Chapter 209
The evening wind rolled softly across the hillside, carrying with it the mingled scent of pine, ash, and the faint tang of distant fires. Daniel and Melgil settled beneath a cluster of ancient, silvered trees, their gnarled branches swaying lazily against the crimson dusk. From their vantage, the valley below was a theater of quiet wonders: fireflies drifted like embers, the faint hum of Leviathan engines murmured in the distance, and the silhouettes of travelers' lanterns traced a slow, wandering line along the old road. For the first time in days, there was stillness, a fragile reprieve from the storm of worlds pressing against them.
Melgil sat cross-legged atop a thick, twisting root, her fingers weaving a thread of living silk between them. Each filament shimmered faintly with mana, pulsing in sync with her heartbeat, a subtle dance of light and life. "It's not rejection," she murmured, eyes narrowed in concentration, watching the thread glow with faint chaos energy, "Seiðr and chaos… they do not oppose. They do not destroy. They redirect. They balance each other. You guide, but you do not dominate."
Daniel stood a few paces away, arms clasped behind his back, eyes closed. A pale blue mist coiled faintly around him, trembling in resonance with the flow of his mana. The chaos within him was restless, flickering like a storm confined, yet responsive to the delicate rhythms of her voice. He drew a long, steady breath, and a ripple of crimson energy pulsed across him, crackling briefly before dissolving into a calm, almost ethereal light. "I think I understand," he said, voice low but threaded with awe. "It's not about forcing control. It's about acknowledging what refuses to bend and learning to work with it instead. Guiding it, not breaking it."
Melgil's lips curved into a faint, approving smile as her threads coalesced into a small, glowing rune hovering above her palms. "You're learning faster than I expected, Daniel. Faster than I dared hope."
"I don't have the luxury of learning slowly," he replied, eyes opening with a trace of amusement, the blue mist around him flickering with restrained energy. "The world isn't waiting for me to understand."
She blew him a playful kiss, a shimmer of silk following it like a fleeting comet, and he allowed himself a quiet smile in return. The silence that followed was heavy yet gentle, imbued with unspoken trust, the soft rustle of leaves and the faint glow of distant fireflies punctuating the night. Above them, stars pierced the darkening sky, scattering silver points across the valley like drifting sparks from an unseen forge.
"Do you think mastering this balance will be enough for what's coming?" Melgil asked, her voice soft but edged with curiosity. "The Netherborn… Valdyrheim… the remnants of the gods?"
Daniel's gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the broken silhouette of the old citadel loomed against the twilight, jagged and mournful. "Enough?" he echoed. "No. But it will make us ready. Ready to adapt, to survive, and maybe even to reshape what comes after." He lifted his hand, a flicker of crimson chaos energy dancing across his fingertips. "Seiðr is the bridge. Chaos is the storm. Together… they might be the key."
Melgil's eyes gleamed with quiet determination. "It's strange, isn't it? That the old gods never gave us the words, the true language of energy. No divine syntax to shape and guide mana directly. Everything we do—the control, the weaving, the focus—it has to be discovered, felt, and earned, not taught."
Daniel nodded slowly, the faint hum of energy rippling over his body. "That's why the realms of Valdyrheim never prioritized raw spellcasting. They train hands, minds, and bodies to become conduits for focused strikes. Channeling Seiðr, chaos, and mana isn't about incantations—it's about precision, instinct, and willpower. Melee, focused energy, attacks imbued with intent… that is how the warriors of the Viking Realm survive, how they dominate."
Melgil leaned closer, a thread of living silk wrapping around her fingers like a delicate serpent. "And we've been thinking too much about what we can't do. Spells we cannot cast, barriers we cannot raise. But what we can do… what we can shape with our bodies and intent… that is our real power."
Daniel flexed his fingers, crimson and pale blue energies flowing in delicate pulses around him. "Our tools are bound. Formless armor, barriers, long-range spells—they've been stripped from us. But Seiðr and chaos… they bend to our focus. And when we synchronize it with our own instinct and precision… it's more than magic. It's art, it's war, it's life."
They spent the night in quiet reflection and training, Daniel coaxing chaos and Seiðr into fragile harmony while Melgil wove threads of fate and mana into supple, deadly forms. She could craft weapons, shields, even living traps from her silk; her agility, healing, and paralytic abilities matched his own speed and adaptability. Daniel, constrained in his armor's shape-shifting and forbidden from casting projectile spells, discovered subtle strategies—how energy could flow through him rather than be thrown, how intention could guide form and strike. Each movement, each shared breath, drew them closer not only to mastery but to the understanding that the language of magic had always been theirs to invent, to feel, not recite.
Nyx, their shadowlike sentinel, slithered through the valley with uncanny silence, its form flickering across rocks and ruins, an unseen eye in the dark. It reported back every whisper of mana, every tremor of movement, every unknown force encroaching on their space. Most days, its presence was only a fleeting shimmer; tonight, it was the quiet reassurance that their world remained under watchful guard.
Daniel paused, turning toward Melgil as he sensed a subtle shift in the flow around them. "Even restricted, even bound, the essence remains. Every challenge, every limitation… it's a puzzle waiting for a solution. I can feel it in my instincts, in the faint echo of what I once was. The human vessel may be gone, but the mind—the patterns, the strategies, the intuition—are still here. It's as though the universe is daring us to solve it."
Melgil's eyes sparkled in the starlight. "Then let it dare us. If the old gods gave us nothing, we will invent the way. We will channel, strike, weave, and shape the energy ourselves. The Viking Realm trained with swords and axes, yes, but their true mastery was in focus—the will behind the strike. We'll take that, and bend it to Seiðr and chaos."
As the stars rose higher, Daniel and Melgil returned to their disciplined dance of training, a rhythm of intent and motion, energy and sinew, weaving the past and future into a single, coherent purpose. In the quiet before the storm, the three,the mind, the heart, and the unseen hand—prepared, honed, and learned to speak in the silent, unspoken language of power that the old gods had neglected to teach: the language of mastery, forged by will, instinct, and unity.
Night had deepened, and the crimson glow of the horizon faded into inky black. Daniel and Melgil stood in the clearing beneath the silvered trees, the wind carrying the faint rustle of leaves and distant lanterns along the road. The hilltop seemed untouched by time, a natural arena perfect for their testing. Daniel flexed his hands, the faint blue-and-crimson pulse of his energy coiling around his form like living threads. Melgil's silk shimmered in the dim light, moving almost as if it had a mind of its own, waiting to respond to her will.
"Show me, Daniel," Melgil said, her voice low and steady, "how your focus strikes now. Not barriers, not blasts… show me how you move the energy through your body."
He inhaled, letting the chaos swirl around him without restraint, then exhaled sharply. The crimson pulses condensed along his arms, forming visible currents that coiled around his muscles. With a sudden pivot, he swung his fist through the air. The movement was fluid, almost casual, yet a faint shockwave of energy followed, humming through the space where his hand had passed. The pulse didn't explode outward—it flowed with precision, like a blade slicing through water.
Melgil's eyes widened. "That's it," she whispered, "the strike isn't the energy—it's you guiding it. The flow, the intent… that's what makes it lethal." She twirled a thread of her silk around her wrist, letting it extend into the air like a ribbon of light. With a flick, it darted forward, paralyzing a fallen log mid-fall, then recoiling like it had a mind of its own. "Focus. Speed. Channel. Every movement must carry purpose, not force."
