© 2025, Esa Myllylä, All Right Reserved
The fjords of Vanaheim lay beneath a thin shroud of mist, obscured from the prying eyes of the unworthy. Great pines rose from the earth like sentinels, standing guard over the valley that thrummed with the magic of old. A low fog clung to the ground, muffling the sound of footsteps as three figures emerged from the thicket, their breath fogging the air like spirits of the forest.
"Something isn't right," Astrid said, her keen green eyes scanning the horizon. She was a shieldmaiden first and foremost, tempered in the battle against the Skogulbjörn, yet some instincts went deeper than mere combat. The forest felt alive in a way that sent shivers down her spine.
Beside her stood Yrsa, a fierce warrior with hair like spun gold and a laugh that could shatter the silence, but now her face was grim, mirroring Astrid's unease. "The runes speak of danger. I felt the shift last night."
Eirik, the youngest among them, looked between the two women, uncertainty etched on his youthful features. "Should we return? The village needs us."
"And the beasts slumbering beneath the earth need waking," Hakon replied, his voice rough like gravel and laden with the weight of their recent trials. Ever since their victory over the Skogulbjörn, a fire had ignited within him—a burning desire to restore balance to their world, even if it meant facing the darkness head-on.
"Let's move," Astrid commanded, fingers already tightening around the grip of her bow. "If we're to seek out any threat, I'd rather do it with blades drawn than cower at the village's hearth."
The trio pressed on, the silence of the forest weighing heavily upon them, punctuated only by the crunch of frost beneath their boots. Hakon led the way, determined to break the quiet with the strength of his presence, even as their surroundings grew eerie. Whispers danced on the edge of their hearing—muffled voices that seemed to call them deeper into the haunting embrace of the woods.
They stumbled into a glade bathed in cold, silvery sunlight. At its heart stood a stone altar, overgrown with twisted vines and shrouded in frost. Old runes, long fallen from memory, pulsated with a ghostly glow, beckoning them closer.
"This must be it," Hakon breathed, stepping forward. "The place where the old gods once met."
"Or where they conspired," Yrsa countered, her voice low, caution creeping into her words.
"We could have a look," Eirik suggested, stepping forward with the courage typical of one who had just faced down their first beast. "Just a glance, and we can head back."
As they gathered around the altar, their eyes traced the unfamiliar markings, revealing a relentless story of old. The carvings whispered of an ancient creature—one that fed on despair and bound itself to the heart of the forest. Blood was spilled, and shadows danced; this was the stuff nightmares were made of. The vision of their lost comrades, their screams echoing in the dark, twisted in the back of their minds.
Suddenly, the ground trembled beneath their feet, a deep rumble echoing like a beast awakening from slumber. The trees swayed violently, their trunks creaking ominously. "Run!" Hakon bellowed, and they did—a desperate flight from the center of the malescent energy.
A sharp crack—as if the world had torn in half—resounded behind them, the visages of wrathful spirits swirling into being. They were bone-chillingly beautiful, adorned with the remnants of time, but their eyes were filled with fury and promises of vengeance.
"We need to fight!" shouted Yrsa, spinning to face the approaching shadows, her blade glinting in the dim light. "Stand your ground!"
Hakon's battle axe sliced through the air, a devastating arc aimed at the nearest spirit, only for it to dissolve into a cloud of mist. "They're phantoms! We can't fight them!"
In an instant, Astrid realized their danger. "These are creatures of illusion. They can't hurt us unless we let them!"
"Then what do we do?" Eirik barked, fear cracking his voice.
"Stay strong!" Astrid encouraged. "Focus on what is real. It's our minds they're preying upon!"
As shadows swirled and tugged at their sanity, Hakon and Astrid shouted words of grounding, reciting the names of their ancestors and the faces of those they had lost. Dark tendrils reached out, trying to ensnare their thoughts, but with every breath, they fought back against the creeping dread.
Yrsa raised her blade, shimmering in the dim light, and channeled every ounce of fury and desperation for her fallen comrades. "In the name of those who fell before us!" she cried, her voice a war cry that shattered the hold of the spirits.
With their collective strength pooling towards a singular point, they unleashed their defiance into the atmosphere, a wave of brilliance that pulsed through the glade. Light erupted, banishing the curling shadows and igniting the runes at the altar, letters shimmering and shifting until they formed a map—a gateway opening into another realm, pulsing with might and mystery.
"Together!" Hakon shouted, and they raised their weapons high. This was their moment—they would carve their own fate.
The ground beneath them cracked open, and a rift tore through the air, swirling colors blending into an unreal canvas as the forest's ancient magic surged upwards.
With a final scream of defiance, they leaped into the rift, not knowing where it would lead but trusting in their unity and their unbreakable bond.
They landed on earth soft and yielding, unlike the hardened ground of Vanaheim. A thick fog surrounded them, and the air crackled with energy—a fleeting landscape caught between existence and oblivion.
Astrid stumbled slightly as she regained her footing, her eyes adjusting to the phosphorescent glow of luminescent flora. This land felt vibrant yet unsettling, illuminated by colors unseen in their world.
"Where are we?" Eirik wondered aloud, breathless.
