Chapter One – The Night the Sky Burned
The evening sky looked as if it had caught fire.
Crimson light spread across the clouds, and war drums echoed through the forest like a heartbeat of coming death.
In those woods, the Hound Clan prepared to strike.
At the edge of the muddy battlefield stood the Berserker Clan.
And at their front stood Ari.
He was a massive figure in wine-red armor, heavy as iron and stained by a hundred battles. A longsword rested in his right hand, a broad metal shield in his left. Mud clung to his boots, but he stood unmoving, staring at the burning horizon.
Beside him stood his firstborn son.
Waltteri was eighteen, broad-shouldered and strong, his chainmail fitted tightly across his chest. Leather shoulder guards framed his neck, and in his hands he held a double-headed axe that most men would struggle to lift.
But his hands trembled.
Not from weakness.
From understanding.
This was no training yard. No controlled duel.
There would be no mercy tonight.
Ari turned to him.
"This is a beautiful night for a fight, my son."
Waltteri forced a steady breath.
"I have trained you six years for this day," Ari continued. "Now it has come."
Waltteri nodded. He wanted only one thing — to make his father proud.
The drums grew louder.
Ari raised his sword high.
"Show no mercy!" he roared. "You will receive none from them!"
The Berserkers answered with a thunder of voices.
From the misty tree line, the Hound Clan burst forward, roaring like beasts.
Ari charged first.
He moved like a battering ram of steel, slamming into the enemy line. A strike came for him — he blocked it effortlessly and drove his blade through the attacker's chestplate as if it were thin cloth.
Waltteri saw it.
Strength surged through him.
He swung his axe with everything he had.
The steel crashed into a Hound warrior's skull. A sickening crack split the air. The man dropped to his knees, the axe still buried in his head.
Waltteri froze.
This was his first kill.
A cold wave rushed from his feet to his skull. For a moment he thought he might vomit.
But he saw his father glance at him — and nod.
Pride.
That was enough.
Waltteri roared and charged back into the fight.
The battle raged for hours. Mud turned red. Steel rang against steel. Screams mixed with the smell of blood and wet earth.
Fatigue crept into their limbs.
And then—
Something moved behind Waltteri.
Too silent.
Too fast.
A shadow detached itself from the chaos.
Waltteri sensed it, began to turn—
Too late.
A blade pierced through his back, punching through chainmail and flesh, bursting from his chest.
Ari saw it.
"No!"
He tore through the battlefield like a mad bear, cutting down anyone in his path. Men fell beneath his sword. Even his own warriors stepped aside in fear.
By the time he reached his son, the shadow was gone.
Vanished.
As if it had never existed.
Waltteri collapsed into the mud.
Ari dropped to his knees and caught him.
The wound was wrong.
Black veins spread outward from it, darkening the flesh. The bleeding slowed unnaturally, as if something inside the wound refused to let blood escape.
Waltteri gasped. Blood touched his lips.
"Did I… make you proud, Father?"
Ari's vision blurred.
"You honored your family," he said hoarsely. "You made me proud."
"I love you, son—"
Waltteri's hand fell.
And he was gone.
Ari's roar shook the battlefield.
He gently laid his son down and rose slowly. He picked up Waltteri's axe.
When he turned back toward the enemy, something in his eyes had changed.
"Kill them all," he said quietly. "Show no mercy."
Even his own men felt fear at the sound of his voice.
Maria arrived at that moment. She froze when she saw Waltteri lying in the mud.
She and Waltteri had trained together under Ari's watch.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Then she saw the wound.
It was turning black.
"This is not normal," she whispered.
Rage overtook her.
"Bear Squad!" she shouted. "Follow Ari! Cut down anyone in your path!"
The slaughter continued until dawn.
When the first sunlight broke through the trees, the battlefield was silent except for the moans of the dying.
Ari and Maria moved through the field, ending the suffering of wounded enemies without hesitation.
When it was over, Maria's armor was drenched in blood.
Ari, however, stared into nothing.
The shaman's words echoed in his mind.
He had been warned.
The old shaman, wearing a deer-bone helm and dark cloak, had said:
"Your son carries cursed blood. If he enters battle, he will die — and the God of Death will rise."
Ari had called him mad.
Now his son lay dead.
They gathered the fallen and reclaimed what weapons they could. The ground was slick with blood.
When everything was done, Ari lifted Waltteri's body and began the long walk home.
"I failed you," he whispered. "Parents should never bury their child."
By evening, they reached the village.
Kirsi waited outside their home with a gentle smile.
The smile died when she saw what Ari carried.
Her scream tore through the village.
"NO! MY SON! HOW?! You were there! Why didn't you protect him?!"
She struck Ari's chestplate with her fists, but he did not move.
Tears ran silently down his face.
He carried Waltteri inside and laid him on his bed.
Kirsi collapsed beside her son, clutching him.
"My son… please don't go…"
Ari stood frozen.
He had promised to bring him home safe.
A knock came at the door.
Maria stood outside, pale and shaken.
She stepped inside and saw Kirsi on the floor.
Then she turned to Ari.
"When he was killed… did you see anything strange?"
Ari was silent for several seconds.
Then he answered.
"A man stepped from the shadows. I never heard him. I never felt him."
His voice hardened.
"He killed my son… and disappeared like a ghost."
Maria's face darkened.
"That was no ordinary warrior."
Outside, the wind shifted.
And somewhere far beyond the village, something ancient stirred.