Daniel nodded, taking a step forward. He spun, letting the chaos energy follow the motion of his body, twisting through the air in thin crimson streams that clung to his limbs, extending the reach of his strike without leaving him unbalanced. Each motion left a faint afterimage, a ghost of the energy's path, as if the air itself remembered the strike. "Like this," he said, "I don't throw the power I become the conduit. The strike flows from intention, from muscle, from Seiðr."
Melgil mirrored him, her threads darting and coiling around the ground. She shaped a blade of woven silk, glowing faintly with blue mana, then launched it toward a nearby rock. The blade struck true, slicing the stone cleanly and recoiling into her hand as if it had never left. "You see?" she said, eyes shining. "Even without a spell, even without barriers, the intent carries force. We are the language they never taught us."
Daniel's grin was faint, almost imperceptible, but the energy around him surged brighter. He lunged forward, unleashing a series of flowing strikes, each accompanied by a ribbon of chaos energy. The currents twisted, struck, and recoiled, leaving faint trails in the air that pulsed like heartbeat echoes. "And it doesn't end with a punch," he said, voice steady, "we can chain it. Link one strike into another. Focus into defense, into follow-up attacks, into evasion. This… this is what Valdyrheim trained their warriors for. Precision, flow, channeling energy through motion."
Melgil's laughter was soft but thrilled. She moved in a blur, her silk forming whips, blades, and temporary shields with each movement. She struck at Daniel's streams of energy, redirecting the crimson flows with her threads, weaving around him like wind over water. "See how your strike bends when it meets intent? Force isn't everything. Flow, focus, rhythm… that's the language."
For hours, they danced in that hilltop arena. Every movement was deliberate. Every strike, parry, or thrust carried intent, guided by the raw energy of Seiðr and chaos rather than incantations or external magic. Daniel learned to feel how his chaos could amplify a strike, not merely explode, while Melgil wove threads to enhance mobility, to disarm, to heal, or to bind. Each exchange left the air crackling, glowing faintly with the memory of energy paths, a silent testament to the power born from focus rather than spells.
Finally, they paused, chests heaving, sweat glinting on skin, their hair tangled by wind and exertion. Daniel's eyes gleamed in the starlight. "We don't need the old gods' words," he said, voice low but triumphant. "We are creating our own language. A language written in motion, in intent, in every strike. Valdyrheim may have trained warriors to master axes and blades, but we… we are shaping the flow itself."
Melgil nodded, her silk threads collapsing softly into her palms. "And that's exactly why we can face what's coming. The Netherborn, the remnants of gods, whatever waits… they haven't seen strikes like these. Not like us."
Nyx flickered at the edge of the clearing, unseen but alert, its shadowlike form a silent witness to the birth of this new mastery. On the hillside, beneath the silvered trees and the starlit sky, they both could still feel the faint pulse of life along the road, the rhythm of hearts, the flow of mana, the flicker of emotions. What once allowed him to perceive entire battlefields was now reduced to a narrower, muffled sense, but it was enough. Through the veil of limitation, one presence always stood out sharply: killing intent.
It brushed faintly at the edge of his awareness like a cold whisper in the dark. To Daniel, this restriction wasn't a punishment, only an adjustment. His power had been too vast, too consuming before; now, he had to learn control to master precision instead of overwhelming force.
"The road's clear," Daniel murmured, lowering his hand as the last caravan vanished into the distance. "No threats… just merchants heading toward their destination ."
Melgil nodded, her gaze following the distant trail of a wagon slowly disappearing over the ridge. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The wind moved gently through the grass, carrying with it the faint creak of wooden wheels and the whisper of faraway voices.
They simply watched in silence, two figures standing apart from the world they once commanded. Daniel's eyes flickered faintly with the glow of restrained energy as he confirmed what he already suspected: most of his magic-related abilities were now restricted.
Even with the immense well of mana and chaos energy coursing within him, it was useless—like a storm trapped inside glass. Without the magic language, the sacred syntax that bound energy to law, he couldn't shape it into spells. What flowed through him now was raw, unrefined power—limitless in potential, yet untamed and directionless.
"It feels strange, doesn't it?" Melgil said softly, her tone carrying a quiet melancholy. "To hold power that you can't use freely."
Daniel exhaled slowly. "Strange… and humbling."
He raised his hand, letting threads of black and violet light spiral up his arm. For a heartbeat, the air crackled with chaotic energy, vivid and alive. But the moment he dismissed it, a faint chime echoed in his mind.
A mental notification, clear and cold, resonated from the Tower itself: a warning, perhaps, or a reminder of the unseen authority that still bound him.
He frowned, lowering his hand. "Even now… it's watching," he murmured.
Melgil's expression hardened. "Then we'll just have to learn to move within its rules—until we can break them."
The wind shifted again, carrying dust and starlight through the air. Between them lingered the quiet understanding that their struggle was no longer against mortals or monsters—but against the very laws that defined power itself.
Daniel smiled faintly. "Strange, yes. But maybe that's what we needed. a reminder that strength isn't just about what we can unleash… but what we can restrain."
The wind swept softly across the grass, bending the tall blades like waves upon a silent sea. Nyx flickered past them, a shadow given form, a wisp of smoke tracing patterns through the dusk, before circling back to report what it had seen. Its movements were fluid, almost spectral, leaving faint trails of shimmering light in the air before vanishing again into Daniel's shadow. Above, the last breath of day faded into twilight, and the stars began to shimmer faintly through a thin veil of drifting clouds. The land fell quiet once more, watchful, patient, and heavy with the unspoken resolve that bound them all.
Daniel stood still for a moment, letting the night settle around him like a cloak. The faint hum of chaos energy pulsed beneath his skin, restless yet restrained. Ever the seeker of mastery, he refused to remain idle. The world, he believed, changed only for those who dared to shape it—and so he began to train again, his methods now shifting toward something deeper, more instinctive. Each movement of his hand carved invisible patterns through the air, his focus bending reality itself. The ground trembled faintly in response, as if the very landscape recognized its shaper and braced for what was to come.
Far to the north, however, another storm was stirring. Twenty heavily armed riders thundered across the frost-bitten plains, their armor catching the dying light in flashes of silver and blue. These were Ragnar's elite, the Stormfangs, warriors forged in battle and hardened by countless wars. Their cloaks of wolf fur snapped behind them like banners as they urged their warhorses toward the end of Huldmark's borderlands. They rode with purpose, their mission clear: to uncover the truth behind the whispers, the rumor of the Dark Wanderer said to have emerged from the accursed Ouroboros Mountain.
Ten kilometers from the city of Skjorn Fjord, they slowed their pace. The air here felt heavier, charged with something unseen. Though each of them was a veteran, men who had faced armies, beasts, and storms, they could not shake the unease that gnawed at their hearts. Facing a mortal foe was one thing; facing a legend whispered to have defied death itself was another. Still, their loyalty to Ragnar left no room for hesitation.
Under the dim glow of the stars, the Stormfangs pressed on, unaware that fate had already begun to weave their path toward Daniel, the Dark Wanderer himself, whose growing power was reshaping not only the land but the balance of all things that lived upon it.