"A land between worlds," Hakon murmured, surveying their surroundings. "Be cautious. We have no way of knowing what lurks here."
As the fog swirled and parted, they saw figures emerging—ethereal beings that drifted seamlessly between dimensions. Each bore the familiar features of warriors long lost—resilient and radiant. Among them stood a figure clad in silver armor, hair cascading like a waterfall of stars.
"You have entered the Vale of the Valkyries," she intoned, her voice echoing like the chimes of distant bells.
Astrid stepped forward, captivated. "We seek allies. The old gods awaken, and we cannot fend off their wrath alone."
With narrowed eyes, the Valkyrie regarded them. "Few have the strength to summon me. What makes you worthy?"
"We stand as a shield against the darkness," Hakon stated firmly, his heart pounding. "We faced the Skogulbjörn and triumphed together. Our bonds forge our strength."
The Valkyrie pondered a moment, her gaze drifting to the altar and then back to the three mortals. "To wield power, you must face the eye of the storm. A new challenge awaits—a beast unlike any you have encountered."
"Then guide us to it," Yrsa urged, emboldened. "We are ready."
"Very well," the Valkyrie relented, a subtle nod of approval. "Follow me. Shadow hounds hunt nearby, and they will seek to claim your resolve."
Under her guidance, they journeyed deeper into the mist. The remnants of battles long forgotten hung in the air, while whispers of ancient legends reverberated around them as the forest seemed alive with possibility.
Eirik paused, feeling the weight of the shadows creeping closer, threatening to devour him whole. "Are we truly ready for this?" he asked uncertainly, glancing back at the flickering lights weaving through the trees.
"Fear is part of the journey," Astrid replied softly. "It teaches us to stand our ground."
Just then, a low growl rippled through the air, sending a shiver down their spines.
"Not just fear—but resolve," Hakon said, gripping his axe tightly as his pulse quickened.
The shadows congealed into darkness as a pack of shadow hounds emerged—monstrous creatures with obsidian fur glistening under the light of the realm. Their eyes burned an otherworldly red, hunger fueling their advance.
"To arms!" the Valkyrie commanded, unsheathing a blade that shimmered with ancient runes.
Without hesitation, the group formed a defensive circle, weapons raised high. Hakon stepped forward, roaring as the first hound lunged. His axe met feral mouths, cleaving through with elemental force, but the beasts simply swirled into shadow, reforming and howling.
"They are not of this world!" Astrid yelled as arrows flew from her bow effortlessly, every shot causing the creatures to stagger momentarily.
Eirik stood frozen. Yrsa grabbed him by the collar and shoved him away. "Run!" she shouted, the sound of her voice resonating with urgency.
The beast lunged for her.
She met it with a roar, shield raised, and the claw came down—and crushed her.
Astrid grabbed Hakon's arm. "We have to go!"
He did not argue. They turned and fled, snow exploding behind them as the beasts gave chase. The forest bent in their presence, branches snapping and crows screaming from above.
They broke the treeline just as a figure appeared before them—cloaked, staff in hand, silver hair tangled in the wind.
The beasts halted.
The figure turned, raised her hand, and spoke a word that cracked the air like thunder.
The beasts snarled—and vanished into the snow.
Hakon collapsed. Astrid fell beside him, panting, heart racing. Eirik stumbled in behind, eyes wide and heart pounding.
The figure turned. An old woman, her eyes pale white, runes tattooed along her cheeks and neck.
"I am Brynhild of the Wyrdwood," she said. "Seer of the north. The Skogulbjörn hunts you, Thorsson."
Hakon looked up. "Why?"
"Because you are your father's son. And your father broke the seal."
Inside her hut, hidden under roots and protected by wards, they listened to her tale of the nine seals—stones bound with god-magic to contain the great beasts of the elder age. When the gods built the nine worlds, they did not destroy all their enemies. Some, they merely buried.
She held up a small crystal raven, cracked and dim.
"This was one. Your father found it on a raid. Thought it a treasure. When he broke it, he shattered the chain that bound the Skogulbjörn."
Astrid leaned forward, voice steady. "Then we need to destroy it."
"You must," Brynhild said. "The beast will not stop. And it is only the first. If the others wake…"
She did not need to finish.
Hakon stood. "Where?"
"Helgafell. The mountain where the gods first spoke to men. There, the stone can be healed."
Hakon looked at Astrid. At Eirik. They nodded.
"Then we ride," he said.
The journey to Helgafell was not easy. The wind fought them at every step. Wolves harried their trail. Eirik fell sick from the cold, and Hakon carried him wrapped in furs. At night, Brynhild taught them ancient chants—lost words that twisted fire and stilled wind.
They climbed the mountain at dawn on the fourth day—a spire of black stone, the wind slicing like blades. At its summit stood a ring of standing stones, each taller than a man and older than any kingdom. Hakon placed the cracked amulet in the center of the stone circle.
The wind fell silent.
Then—footsteps.
The beast had come.
Scarred. Massive. Smelling of smoke and grave-earth.
"Thorsson," it growled. "Your line ends today."
Hakon stepped forward. "My line begins again."
