say he's no man at all," growled one broad-shouldered warrior, his beard braided with silver rings. "A shadow that drinks spirit-fire. Even Seiðr goes dead when he draws near."
"Pah!" spat another, slamming his tankard down. "I've heard this before. Last winter, they said Eirikr Bloodmane's whelps could speak to wolves. Turned out to be drunkards howling at the moon."
"Aye," said a third, lowering his voice. "But this one… they say even the Bloodwolves fear him. Freyja herself sent the warning. When was the last time that woman trembled at anything?"
The tavern went silent for a heartbeat. Outside, thunder cracked so loud it rattled the wooden beams. A flash of lightning painted their faces pale, and for a moment, none spoke.
"Maybe the gods sent him," whispered a young shieldmaiden by the door. "Maybe he's the storm given flesh."
"Or the storm's undoing," an old priest muttered, making the sign of Bjoldr's rune.
High above them, within the stone citadel that crowned the city, Ragnar Stormbreakeror stood upon his balcony. Bare-chested despite the chill, the marks of lightning burned across his flesh like sacred runes. His eyes shimmered faintly , the color of a brewing tempest.
A hawk descended through the mist, feathers crackling with static. Ragnar's war priests stepped back as he unbound the message and read it aloud:
"A stranger walks among the Bloodwolves' path. The skald-born whisper that he consumes spirit and silences Seiðr. The mountains shake, and the winds grow restless. Some claim he commands the storms themselves."
Ragnar's grin was slow, wolfish."Another pretender," he muttered, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "The north breeds too many of them."
A storm-priest beside him bowed low. "My Jarl, the omens grow restless. Lightning has struck thrice on the same hill outside the city — the priests believe it is a sign."
Ragnar turned his glowing gaze upon the man."A sign, or a summons." He stepped toward the edge, looking down upon his city — warriors laughing in the streets, thunderforged axes gleaming beneath the rain. "Prepare the storm-priests. If this Pale Wanderer truly walks beyond Seiðr's reach… then perhaps the Thunderfather has sent me a worthy storm to break."
The priest hesitated. "You would seek him?"
Ragnar laughed , a booming sound that mingled with the heavens. "Seek him? No. I will draw him here. Let the Pale Wanderer feel the wrath of Skjornhall."
Below, the city roared as word spread through the alleys and longhouses. Drunken warriors toasted to omens. Priests marked their blades with runes of lightning. Children mimicked thunderclaps in the rain.
Above them all, thunder rolled again , deep, unending, almost like laughter. The people said it was Bjoldr the Thunderfather, pleased that once more, storm and chaos would soon meet on the battlefield.
Thunder rolled endlessly over the peaks that day, shaking the mountain city to its stone bones. Within the great hall of Skjornhall , a fortress carved from black granite and stormsteel , seven banners hung from the ceiling, each bearing the sigil of a minor war clan bound under Ragnar's rule.
Blue fire flickered along the runic pillars as lightning flashed beyond the high windows. The air was thick with smoke and tension. The sound of boots, steel, and murmuring warriors echoed faintly through the hall as the Jarls and Chieftains took their seats around the storm-table , a slab of petrified wood split by a natural bolt of lightning centuries ago.
At the table's head stood Jarl Ragnar Stormbreakeror, broad-shouldered and bare-armed, a living scar of thunder. His voice cut through the noise like a blade."Seven clans sit under the storm's shadow," he said, eyes glowing faintly blue. "Yet none can name the wind that stirs it."
The murmurs faded. The crackle of lightning filled the silence.
From the far end, a grizzled man rose Hrothgar of Clan Vennir, his armor dented and fur cloak scorched from a dozen raids."We've all heard the stories, Ragnar," he said, his tone half-mocking. "A man who walks through fire, who devours spirit, who silences Seiðr. It sounds like tavern talk and fear."
Before Ragnar could reply, a younger voice interjected , sharp and certain."You speak of fear, yet you forget where the tale began."