After nearly an hour of riding through the dimming light, the twenty Stormfangs crossed into the lands of Huldmark. The wind had turned cold, sharp with the scent of pine and distant snow. Their horses' hooves sank into the damp earth as they slowed their pace, eyes alert and hands never far from the hilts of their blades. None of them knew what they might encounter in this haunted stretch of land, where rumors spoke of a dark wanderer whose presence warped the air itself.
Up ahead, a merchant caravan had halted on the roadside, its wagons surrounded by guards bearing the sigil of Roderic Harlfen, a known trader from the southern routes. His banner, a red hawk over a field of gold, fluttered weakly in the wind. When the Stormfangs approached, Roderic himself stepped forward, lifting a hand in cautious greeting. His men shifted uneasily, recognizing the wolf-crested armor of Ragnar's chosen.
Inside one of the wagons, Eira Valsmir, daughter of the Valsmir Clan, remained hidden from sight, her pale eyes watching through the narrow slit in the wooden frame. The captain of the Stormfangs noticed the extra guards near that particular wagon but chose not to pry. He already knew of the Valsmir Clan's quiet departure from the merchant settlement days earlier. Whatever business they had in Huldmark was not his to question, his mission lay elsewhere.
The Stormfangs' captain, Bjorn Halvarsson, sat atop his warhorse with the calm composure of a man who had long made peace with danger. He was in his early forties, broad-shouldered and battle-worn, with a thick beard streaked in iron gray and hair bound in a rough braid that fell to his collar. A scar cut across his cheek, a pale reminder of a duel fought against a warlock from the southern wastes. His eyes, a cold northern blue, carried the weight of a man who had seen too much death to be easily startled.
Bjorn was not loud nor cruel; his strength came from restraint. He believed in control—of blade, of mind, of fear. He could read men like he read terrain, seeing intent in their posture and deceit in their tone. Many called him Bjorn the Silent Wolf, for he preferred to let his actions speak rather than his voice.
In battle, Bjorn was a master of Storm Seiðr, a rare form of spiritual combat that let him bind wind and thunder to his strikes. His halberd, Skyfang, crackled faintly with latent energy, a weapon said to be forged by the priests of Tempra's Forge. Though his years were catching up to him, his instincts remained sharper than any blade, and his presence alone was enough to steady the younger warriors under his command.
As he exchanged a brief word with Roderic, his gaze swept the caravan once more. The silence in the air unsettled him, the way the forest held its breath, the way the clouds dimmed the last starlight. Something unseen watched from beyond the trees.
Bjorn narrowed his eyes toward the dark horizon. "Move carefully," he ordered his men. "The wind carries whispers tonight."
And with that, the Stormfangs pressed onward, twenty shadows riding beneath the fading stars, unaware that destiny was already drawing them toward the one whose name the North now feared to speak aloud. as they travel further into Huldmark , the 19 warriors under his commend were feeling uneasy as the stories they heard had already latch unto their imagination ,
The Viking realm of Valdyrheim was a land forged in the bite of winter and the roar of storms—a place where warriors were born beneath thunder and raised by the edge of the blade. Yet even in a world of blood and battle, the sight of monsters was rare. Beasts of legend—creatures said to crawl from the old world before the gods fell, were spoken of in sagas, not seen by living eyes.
When one was seen, it was treated with many different responses, depending on who beheld it. To the skalds and seers, such a creature was a sign, a message from the forgotten realms that the balance of the world was shifting. To the Jarls and warriors, it was a test of strength, an omen of glory or destruction depending on who drew their sword first. But to the common folk, monsters were neither omen nor honor, they were fear itself made flesh, a reminder that the gods had not sealed all the gates between the living and the damned.
The priests of Seiðr taught that monsters were born when chaos and soul intertwined without law, living fragments of the old void that predated creation. Few dared to hunt them, and fewer still survived the telling. Even the bravest berserkers offered prayers before entering lands where such creatures were rumored to dwell, for they knew that to face a monster was not merely to fight flesh and bone, but the will of the world itself rebelling against order.
Thus, in Valdyrheim, when a monster was sighted, the wind itself seemed to change. The horns were sounded, the banners raised, and the gods were called upon. For whether it brought death or destiny, every encounter with the unnatural was a mark upon history, a tale that would echo through the mead halls for generations.
Hearing tales of a being who could wield Seiðr, and use it in ways said to belong only to the gods, shook the people of Valdyrheim to their core. It challenged everything they thought they knew about power, divinity, and the boundaries between mortal and divine. They were a people of duty, not of myth; their days were spent defending their lands, hunting, and protecting their kin. Stories of miracles and divine acts belonged to the mead halls, told by old skalds to entertain children and drunks, not something meant to bleed into reality.
Yet now, rumor spoke of a being not born of monster nor man, one who commanded the raw essence of Seiðr with godlike mastery. The idea was both terrifying and strangely believable, for unlike the wild tales of beasts and curses, this story came with records, with witnesses, with signs, and that made it all the more real. Some whispered that this being was not a destroyer, but a restorer, one whose power mirrored the ancient gods who once shaped the world. In time, reverence began to replace fear. The nameless wanderer became a figure of awe, the kind of presence that drew both prayer and trembling.
And then came the tale that changed everything, the legend of how the Ouroboros Serpent, the endless beast of the cursed mountain, lowered its head before this being. That the serpent, eater of its own tail, had been tamed by the one they now called the Netherborn.
When that story spread across the northern realms, excitement and dread spread with it. The thought that a mortal, or something close to one, could subdue a creature born from the oldest chaos was both impossible and undeniable. Villages spoke the name of the Netherborn with both devotion and fear, unsure whether he was a savior or the herald of an age the gods themselves could no longer control.
No one truly knew what would happen next. But one thing was certain, the world had changed, and the people of Valdyrheim could feel it in the trembling of the earth and the whisper of the winds, as if the gods themselves were holding their breath
The cold wind began to rise, creeping down from the southern slopes of the Ouroboros Mountain Plateau like the breath of some ancient, restless spirit. It whispered through the trees and rolled over the ridges of Huldmark, carrying with it the sharp scent of frost, pine, and something older—something primal that did not belong to mortal lands.
Bjorn Halvarsson felt it before the others did. The shift in the air was subtle yet undeniable, the kind of silence that fell when the world itself paused to listen. The ground beneath his boots had hardened, its warmth drawn away as if by unseen hands. Even Nyx, that strange shadow creature ever loyal to Daniel, stirred uneasily within the gloom, its form flickering like a dying ember caught between realms.
Beside Bjorn, Runa Hallveig, his vice-captain and second-in-command, pulled her wolf-fur cloak tight against the chill. Her eyes, pale and sharp as ice, narrowed toward the northern peaks. "The mountain breathes again," she murmured, her voice steady but low. The faint pulse of energy in the air made her skin prickle , it came from the direction of the Ouroboros Peaks, a place long shunned by the living.
Through the gathering mist, a faint campfire flickered atop a forested hill. The flame wavered like a lone star against the encroaching night. Bjorn's instincts, honed by decades of battle and blood, stirred at once. He gestured toward the hill with a silent command. "We ride," he said.
