Eidr trudged along the weathered stone wall of Hrafnikastali, boots scuffing against the ancient mortar with each heavy step. The cold air bit his exposed face, the wind carrying the scent of pine and distant wood smoke. Far below, the valley spread out like a vast tapestry, the lights of Kjarralund twinkling like fallen stars at the base of the mountain. The town’s warm glow seemed impossibly distant from where he stood, wrapped in the lingering chill of the high fortress.
The sight should have been comforting, but it only deepened the ache in his chest. It had been a long time since he last stood here, back when Hrafnikastali had still held hope for a future, a home for the soldiers of the Saenger House.
Back then, he hadn’t come alone. Kotkell and Hallbjorn had walked these walls with him, their hearts filled with plans and pride. The memory of Hallbjorn flashed in his mind—his towering frame, his booming laughter. He had been a giant among men, an Avalanche on the battlefield, unstoppable. And then, the grotesque image—Hallbjorn’s body, torn apart, his chest a bloodied ruin where his heart had once been. He remembered the night he’d fled into the woods, lost in grief. Alone, he had crouched in the dark, offering up the life of a fox, its blood soaking the earth, begging Aufvaldr to take the sacrifice and honor Hallbjorn, even if his friend’s faith had lain elsewhere—with the White Lion. But there had been no answer. Only silence and the cold.
Back then, the fortress had been alive with the sounds of construction—Kotkell and Hallbjorn leading the effort to build a training yard for the Saenger soldiers who were to call Hrafnikastali home. Eidr had never seen a place so grand. Even the hallowed halls of the Runespeakers in Runeheim paled in comparison to the newly restored walls of this fortress. There had been so much hope then. So much purpose. But that hope had been short-lived.
The Saenger Lords had left after only a few months. Soon after, the Doghearts came. Raiding, pillaging, tearing apart what had been so briefly restored. The Saenger soldiers who had been left behind had been scattered and defeated, only rescued when the city retaliated. He saw some of them now and again, their former livery mixed with the colors of other houses, their allegiance a distant memory, their glory forgotten.
Eidr’s heart sank as he recalled the meetings held in dimly lit chambers, the faces of the town’s leaders shadowed by their own fears and ambitions. He had stood before them, passion in his voice, imploring them to see the strategic importance of re-garrisoning Hrafnikastali. “It is vital,” he had argued, “for the defense of our supply routes and the protection of our eastern borders. This fortress stands as a bulwark against invasion, a first line of defense against the Doghearts and any others who would threaten us.” But they had been unmoved, their minds set on developing Dragomir Fort and expanding the farms at Unverbrannter, placing all their eggs in one fragile basket. A strategy that had backfired when the Fafnir’s came roaring into the city, driving them from their homes. Eidr touched his neck, feeling the weight of the stone and wood necklaces that now replaced the official chains of office he had once worn as Master of Coin.
As Eidr stood on the cold stone wall, a sense of unreality washed over him, as if he were a ghost haunting the remnants of his own past. Behind him, in the grand hall of Hrafnikastali, laughter and music spilled forth like a mockery of the fortress’s former glory. The lavish party, hosted by the new owners—the Renett family—was a jarring contrast to the memories that clung to the stone walls. Eidr had been informed that the lord of the Renett family was a slaver, his actions recognized and condemned by many, a cruel hypocrisy that the south had brought with them as they claimed to damn the very institution. It stung like a wound reopened, a reminder that what once had been a place of brotherhood and valor was now filled with unfamiliar faces and foreign banners. He had once shared the hall with brothers-in-arms, at least in service, but now he felt like an intruder, an outsider peering into a world that had moved on without him. The warmth of celebration contrasted sharply with the chill of the night air, a bitter reminder of all that had been lost.
Inside the hall, amidst the revelry, Eidr had encountered a woman whose presence felt like a spell woven from the finest threads of destiny. She was an Indr’atma, a “woman among women” from the far-off land of Sha’ra, her attire shimmering with intricate designs and colors that seemed to dance in the light. The very concept of her role was foreign to the Njordic frontier, yet her confidence held a kind of power he found captivating. She had peered into his soul, her magic revealing glimpses of his future, while he had reciprocated with a humble offering—throwing runes for her nephew as recompense. The fortune she had offered echoed in his mind, resonating with the life-casting he had undergone upon reaching adulthood, where he had clutched his heart, a stark reminder that change was not merely an option but a necessity.
As he stood there, the echoes of her fortune mingled with the laughter behind him, the stakes of his own journey pressing upon him like the weight of the fortress walls. He had become a man caught between what was and what could be, desperately seeking clarity in a world that had turned so foreign, yet resonant with the deep-seated knowledge that transformation was not just possible, but essential.
Staring out at the twinkling lights of Kjarralund below, Eidr’s thoughts turned to Rosto, his friend whose life had been shattered by a foreign knight’s brutal blow—a curse born from dangerous magical residue, the same as crusted a huge crater just north of Hrafnikastali. That cursed energy hung in the air like a specter, too close for comfort, a constant reminder of the peril that surrounded them. The very land they inhabited felt stained by that malevolent magic, a constant, gnawing reminder of the perils lurking at their borders, dangers that threatened to swallow them whole. But it was not just the land that bore scars; Rosto had been reborn from the ashes of his own death, brought back to life by Sveas, the Cold of Winter. Eidr could still feel the chilling weight of his friend’s skin under his fingertips as he frantically searched for a pulse, praying for a sign of life in the lifeless body before him, yet jealous at the same time. Perhaps his prayers had been answered.
Where had Rosto gone now? The people of this land were trapped beneath the heavy yoke of gods who turned their backs on them, invaders who pillaged their homes, and the tyranny of the strong who enforced their will upon the weak. Eidr felt the weight of this truth pressing against him, igniting a fire within him. He realized he could no longer remain a passive observer, watching the world he once cherished crumble under the burdens of fate and fear.
He had to change. Action was imperative; inertia was no longer an option. The pace of events needed to quicken, or else nothing would ever shift. A sense of urgency coursed through him like a pulse, igniting the embers of determination within his heart.
