Snow drifted like falling ash across the stone-ringed arena, and all eyes turned to the figure at its center. She moved like a flame in a blizzard—untamed, unyielding, and utterly captivating.
Elsa of Frosthall, daughter of Hrothgarn the Pale, stood barefoot in the snow, her crimson hair blazing against the white world. A fur cloak of black wolf pelt clung to her shoulders, but the rest of her armor was minimal—leather and hide fitted to her body like a second skin, exposing thighs hardened by battle and a chestplate that barely masked her beauty.
Whispers flitted through the crowd like ravens:
"She's too beautiful for war."
"She's the Snowflame, the Valkyrie reborn."
"That axe in her hand's cut more men than frostbite has."
Her eyes—icy blue as a frozen fjord—fixed upon her opponent: a brute of the Bear-Tusk Clan, a head taller and thrice as broad. He grunted, tightening his grip on the warhammer slung at his side.
Elsa didn't flinch.
A drum pounded once.
The duel began.
The Bear-Tusk raider charged, bellowing like a wounded ox. Elsa turned with the wind, letting his blow pass like a ghost through a dream. She spun low, red braid flying like a whip, and slashed his knee with the edge of her short axe. Blood hissed onto snow. He fell to one knee, cursing, but she didn't wait—her next blow struck the side of his head like the judgment of the gods.
He collapsed.
Silence.
Then the crowd erupted, but Elsa only breathed in the cold and turned from the body, her skin glistening with sweat and flurries, her expression unreadable—warrior and woman, goddess and storm.
As the shieldmaidens bore her rival's corpse away, Elsa looked skyward. Snow clung to her lashes. In that moment, she did not look like a killer.
She looked like a queen waiting to be crowned.
Her father, the chieftain of their clan, applauded proudly, once she had made her rounds, came into the viewing booth to greet her father.
"The glory is yours, sir," she said, bowing humbly while holding the fallen raider's head.
"Your legend grows heavier, and suitors grow more lustful. You are to be wed in a fortnight to the jarl of Winterhold; he will bless you well," her father said, not as a suggestion but as a command.
"Father.. I do not wish to just be a wife. You've seen me, I can lead wars and become my own queen." Elsa retorted.
"Silence woman! You have no say in the matter, best make yourself diligent for the man. This alliance is all-important to our surviving the harsh winter."
Else stormed out in anger, her face in a boil. She had worked hard to make a name for herself as a warrior, even though she was a woman, she wouldn't just allow herself to be married off to an old man. She wanted real love.
At a sacred grove where she would often pray, an ancient shrine shone beneath the lake, alluring her to it. She decided to venture into the mythical.