The Stormfangs advanced in measured formation, the soft thud of their horses' hooves barely audible over the wind's rising howl. They were still several leagues away from the base of the mountain, but every man and woman among them felt it, the pull of something vast and unseen. Their steeds snorted and stamped, nostrils flaring as if scenting a predator that had yet to reveal itself.
Then came the whispers.
They drifted on the wind, faint, hollow, and uncertain. To the untrained ear, it could have been the sound of shifting branches, but the Stormfangs knew better. These were voices, distant and broken, calling from beyond the veil of the forest.
Bjorn raised a hand, and the company slowed to a halt. The air was thick with dread now, the kind that crawled beneath armor and into bone. He could feel the tremor in the world itself, the same unease that once preceded great wars and fallen gods.
Something ancient was stirring in the south.
The cold was not merely the herald of winter, it was a warning. A shiver ran through the land, through the trees, through the hearts of all who stood beneath the pale sky. And in that breathless silence, every living soul in Valdyrheim seemed to understand one truth:
The twenty Stormfangs rode on until they reached the edge of a small, forested hill where the faint glow of a campfire shimmered through the trees. The fire crackled softly against the rising chill, its warmth cutting through the gloom like a fragile beacon in the dark. Smoke curled lazily upward, twisting into the night sky before vanishing beneath the low-hanging clouds.
From the shadows, Daniel and Melgil watched in silence. The two stood near the camp's edge, their presence veiled by Seiðr and the faint hum of chaos energy that pulsed quietly between them. They had felt the riders long before they appeared, trained warriors approaching in measured rhythm, disciplined and deliberate.
Daniel's eyes narrowed slightly as he focused, extending his awareness outward. No malice. No bloodlust. Only tension, an edge of uncertainty that drifted through the air like the faint scent of cold steel before a duel.
"They came from the central city," he murmured, voice calm yet weighted with curiosity. "Soldiers. Disciplined… but unsure of what they're walking into."
Melgil tilted her head, the orange glow of the campfire dancing across her pale features. "What should we do?" she asked softly, her tone cautious, her fingers brushing the hilt of her dagger, not out of fear, but habit.
Daniel's gaze never left the dark line of trees where faint armor glinted between the trunks. "Nothing yet," he said. "They came to investigate, not to fight. There's still much we don't know about them,and they, about us."
Melgil nodded, her posture relaxed yet alert. She watched quietly as the Stormfangs dismounted, approaching the caravan with careful discipline. The traders, the same group who had passed earlier that day, stood nearby, their faces tight, their mouths sealed shut.
"The caravan people were tight-lipped before," Melgil murmured under her breath, "and they still are. It's like someone paid them not to speak."
Daniel folded his arms, thinking, when movement at the treeline caught his attention. From the shadows emerged Bjorn Halvarsson, his wolf-pelt cloak brushing against his armor, his expression calm but alert. The veteran commander raised a gloved hand, signaling peace as he stepped into the firelight.
Daniel glanced up, momentarily pausing from his task of preparing a small meal beside the campfire. He had been forced to adapt, his void space was sealed, inaccessible, but his dimensional storage still obeyed him. He'd drawn simple provisions and a pan from it, intending to cook. The flickering firelight reflected off his dark eyes as he watched the approaching warriors.
Melgil, ever composed, leaned lazily against a nearby rock, her silken threads of mana drifting faintly through the air like strands of light. Her demeanor was calm, almost teasing, as if daring the newcomers to break the fragile quiet.
Bjorn stopped several paces away, studying the two figures before him. Neither wore the look of wanderers caught off guard, nor the stance of men or women expecting a fight. He noted the absence of weapons at their sides, their stillness, their ease, and the strange quiet surrounding them. It was… unnatural.
He had heard the rumors, the Netherborn, a being said to command chaos and bend Seiðr in ways only gods once could. Some claimed it could alter its very form to hide among mortals. Seeing two unarmed travelers in such a cursed region made him wary but not reckless.
Bjorn's instincts told him that assuming too much could lead to disaster. In these lands, ignorance could start a war faster than any blade. That was why, long before they arrived, he had already briefed his Stormfangs: show no hostility, strike at no one unless attacked first.
Now, standing before Daniel and Melgil, Bjorn lowered his halberd slightly, the weight of command in every measured movement. His northern accent cut through the crisp night air. "We mean no harm," he said, his eyes scanning the campfire with careful calculation.
"We're only here to ask questions."
Daniel stirred the pan slowly, letting the aroma of herbs and roasting meat drift upward. His gaze met Bjorn's across the fire, two men of vastly different worlds, both sizing the other in silence.
"Then sit," Daniel said simply. "Ask your questions."
Bjorn hesitated only for a moment before giving a small nod.
"Very well." He motioned behind him, his voice carrying over the horses.
"Tell your soldiers to join us. We have food to share."
Daniel glanced at Melgil. She smiled faintly, adjusting the warm blanket around her shoulders, the glow of the fire illuminating the edge of her silken cloak. Daniel, meanwhile, had already pulled out his military bag, neatly packed with camping equipment and extra supplies, just in case. They still had no confirmation whether this realm relied on magic, artifacts, or both. Better to be prepared, as they know based on what they saw as they came that magic and superstition all tied together and may bring more harm than good at times
Bjorn lowered himself to the ground opposite Daniel, the hard earth softened by furs he had brought along.
"You're… not from around here,"
he said cautiously, observing the calm confidence in Daniel's posture.
"Your presence… it doesn't feel like a threat. But your presence , it hums differently than anything I've sensed before."
Daniel smiled faintly, stirring the pan again.
"strength and experience hums differently everywhere. Some people shape it, some are shaped by it. You… seem cautious, but not blind to what's around you."
Bjorn nodded, a shadow of respect passing through his blue eyes.
"Caution keeps men alive. I lead twenty Stormfangs, but the… this land… it has ways of testing even the strongest."
"Then you've seen the signs," Daniel said softly, letting the words hang. "The wind, the mountain… Ouroboros does not sleep."
Bjorn's jaw tightened slightly. "I've heard the tales, spreading, letters, scrolls carried by ravens and falcons has reach many eyes and spoken by many mouths, But nothing prepares you until you see the stirrings yourself."
Bjorn blinked, forcing himself to focus. This conversation, it wasn't what he had expected. The words he spoke, the calm he had prepared to maintain, suddenly felt out of place. The man before him, he looked far too young to carry such composure. Too young to wield the quiet authority that seemed to radiate from him as naturally as warmth from the campfire.
Yet there it was. Calm, measured, unshakable. A presence that could bend hesitation into patience, tension into stillness. Bjorn found himself studying the youth carefully: the way he moved, how his eyes met Bjorn's without challenge but with careful observation, and the subtle way he handled the pan, as if even cooking were part of a deliberate test.
"You… carry yourself strangely," Bjorn admitted, his voice rougher than intended. "For someone your age, most would be brash, eager to prove themselves. You… are neither."
Daniel stirred the food slowly, letting the smell of herbs drift through the night. His dark eyes lifted just enough to meet Bjorn's. "Brashness is easy," he said simply. "But it rarely teaches you what you need to know."