He raised his axe, runes carved by Brynhild shimmering blue. The beast charged.
Steel and claw collided. Hakon ducked a swipe, drove his axe into its side. The beast roared. Astrid fired arrows into its spine, distracting it. Eirik, weak but fearless, ran with a torch and hurled it into the beast's face.
It howled.
Hakon seized the moment, climbed the stone, and slammed the amulet down with all his strength.
Light exploded.
The beast screamed.
It was drawn into the stone—thrashing, howling—then gone.
Only silence remained.
Later, as the sun rose, Brynhild watched the winds die. "One stone restored," she said. "Eight more remain."
Astrid looked at Hakon. "What now?"
He sheathed his axe, gazing at the stone circle. "We find the rest," he said. "And we finish what the gods could not."
The wind had stilled, but the world was far from quiet. At the summit of Helgafell, beneath the glow of the rising sun, Hakon stood over the altar where the crystal raven now shimmered, whole once more. The runes around the stone pulsed like the beat of a war drum—steady, alive.
Brynhild leaned on her staff, the wind curling her white hair. "The seal is mended," she said softly. "The Skogulbjörn has returned to its slumber beneath the roots of Yggdrasil."
Astrid sat on the edge of the stone circle, wiping blood from a shallow wound above her eye. "Let's hope it stays asleep."
Eirik was silent, crouching at the cliff's edge, watching the clouds part over the valley. The boy was pale, thin, and bruised, but there was fire in his eyes now. He had faced a godless beast and lived. He had passed the trial of the north.
Hakon exhaled, his gaze drifting to the horizon where the dark line of smoke still trailed from Kolvag—a stark reminder of what they had lost. Too many graves. Too few names left to carve into the stone.
"We go home," Hakon said finally.
"Jarnfjall?" Eirik asked, hope brightening his features.
Hakon nodded. "Our people need us. And they need the truth."
"What truth?" Astrid asked.
"That this world has cracks beneath it," he said. "And monsters wait in the dark."
They descended the mountain slowly, the cold biting at their limbs despite the sunlight. Brynhild stayed at the summit, disappearing into the swirling mists—a part of the stone and sky. She had passed her duty on. And she knew it.
When they returned to Jarnfjall three days later, the village stood quiet under the snow. Survivors gathered at the edge of the gate, wide-eyed and wary—but when they saw Hakon, bloodied and burned yet alive, a cheer rose up.
He did not give speeches. He simply held the restored amulet high for all to see.
The villagers understood.
Inside the longhouse that night, warriors listened to the tale of the Skogulbjörn. The room was lit by firelight, and every eye was fixed on Hakon's words. No man laughed. No woman wept. They simply listened. And remembered.
They buried Ragnar, Yrsa, the twins, and all those lost to the beast that night. Their names were carved into a new stone Hakon placed beside his father's.
The next morning, Astrid found Hakon outside the smithy, working silently on his axe. "You could stay here," she said.
He did not look up. "I could."
"But you won't."
"No," he replied. "Not while the other seals lie broken. Not while more beasts sleep beneath the earth."
She nodded. "Then I ride with you."
Eirik stepped from the shadows. "Me too."
Hakon raised an eyebrow. "You're just a boy."
Eirik met his gaze. "So were you once."
Hakon smiled softly, pride swelling in his chest.
By noon, three horses waited at the village's edge—saddlebags packed, blades sharpened, furs bundled tight. The people of Jarnfjall stood in silence as their warriors prepared to leave once more—not to flee, but to fight what others could not see. Some thought it foolish. Some thought it holy. But all understood.
They rode out. Hakon looked back once at the village, then to the road ahead. "Where to?" Astrid asked.
"Where the earth shakes and the dead don't sleep," he said. "West. To Ironwood. That's where the next beast stirs."
Three days into the journey west, the wind changed. The trees of the outer wilds grew thick and tangled, old roots rising like bones from the earth. They passed no villages, no hunters. Not even birds sang beneath these branches.
The Ironwood.
They made camp near a frozen stream, the stars above like silver runes cast by the hand of fate. As the fire crackled and warmth returned to their fingers, Eirik asked the question none of them wanted to voice. "Will it be over?"
Hakon stared into the flames. "Not soon."
"But one day?"
Astrid looked at the boy. "One day—if enough brave souls rise, and enough dark things are cast down—then yes. One day, the world may be safe again."
Eirik nodded, his young face hardened by the weight of truth.
Hakon smiled faintly. "That's why we ride. Not because we will finish it—but because someone has to begin."
They slept beneath the stars that night. And for once—no beast stirred.
No storm brewed. No gods whispered. Only the wind through the pines. And as dawn broke, painting the sky in gold and frost, the three of them mounted their horses once more, each loss drawing them stronger together.
Northmen? Yes. Warriors? Certainly. But something more now. Something old and new and vital. Not just slayers of beasts. But bearers of hope.
Their journey would be long. The enemies ahead would be worse than any they had faced. But the firelit halls of Jarnfjall still burned in their hearts.
And sometimes, all it took to change the world was three riders heading toward danger—with swords at their sides and purpose in their stride.
Continue in Book 3.