Gleaming under the torchlight, she laid a folded parchment upon the table , a letter sealed with the crimson mark of the Red Bloodwolves."This account came from Freyja herself," Eldra said, her voice steady. "I knew her when we were children. She's not the kind to tremble at fairy tales."
"Her cousin Kaelan may be a blind, arrogant fool , ever loyal to Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane of the North but Freyja is different. She's an honorable woman, guided by integrity and a fierce sense of true battle."
"She stayed with her cousin out of blood and duty, though the band he leads is nothing more than a rabble of undisciplined thugs. They swagger through the villages, harassing the weak and taking what they please, calling themselves warriors when they are little more than brutes. Yet Freyja endures it, bound to them by blood , and perhaps by guilt."
Another clan leader snorted. Bjorn Raskir of Clan Frostmaul, his breath fogging with every exhale."Freyja also claimed a wyrm slept beneath the Blackmere three winters ago. No sign of that, either."
Laughter rippled through the hall short-lived, until Ragnar slammed his hand against the storm-table. The echo boomed like thunder, and arcs of static flared up the wood.
"Enough." His eyes blazed with stormlight. "The report names this stranger not a spirit, nor demon, but a man. A man who silences Seiðr, who broke Kaelen Ironfang's Bloodwolves without drawing breath. You call that rumor?"
Silence. Even the thunder seemed to pause.
Then, from the right side of the hall, a woman rose slowly. Her cloak shimmered faintly under the torchlight, stitched with blue feathers , the mark of Clan Valsmir, known across the Storm Skjorn Fjord Road for their healers and scholars.
"My Jarl," she began carefully, her voice steady but cautious, "my clan can confirm part of this tale."
"My Jarl," she said carefully, "my clan can confirm part of this tale."
Ragnar turned, his expression sharpening. "Speak, Alva."
She bowed slightly, her tone laced with both respect and unease."Three days past, a caravan of my people was saved near the Frostvein Pass. We were ambushed by marauders and shades that crawled from Ormheim's border."Her eyes lowered. "A man and a woman stood against them — a dark-haired stranger and his silver-eyed companion. The woman fought like living silk and shadow, and the man…"
She hesitated, her voice trembling slightly. "He fought like something beyond human. No Seiðr flowed from him, yet his presence was crushing. When he struck, even the air screamed. The land itself seemed to recoil."
"The information came from my very own daughter , Eira Valsmir," Alva began, her tone measured but edged with unease. "She hired a band of mercenaries to escort her through the Huldmark, seeking tomes on medicine from the ruins of the old sanctuaries."
The hall was silent, save for the low hiss of torches. Every Jarl present knew that no one entered Huldmark lightly.
"Her letter reached my hands but a few hours before you summoned us to this council," Alva continued, raising a folded parchment still sealed with her clan's crest. "She wrote of strange sights things that defied sense or nature. She said what she saw was not normal."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber like wind over frozen fields.
"So the Red Bloodwolves witnessed this," said one voice from the benches, "and your daughter as well?"
Alva nodded grimly. "Yes. Both saw it , the same figures, the same light beneath the earth."
The noise in the hall swelled, warriors and elders whispering theories and omens. Then, Varrik Stonejaw of Clan Thryne slammed his gauntleted fist on the table."Ormheim, you said?" His deep voice cut through the uproar. "The cursed land?"
"The same," Alva answered. Her eyes hardened, as though saying the name demanded strength. "They came from its edge , near the Ouroboros Cave."
The name struck the hall like a hammer on an anvil.
Even Ragnar, whose composure rarely cracked, felt his jaw tighten. A chill swept through the room, the kind that no fire could warm.
For a moment, no one dared to speak. The weight of that place , Ormheim , hung over them all like a shroud.
The Ouroboros Cave , the wound of the entire region . No warrior, no priest, no beast dared tread too near its coils of stone. It was said to be the tomb of something ancient , where the earth swallowed gods and spat out curses.