Bjorn exhaled, a flicker of unease passing through him. This is no ordinary man, he thought. And I must remind myself, assumptions in this land can be fatal.
For a long moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft crackle of fire and the whispering wind. Even the forest seemed to pause, listening, as if acknowledging the weight of this unlikely exchange.
For a long moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft crackle of the fire and the whispering wind. Even the forest seemed to pause, listening, as if acknowledging the weight of this unlikely exchange.
The fire crackled softly, its light bending and reshaping the shadows cast by the towering pines. Embers rose into the cool night air, glowing briefly before vanishing into the dark. Around the clearing, the forest whispered with distant movement, branches shifting, the faint call of a night bird, and the sigh of the wind as it swept across the grass.
Finally, Daniel broke the quiet, his voice calm but carrying the weight of command. "I suppose introductions are in order," he said, stepping closer to the firelight. "I am Daniel… and this is Melgil." He gestured toward her, the fire painting her in hues of amber and gold. Her eyes shimmered with soft curiosity, her cloak moving gently in the breeze like the flutter of living silk.
Bjorn's gaze swept over them, sharp yet measured. There was calculation in his stare, but also curiosity, as though he sought to read the strength that lingered beneath their composed exteriors. His hand rested lightly upon the hilt of his axe, not from fear, but habit. After a moment, he inclined his head.
"Bjorn Halvarsson," he said, his tone deep and grounded, "Captain of the Stormfangs." He turned slightly, nodding toward the woman standing beside him. "And this is Runa Hallveig, my vice-captain."
Runa stepped forward with quiet grace, her movements as fluid as a huntress. The firelight gleamed off the iron bands of her armor, tracing the runes etched into her forearms. She was tall, her build lean but honed, every line of her form speaking of control, of discipline earned through struggle. Her eyes never stopped moving, one moment watching Daniel and Melgil, the next scanning the shadows beyond the fire.
Daniel offered a faint nod in acknowledgment. "A pleasure," he said simply. Melgil followed with a slight tilt of her head, her smile small but sincere.
Runa's voice came softly, though its tone was laced with the firmness of a seasoned warrior. "We weren't expecting anyone here," she said, her gaze steady. "Especially not… like you."
Daniel's dark eyes met hers, calm and unflinching. "Nor were we expecting travelers so disciplined, so well-mannered," he replied, his words laced with quiet amusement. "But it seems fate has seen fit to draw us together beneath the same fire."
Bjorn's expression softened slightly, and a small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips—half respect, half relief. "Then perhaps the Norms have woven our paths for a reason," he said. "Tonight, we share warmth instead of blood. A rare mercy in these lands." He gestured toward the fire between them. "Sit. Speak. The night is long, and strangers are lessons waiting to be learned."
Daniel and Melgil settled opposite them, the fire between the four casting a soft halo of warmth and light. Sparks drifted upward like fireflies. After a moment's silence, Daniel spoke again.
"May I ask a peculiar question?" His tone was polite but edged with genuine curiosity. "We've traveled far, across regions where Seiðr and the chaos flow differently, where energy is shaped by thought and spoken command. But here…" He gestured around, toward their weapons, their runes, their calm presence. "Here, in Valdyrheim, we've seen none of the glyphs or incantations used elsewhere. I heard that the Skald-born, your people, are warriors born of blood and song. That your strength lies not in magic but in something else entirely."
Bjorn's gaze grew thoughtful. He stirred the fire with the tip of his axe, watching the sparks scatter before he spoke. "You are not wrong," he said at last. "The Skald-born were shaped by the second realm's design. Valdyrheim is not a land of distant spells or gods' language. The old tongues of magic were never gifted to us. What we wield is born of body, will, and the binding of spirit."
Runa leaned forward, her tone quiet but precise, her words sharp as her blade. "Magic words fail here. The gods made sure of that. In Valdyrheim, every warrior learns early that power doesn't come from incantations or written glyphs it comes from control. From channeling Seiðr through the self. Our focus is our weapon. Our strikes are our language."
Bjorn nodded. "We call it Meginflæði, the Flow of Might. Every warrior trains to guide their Seiðr or their spirit energy into their weapon or their limbs. You don't summon power here; you become it. A blade imbued with focus cuts deeper than any spell. A strike channeled through breath and will can break a boulder or shatter armor."
Daniel listened intently, his eyes reflecting the flames. "So your strength is not drawn outward," he murmured, "but inward refined through intent, discipline, and form."
"Exactly," Runa replied, her lips curving faintly. "Each of us learns to fight as if our body is the conduit of creation itself. We channel energy through every movement, through muscle, tendon, through will. Even the weakest strike, if bound with focus, carries the weight of mountains."
Melgil's eyes gleamed, her curiosity alive. "That explains the calm in your aura," she said. "You don't waste energy. You store it, waiting for the right moment to release it."
Bjorn's voice lowered, the flames casting harsh lines across his face. "That is the law of the second floor, the way of Valdyrheim. Here, spells fail. But blades sing. Seiðr becomes breath, and chaos becomes rhythm. The gods may have denied us their words, but in return, they gave us mastery over our own essence."
Daniel nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his expression. "So this is why your warriors stand unmatched in close combat," he said quietly. "Your energy isn't scattered, it's alive, coiled within every motion."
Bjorn's eyes met his, and for a brief moment, the two shared a warrior's understanding. "You speak as one who knows battle," Bjorn said. "Perhaps you will learn our rhythm soon enough. Here, every strike is prayer. Every breath is focus. Every heartbeat is war."
The fire crackled louder, casting their faces in alternating gold and shadow. Around them, the forest whispered of old gods long gone and the warriors who still fought in their memory. The night deepened, but the silence that followed was not empty, it was heavy with respect, with the unspoken acknowledgment that though they came from different worlds, they shared the same creed: power was not granted, it was forged.
Bjorn's expression changed subtly , the faintest flicker of intrigue and something deeper beneath it, a strange familiarity he couldn't name. He had met countless men on countless fields, from savage raiders to disciplined captains of the north, but this Daniel… there was something about his calm composure, the weight of his words, that stirred something almost forgotten , trust.
He glanced briefly toward Runa. Her hand rested on the pommel of her blade, yet her eyes no longer searched the forest; instead, they were fixed on Daniel and Melgil, as though she were trying to read the essence beneath their skin. She felt it too , the strange resonance that hummed faintly between them like an unseen thread of fate.
Bjorn broke the silence."Perhaps words do little justice to what we are," he said, standing, his cloak brushing the frost-stained grass. His voice had softened , still firm, but without the wariness from before. "If you would see how the Skald-born fight… how we breathe power into the blade itself… then watch closely."
Daniel rose slowly, his coat sweeping as he straightened, eyes calm and unreadable. "Show me, Captain," he said. "I wish to understand."
Bjorn nodded once. He motioned to Runa, who silently stepped back, watching with quiet intensity. The night air grew taut as Bjorn drew his blade , a curved longsword of northern steel, etched with runic veins that pulsed faintly blue when his breath touched the cold.
"This," Bjorn said, his voice low and reverent, "is called Meginflæði , the Flow of Might. It is the art of merging flesh, spirit, and will into one. We do not wield energy separately from steel , we become it."
