In a land where every breath had frozen under the cry of eternal winter, lay the kingdom of Thule.
Here, where snow rules and ice judges, survival is granted only to those who have learned how to endure.
Harsh winds have carved the rocks for thousands of years, carrying in their whistle the whispers of generations that defied the Frozen Pole.
The beating of drums blends with the wind, a slow and heavy rhythm, as if warning of something approaching, pounding on the very chest of the earth.
A gray sky groans under the weight of clouds, from which frost like needles seeps, piercing bones before flesh.
Black crows swirl in the gusts, watching from above, silent guardians of secrets whispered only to the higher spirits.
At the heart of this white storm stretches the Sacred Ground.
A wide circle surrounded by colossal runic stones, differing in size and shape, their engravings twisting, sunk into the rock like ancient wounds.
Its surface glows with a faint blue flame, pulsing from beneath the earth, as if it breathes slowly.
Before it stand the children.
They do not move.
They do not step forward.
They do not retreat.
Pale faces, frozen breaths rising and fading, eyes following each snowflake as if messages yet to be decoded.
One presses his hands tightly together, trying to suppress a shiver he cannot control.
Another stares at the runic stones with wide eyes, as if the unknown stares back.
A third stands firm, shoulders squared, gaze steady, as though the storm concerns him not at all.
Among them stands a frail child.
The wind pushes him, yet he does not fall.
His hair is black as the weight of night, and his eyes dark as a starless void.
His features are still, expressionless, as if they do not belong to his age.
No visible fear, no tension—only a heavy silence wrapping around him, deeper than the commotion of the place.
The runic stones glow brighter.
The blue light flows over the faces, casting fractured shadows, leaving behind a nameless sensation.
The engravings do not move clearly, yet they suggest they are listening.
Then, the crowd surrounding the Sacred Ground begins to cheer the king's name as he appears, their voices rising above the storm:
"King Harald… King Harald… King Harald!"
King Harald the Great, not merely a king, but the embodiment of Thule's will itself.
His white cloak melts into the wind, and his blue eyes, like the deepest ice caves, carry the wisdom of the earth and the power of the higher spirits.
Beside him stands Queen Helga, her hair and eyes golden-yellow, her smile subtle and calm, hiding what cannot be spoken.
At their feet stands their eldest son, Erik, resembling his father in height and strong build, his blue eyes fixed as he watches the children, as if expecting something with his gaze.
The High Priest steps into the center of the circle.
His robe flutters, and his runic staff rests upon the stone, not striking it, merely touching it.
Silence falls.
Even the wind seems to hold its breath.
His voice flows slowly, deeply, as if coming from the very heart of the earth:
"The ground does not answer the hasty…
Nor does it grant its secrets to those who demand them loudly."
His eyes sweep across the children without stopping on any one of them.
"What will happen today is not a test of strength,
Nor a race of courage…
But a moment when what time has tried to conceal is revealed."
Some of the engravings move slightly, barely visible.
The priest pauses for a moment, then adds in a lower tone:
"To those for whom the path is destined…
The ground will know them before they know themselves."
Silence returns.
Heavy.
Suspended.
As if the Sacred Ground itself
is waiting.