Bjorn Frostmaul spat onto the floor. "Then this 'Dark Wanderer' is touched by the void. No mortal walks from that place whole."
"Or perhaps," murmured Eldra Ironveil, "he walks from it chosen."
Ragnar's gaze swept over them all, his voice deepening. "Cursed or chosen , it makes no difference. What matters is power. And power stirs the storms."
The war priests behind him shifted uneasily as the runes across Ragnar's skin faintly glowed."You all fear a name," he continued, "but I see an opportunity. If this Wanderer walks with strength enough to unmake Seiðr, then he is either a threat… or a gift."
Hrothgar slammed a fist onto the table. "A gift? From what? The gods, or the abyss?"
Ragnar smiled faintly , not with arrogance, but with the savage certainty of a man who had faced death and thunder alike."Does it matter?" he said. "If he came from Ormheim and lived… then he carries the storm's own blood in his veins. And I intend to test it myself."
A hush fell. Lightning flashed beyond the windows, casting blue fire across Ragnar's face.
Eldra leaned forward, her tone wary. "And if he's beyond even you, Ragnar?"
He laughed, thunder booming with him."Then the Thunderfather has found me a worthy death."
The council fell silent once more, the echo of his words mingling with the rolling storm outside.
And as lightning split the sky over Skjornhall, the seven clans knew one truth ,The age of whispers had ended.
At the foot of the Skjorn Peaks, where thunder never slept and the clouds hung low like war banners, lay the fortress-city of Storm Skjorn Fjord , the beating heart of the storm-born.It was a land carved by gods and tempered by lightning.
The Skjorn Peaks themselves rose like titans of stone and ice, their crowns forever wreathed in storms. Veins of thunderstone , a rare ore that stored static power , glowed faintly within their slopes, feeding both the city's forges and its legend. From these mountains, waterfalls cascaded into the lower valleys, turning the land into a cradle of fertile soil that shimmered green even under the grayest sky.
The city's structure mirrored its people , sturdy, defiant, and built to endure wrath. Massive walls of rune-etched basalt encircled the outer districts, their surfaces alive with crackling veins of blue energy. Within, seven distinct sectors radiated outward like spokes from the central fortress — one for each minor clan, bound beneath Ragnar's rule.
At the city's core stood The Stormspire, a towering citadel whose black spires pierced the clouds themselves. Lightning rods crowned its summit, capturing the storm's fury and feeding it into glowing conduits that powered the city's forges and defenses. The people called it Bjoldr's Heart , the pulse of their god and their Jarl's seat of power.
Despite its grim reputation, Skjorn Fjord thrived. The storm-born were not only warriors , they were craftsmen, herders, and miners who bent nature's ferocity into survival. Fields of barley and stormwheat rippled across the plains, glimmering faintly from the trace minerals of the thunder-soaked soil. Herds of storm elk grazed the hills, their antlers humming softly with static during rainfall. The locals prized their hides, said to resist both blade and frost.
The fauna of the region was as fierce as its people , massive gray bears that slept in caves during thunder season, razorbeak hawks that nested along the cliffs, and elusive mist wolves that prowled near the river valleys. Yet even these beasts seemed tamed beneath the shadow of the Skjorn Peaks.
The flora, though hardy, bore beauty in defiance. Blue-blooming skjora lilies dotted the wet marshes, their petals glowing faintly in rainlight. Thundergrass, tall and silver-green, covered the meadows , each stalk humming when the storm winds passed through, filling the air with an eerie, melodic resonance.
The climate was ever restless , wind and drizzle ruled most days, and lightning stitched the sky each night. Yet the people of Skjorn Fjord thrived in it. Rain was their rhythm; thunder, their hymn.
To be storm-born was to embrace chaos with discipline , to dance with the storm, not flee from it.Children were baptized not in water but beneath open skies, marked by the first thunderclap they survived without flinching. Warriors bore lightning scars as proof of divine favor, while priests channeled electric currents through carved runes upon their flesh.