He took a deep breath, planting his boots firmly on the ground. Then, with deliberate slowness, he exhaled , and the world around him seemed to shift. The faint sound of crackling embers dimmed. The air thickened, like gravity itself bowed toward him. Faint blue ripples spiraled outward from his body, twisting through the grass and lifting the frost into a soft mist.
Daniel's eyes glinted with quiet fascination. He could feel the energy , it wasn't chaotic like raw magic, nor refined like pure mana. It was alive , rhythmic, like the pulse of a heartbeat carried through the earth.
Bjorn moved.His first strike was fluid, elegant yet heavy, like a mountain collapsing in slow motion. The blade cut through the air with a low, humming tone, and a ripple of force followed, bending the mist into a circular wave that dissipated just before Daniel's feet.
"That," Bjorn said, lowering his stance, "is the first form , Einblástur, the Breath. We channel Seiðr through the lungs and bones, and let it flow outward , the body is not a vessel; it is the current."
Daniel's lips curved faintly. "Impressive," he said, stepping closer, unafraid. "Your energy flows through motion, not command. It's instinct, not formula."
Bjorn's brow lifted slightly, surprised by the precision of the observation. "You understand more than most who've trained here for decades."
Runa, still standing by the fire, folded her arms, her gaze soft. He listens, she thought. Not like an outsider, but like one of us. Her instinct whispered that Daniel was no ordinary traveler , and yet, instead of fear, she felt respect.
Bjorn turned his sword upright and pressed the flat against his chest. "We train from the day we can lift a weapon," he continued, his tone shifting to that of a teacher. "Meginflæði binds body and Seiðr , every strike becomes more than muscle. The soul fuels the swing, the intent defines its weight. Some call it the discipline of 'living energy.' In battle, hesitation breaks the flow; focus sharpens it."
He gave a small, almost self-conscious laugh, lowering his blade. "Strange… I've never explained this to a stranger before. Not even to the traders of the low valleys."
Runa tilted her head, her lips curving slightly. "Nor have I ever seen you so eager to teach, Captain."
Bjorn looked at Daniel again , that unreadable calm, that grounded presence.
"There's something about you," he admitted quietly, almost to himself. "You and the woman beside you… I cannot name it, but it feels as if I've met you before , not in life, perhaps… but in memory."
Runa nodded slowly. It's the same feeling, she thought. The same resonance that pulls two souls who share the same fire.And for the first time that night, the cold forest of Valdyrheim felt less like a place of stone and silence and more like the beginning of something that neither of them could yet understand
The moment hung between them , the hum of the fire, the breath of the cold air, and the faint resonance of something deeper than mere curiosity. Daniel set down his bowl, rising to his feet with quiet composure. The subtle movement drew every eye in the circle, even the Stormfangs who feigned disinterest while still watching from the edges of the camp.
He drew a slender blade, no longer than three feet , its edge gleamed faintly in the firelight, narrow and almost weightless. Bjorn's brows furrowed as he watched the steel leave its sheath. The sword looked fragile, delicate even, more a ceremonial weapon than one meant for battle. Such a thin blade… could that truly kill a full-grown Skald-born? he wondered, disbelief flickering behind his steady gaze.
Sensing the shift in intent, Bjorn's hand drifted instinctively toward the hilt of his own sword, though he did not draw it. His eyes narrowed, studying every movement of the stranger before him. "You mean to answer my curiosity, don't you?" he said, his tone low and guarded, yet edged with intrigue.
Daniel's voice was calm, steady. "You showed me your Meginflæði, Captain. It's only fair I return the courtesy. But… my way is not of the north. What I wield doesn't flow from the flesh , it bends from the will."
The forest seemed to listen. The flames flickered as though bowing in anticipation.
Bjorn stepped forward, sword already half raised. "Then let us see it , your will."
Daniel inclined his head, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Very well. But know that I do not seek to wound."
Runa's gaze darted between them, instinct urging her to intervene, but something in her chest told her this was not an act of violence , it was a meeting of two worlds. Bjorn must have felt it too, because his stance softened, adjusting not into aggression but readiness , a dance of respect.
Bjorn struck first. His body moved like liquid steel, the Meginflæði pulsing through every motion , visible waves of force trailing his blade. The air cracked, the earth trembled faintly beneath his boots. His sword carved a luminous arc that would have cleaved through armor and flesh alike, yet Daniel didn't move to dodge.
Instead, he raised a single hand.
The instant the blade neared, the air around Daniel shimmered, thickening , as if the world itself bent around him. The energy from Bjorn's strike collapsed into itself, swallowed by a silent pulse that erupted outward in a soundless wave.
Bjorn's eyes widened as his own energy dispersed like smoke. His sword vibrated, humming against the weight of something unseen. He staggered back half a step, not from force, but from the overwhelming presence that emanated from Daniel.
"This…" Bjorn muttered under his breath, "is no Seiðr… its different…"
Daniel stepped forward slowly, his expression serene. "You merge your soul and body through flow, Captain. I bend mine through resonance. Every thought, every breath, aligns with intent. I do not command energy , I let it answer me."
Bjorn adjusted his stance again, exhilaration flashing behind his eyes. "Then show me the answer."
Daniel extended both palms forward. The air trembled , faint threads of shadow and light intertwined like liquid silk, forming invisible sigils that only the soul could perceive. Then, with a simple gesture, Daniel swept his arm sideways.
The trees groaned as gravity itself twisted. The frost on the ground lifted into the air like dust, suspended in a strange stillness. Bjorn found himself pushing against a wave of pressure , not violent, but immense, like the weight of the sea pressing against his chest.
He gritted his teeth, focusing his Meginflæði into his stance. The blue aura of his body flared brighter, clashing against Daniel's unseen force sparks of blue and silver meeting in the space between them. The ground shuddered, the campfire flared violently before steadying once more.
Runa's eyes widened, her heart thundering. They're not fighting… they're speaking. Each exchange wasn't a duel , it was conversation written in force and motion. Bjorn's strikes expressed strength, discipline, the unyielding will of the north. Daniel's counters answered with silence, balance, and unshakable control.
Bjorn exhaled, lowering his sword, sweat beading on his brow despite the cold. "You… restrained yourself."
Daniel gave a faint smile. "As did you."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned , until Bjorn let out a quiet laugh, genuine and deep. "I've trained all my life to master the Flow of Might, but I've never met one who could nullify it without effort. You've given me much to think on."
Runa, standing nearby, watched the two men , warrior and wanderer — and felt something rare stir within her. Respect, yes, but also an unspoken kinship. He could have destroyed us, she thought, and yet he chose to teach instead.
Bjorn sheathed his sword, the glow fading. "You are not what I expected, Daniel. You fight like one who has seen too much war… and learned to despise it."
Daniel's eyes softened, his voice quieter now. "War teaches differently than peace ever could. But it always takes more than it gives."
Melgil, who had been watching silently, adjusted her blanket around her shoulders and smiled faintly. "Then let us make the best of the evening," she said, her voice gentle yet firm. "We have food, warmth… and time."
Her words broke the tension. Bjorn exhaled and nodded. Around them, the forest seemed to breathe again , the weight of the duel dissolving into the crackle of the fire and the rustle of wind through the branches.
As the last of the Stormfangs emerged from the treeline, they moved with disciplined grace, setting up camp in seamless rhythm. Runa's commands cut clean through the night, efficient and measured.
Bjorn remained near Daniel and Melgil, his gaze thoughtful. "They move with remarkable restraint," he murmured. "But perhaps it is not restraint that surprises me tonight… but the peace I feel among strangers."
Runa, watching her captain from across the fire, understood. They are different… but not dangerous. And deep within, both she and Bjorn felt something neither could easily name — a resonance that told them their paths had crossed for a reason.
Bjorn stood in stillness long after the duel's echo faded, his sword sheathed but his spirit still humming with the memory of that clash , not of blades, but of essence. The cold air bit at his skin, yet he barely felt it. Beneath the surface calm of his face, something churned — awe, curiosity, and a dawning suspicion he dared not voice aloud.
That power… it wasn't Seiðr, nor any known form of Meginflæði.He had fought champions who could split huge solid boulders with their fury, seen Skald-born masters bend rivers with the Flow , but this… what Daniel had done was something else entirely.It wasn't the scale of it that unnerved him; it was the restraint. The way Daniel contained it, like an ocean hiding beneath still waters.
Bjorn's gaze flicked toward Daniel, who now stood quietly by the fire once more, returning to his seat as if nothing had happened. His expression remained calm, almost humble, yet that calmness only deepened the mystery. The way he held himself , controlled, detached, purposeful , told Bjorn everything he needed to know: Daniel had not even tried.
He glanced toward Runa. Her face was impassive as always, but he caught the minute flicker in her eyes , the same realization. They both knew it.He's holding back.And not just out of mercy. Out of necessity.
Runa kept her eyes fixed on the fire, her voice steady when she finally spoke."Captain," she murmured low enough for only him to hear, "his restraint wasn't to protect you. It was to protect us all."
Bjorn gave a small nod, his jaw tightening. "Aye. I felt it too. Whatever force he carries , if unleashed , would shatter this clearing to ash."He took a long breath, the weight of responsibility pressing on him like armor. "And yet… he hides it willingly. There is no arrogance, no hunger for dominance. Only silence."
Runa studied Daniel quietly, her sharp eyes following the faint flicker of his blade as he wiped it clean before sheathing it. His movements are deliberate, she thought. Every motion measured , like a man who's spent a lifetime holding something back.A small chill ran down her spine. Is he the one the elders spoke of? The wanderer with the sealed spark? The one who walks between worlds?
Bjorn's voice broke her thought."Do you remember what the Seer said before we left the northern hold?"Runa's eyes met his, the firelight reflecting in her irises like molten amber. "That we would know the one by the silence that bends the storm," she said softly.
Bjorn's gaze drifted back to Daniel.The silence that bends the storm…Yes. That was it. Daniel had not fought with rage or defiance , only with quiet command, as though the world itself listened to his will. The earth, the air, even Bjorn's own energy had yielded to him, not by domination, but by resonance.
Runa crossed her arms, speaking low, her tone threaded with unease and wonder. "If this truly is him, Captain… what do we do?"
Bjorn didn't answer immediately. He watched Daniel laugh quietly at something Melgil whispered to him. There was warmth there , a strange humanity that didn't fit the image of a godlike being.Finally, he spoke, his tone solemn."For now… nothing. We watch. We listen. If the fates brought us to him, then it is not by accident. But I will not treat him as an omen until I am sure."
Runa inclined her head in agreement, though her heart beat faster. "Understood."
The camp settled into quiet once more. The Stormfang warriors, who had witnessed the strange exchange, kept their questions to themselves, sensing their captain's unspoken command. The fire crackled, sparks rising like wandering stars into the night sky.
Bjorn sat down beside the flames, across from Daniel and Melgil, forcing his voice into a tone of ease. "You fight unlike any man I've seen," he said with a faint smile. "And you carry it as though it weighs nothing."
Daniel looked up, his eyes calm but ancient in depth. "Power should never weigh lightly, Captain," he said softly. "It's the weight that keeps it from consuming you."
Bjorn felt the truth in those words , a quiet wisdom that didn't belong to mere men. He exchanged a fleeting glance with Runa, both understanding what the other thought but choosing not to speak it aloud.
For tonight, Daniel and Melgil were just travelers , guests sharing warmth and stories beneath the endless sky.But deep inside, Bjorn knew.If he truly is the one we were sent to find… then the fate of Valdyrheim itself may already be sitting by this fire.
The campfire crackled softly, sending occasional sparks into the chill night air. Around it, the Stormfangs worked in practiced silence , disciplined, alert, and efficient. Their every movement carried purpose, as though each breath was part of a shared rhythm older than the forest itself.
Daniel watched them carefully. To an untrained eye, it was simple routine , men tending to armor and rations. But to him and Melgil, every gesture, every glance was a language. The Stormfangs spoke without words , a tribe bound by unyielding faith and the will of Valdyrheim's warrior gods.
Bjorn sat near the fire, his gaze steady but thoughtful. The flames danced across his scarred features, painting him in shades of bronze and ember.
Daniel stirred his stew with deliberate calm. "Captain Halvarsson," he said at last, his tone smooth, almost conversational. "You and your people live by the sword, yet your discipline speaks of something deeper than mere survival. Tell me… what does the strength of Valdyrheim truly serve? Is it conquest, or belief?"
Bjorn blinked, surprised by the question. His men looked up briefly, though none dared speak. After a moment, the captain leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. His voice was low, steady — the tone of one repeating sacred truth.
"In Valdyrheim, power is not sought for glory," he said. "We wield it to honor the life given by the gods. To us, strength is a promise , that when death calls, we meet it without shame. The blade is not a tool of cruelty, but a voice. It speaks our devotion, our resolve, our worth."
Runa added quietly, "And the Flow , the Meginflæði , is that voice made manifest. It is the pulse of the gods in our blood. Each warrior learns to channel it, to merge flesh and spirit until both strike as one. Our will becomes our weapon."
Daniel nodded slowly, eyes gleaming with quiet understanding. "A creed of balance, then. Strength as reverence, not greed. I respect that."
He paused, letting his words hang between them like the smoke above the fire. "Yet," he added softly, "faith often hides fear. The fear of what lies beyond what we can explain. Tell me, Captain — what do your people believe when the gods fall silent?"
Bjorn's jaw tightened. The question cut deeper than he expected. Runa's eyes flicked toward him, a silent exchange passing between them.
"When the gods are silent," Bjorn said finally, "we listen harder. For even silence is a command."
Daniel smiled faintly at that , a genuine expression of approval. "Spoken like a true believer."
But there was something in his tone , something that made the hairs on Runa's neck rise. She wasn't sure if it was admiration… or a challenge.
The wind shifted. A faint whisper moved through the trees, and with it, Daniel's demeanor changed. He set his bowl aside and traced a small pattern in the air — not quite Seiðr, not quite anything they had seen before. The fire's glow deepened, shadows lengthening unnaturally across the camp.
The Stormfangs stiffened. Bjorn's hand instinctively brushed his sword hilt, though he made no move to draw it.
"What is this?" Bjorn asked, his voice low.
Daniel didn't look up. "A test," he said simply, his tone calm but resonant. "Your men's senses , your own I wanted to see how they perceive imbalance. The fire breathes differently now. Do you feel it?"