Their culture blended reverence with revelry , songs of war echoed through the mead halls, drums beating like thunder, voices rising to call the name of their god:Bjoldr the Thunderfather, rider of lightning and breaker of storms.
Trade, too, flourished here. Thunderstone was a prized resource across the northern realms, exchanged for iron, salt, and fine silks from the southern traders. Blacksmiths forged weapons said to "sing" when struck by rain. Every week, caravans descended from the high roads, their wheels clattering like distant thunder.
Yet beyond the walls , beyond the reach of Ragnar's banners , the land whispered of old things.
Scattered across the storm plains and deep into the southern border of Ormheim, there were those who wanted no part in war or glory. Hidden clans, the Runasfolk and Hollow Kin, lived in secluded valleys or deep forests, shunning the politics of Jarls and thrones. They built homes half-buried in moss and stone, raising families in peace, far from the cries of conquest.
Most avoided the open plains , for the northern lands were not kind to the unclaimed. They lived near the border of Ormheim, where the mists thickened and strange whispers haunted the twilight.There, the soil was still fertile, but the air felt wrong , too quiet, too still. It was said the gods' gaze turned away from that land, and those who lived there were content to be forgotten.
But now, even they had begun to stir.
Inside the great hall of the Stormspire, Ragnar Stormbreaker stood before his war council once more. The floor beneath him glowed faintly with lightning veins, the air humming with contained static. Around him stood his most elite warriors , the Stormfangs, chosen for their precision and speed, hunters who could track a shadow through rain.
"Ormheim," Ragnar said, his tone measured but electric, a storm barely caged within his voice. "That cursed soil hides something worth finding."
One of his captains , a scarred warrior with storm tattoos coiling down his neck , frowned. "You would have us ride into the misted lands? Even the priests won't tread there."
"That's why you will," Ragnar replied sharply. "The priests fear what they cannot name. I intend to name it."
The firelight trembled across the chamber's iron walls. Outside, thunder rolled like a growl from some sleeping god.
Another captain, younger but no less wary, shifted uneasily. "My Jarl, the rumors speak of mercenaries, nearly two hundred blades hired by Mordrin Bloodmane himself. They ran in fear beyond Ormheim's vale."
Ragnar's gaze hardened. "Mordrin Bloodmane," he repeated, almost tasting the name. "Cousin to that Frostfjord beast, Eirikr. If Mordrin moves his men there, it is not for gold. It is for revenge"
"Or for blood,"
the scarred captain muttered. "The Red Bloodwolves bled in those mists. Kaelen 'Ironfang' Skarvald led them, and few returned. Freyja Skarvald said they faced something that silenced Seiðr itself."
The hall fell silent. Even the torches seemed to bow to that memory.
Ragnar stepped forward, the iron of his boots ringing like war drums. "I have heard her tale," he said, voice low but dangerous. "A shadow that devours mana, a voice that kills the spirit before the flesh. If such a being walks our lands, then every clan, Bloodwolf, Stormfang, or otherwise—is already at war with something far older than us."
The younger captain swallowed hard. "Then... the rumors of the Dark Wanderer are true?"
"Rumors become truth when they leave bodies behind," Ragnar said coldly. "The Bloodwolves failed where you will not."
He turned toward the rain-slicked windows where lightning carved jagged veins across the sky. "Find this Dark Wanderer. The one who silences Seiðr. Follow every whisper, every broken trail. If Mordrin and his mercenaries are still alive, bring me word. If they are not—burn their remains and learn what killed them."
The Stormfang captain nodded, his voice low and grim. "And if the Wanderer is real, my Jarl?"
Ragnar smiled faintly, that same wild, storm-lit grin that unsettled even his loyalists."Then the storm will meet its mirror," he said. "And we will see which one endures."
Outside, the rain fell harder. The peaks growled.
And as twelve cloaked riders mounted their thunderbeasts and descended the misted valley toward Ormheim, the land itself seemed to shiver,
as though the mountains, too, awaited the coming clash between mortal will and something far older, something that even the gods might have forgotten.