Bjorn narrowed his eyes. "I feel… distortion."
"Good," Daniel murmured. "Then your instincts are keen. Most wouldn't notice. Your people have not lost their connection to the world , only their understanding of what it obeys."
Runa frowned. "And what do you understand, stranger?"
Daniel raised his gaze then, the firelight mirrored in his dark eyes. "That the world does not obey gods," he said softly. "It obeys will."
The words struck like a hammer. Around the camp, a few Stormfangs exchanged wary looks. That kind of heresy , spoken so calmly , would have earned death in the halls of the north. But before Bjorn could respond, movement flared from the shadows.
A young Stormfang, shaken by Daniel's words and the unnatural flicker of the flames, broke discipline. His fear twisted into anger. "Enough!" he cried, voice raw. "You mock our gods!"
In one motion, he tore his axe free and hurled it at Daniel.
Bjorn shouted , too late. Runa lunged, but the weapon had already spun through the air, whistling toward its mark.
Daniel didn't flinch. His hand rose , and caught the axe mid-flight. Metal shrieked in his grip, warping like tin beneath his fingers. Then, with a soft crack, the weapon shattered, fragments scattering harmlessly into the firelight.
The entire camp froze.
Bjorn's heart stopped for a breath. Runa's blade hovered mid-draw, forgotten.
And Melgil , calm, unhurried , stood. A single pulse of Seiðr, woven with chaos, rippled outward from her. The air thickened. Gravity sank.
The Stormfangs fell to their knees, groaning as the invisible weight bore down upon them. Armor clanked against frozen soil. Even Bjorn and Runa strained against the crushing pressure. The very forest seemed to bow; the fire's flames bent toward Daniel as if in submission.
Daniel remained seated, serene amid the storm. His gaze swept across the kneeling warriors , not with arrogance, but quiet judgment.
Melgil's voice was calm, but it carried through the crackling fire like thunder in a cathedral. "Discipline is strength, but ignorance is peril. You draw your weapon before your mind , and that is how men die."
Bjorn grit his teeth, forcing breath through the weight pressing upon him. This power… this is not of the gods. It was colder, older , primal. Yet it moved with purpose, not malice.
And then, without gesture or warning, the pressure lifted.
The warriors gasped for air, some collapsing entirely. A silence so deep followed that the forest itself seemed to hold its breath.
Daniel spoke softly, his tone almost kind. "Understand this, Captain. Fear is the first enemy of wisdom. If you wish to see clearly, you must first stop trembling before what you do not comprehend."
Bjorn slowly rose, muscles trembling, and met Daniel's gaze. "So it's true," he said quietly. "You are what the elders whispered of. The ones born from the void between worlds."
Daniel's lips curved faintly. "The name you give us does not matter. Netherborn, wanderers, heretics call us what you will. What matters is that we remember why we walk among you."
Runa, still catching her breath, looked up, her voice barely steady. "And why is that?"
"To remind you," Daniel said, "that belief without understanding is just another kind of blindness."
The words hung in the cold night, echoing in the hearts of all who heard them. Around the fire, the Stormfangs lowered their eyes , not in shame, but in reverence. They had seen strength beyond divinity, restraint greater than vengeance.
Bjorn finally exhaled, his breath forming pale mist in the air. "You've given us much to think on, stranger," he said quietly. "Perhaps even more than we're ready to understand."
Daniel smiled faintly, stirring the fire once more. "Then the night was not wasted."
And as the flames burned low, the Stormfangs resumed their silent watch , but now their gazes lingered on Daniel and Melgil with something far deeper than suspicion. It was not fear that filled them now, but the quiet recognition that legends sometimes walked beside men, not above them.
The night had grown still again, the last embers of the fire glowing faintly in the pit. The forest of Valdyrheim whispered softly in the wind, as if cautious not to disturb what it had witnessed.
Bjorn stood apart from his men, his cloak swaying lightly as he looked toward the stars. The air was cold and sharp, yet his thoughts burned hotter than any forge.
Runa knelt beside a flat stone, finishing her hurried writing on a small parchment. The ink shimmered faintly, touched by the residual Seiðr woven into her words , the Stormfang way of sealing truth in message.
When she was done, she rose and handed the folded note to her captain. Bjorn raised his arm, giving a low, rolling whistle that cut through the still air.
A flutter answered him. From the dark boughs above, a raven descended , its feathers black as the void, eyes glinting faint blue in the fire's dying glow. The creature landed on Bjorn's forearm, steady and obedient, its aura faintly rippling with energy.
Runa tied the parchment gently to the bird's leg. "To the Hall of Skjorn Fjord," she whispered. "Let the elders know what we've seen tonight."
Bjorn nodded. His expression was unreadable , torn between duty and wonder. "They won't believe it," he said quietly. "Not until they see the sky bend as I did."
He looked at the raven, then spoke a word , one ancient, heavy, filled with power. The sound hummed through the air like a string drawn across steel. The raven's eyes flared briefly, then it took flight, wings slicing the moonlight.
They watched it vanish into the treeline, heading toward they they came from.
For a while, neither spoke. Only the forest's sigh filled the silence.
Finally, Runa said softly, "He wasn't lying. Whatever he is… it's not something the gods made."
Bjorn's gaze lingered where the raven had vanished. "No," he murmured. "It's something older. Something the gods remembered when they forged their own strength."
Runa's hand brushed the pommel of her sword , a nervous gesture. "Do you think we should fear him?"
Bjorn was silent for a long moment. Then he turned toward the distant tent where Daniel and Melgil rested. The faint glow of their fire cast the shadow of two forms beneath the thin canvas , peaceful, human, almost fragile.
He shook his head slowly. "No. Fear is what blind men feel. What I saw tonight… was purpose. He had every right to kill that boy , but he didn't. That kind of restraint doesn't come from monsters."
Runa's eyes softened. "Then what do you think he is?"
Bjorn exhaled, breath misting in the cold. "A herald. Maybe a warning. Maybe a guide. But whatever he is, he walks with reason, not rage."
The wind rustled the pines again, and for a heartbeat, both warriors thought they heard whispers , ancient words carried by the forest, like a memory trying to speak.
Runa folded her arms, gaze distant. "Strange, isn't it? For the first time, I felt as though the world itself was listening to him."
Bjorn gave a quiet grunt that might have been agreement , or prayer. "And maybe it was."
They stood together in silence, two warriors humbled not by defeat, but by revelation.
Not far away, the tent stirred gently under the moonlight. Inside, Daniel and Melgil slept close beneath a shared blanket, the quiet rise and fall of their breathing the only sound within. Melgil's head rested against his shoulder, her silver white hair glowing faintly like woven starlight.
Daniel's hand, though relaxed, still pulsed faintly with the echo of power , the same force that had crushed the Stormfangs moments ago, now quiet and warm.
For all his might, in that simple stillness, he seemed less like a god… and more like a man simply trying to remember peace.
Outside, Bjorn glanced toward the tent one last time. "Rest well, strangers," he whispered. "For when the elders read our message… the land will remember your names."
Then he turned away, his cloak catching the starlight as he disappeared back into the forest shadows, leaving only the crackle of dying embers and the whisper of wings far above.