Chapter 212
Daniel opened a path many had only dreamed of exploring , the path of a new form of Glíma, what the onlookers saw that day was unlike anything they had witnessed before. To Daniel, the techniques came naturally, as though his body already understood what others spent years studying. He combined elements of old Earth martial arts , the structure of boxing, the fluidity of jujutsu, the precision of wrestling , and reshaped them into something unified and practical.
Each movement flowed seamlessly into the next. A defensive turn became an opening strike; a throw transformed into a controlled lock. Daniel's mind worked like an artist's , analyzing, adapting, and refining every gesture until the motion felt effortless. He saw not just forms, but patterns: the rhythm of balance, the exchange of weight, and the moment an opponent lost control.
Through repetition and observation, Daniel began developing his own system , one that emphasized adaptability over tradition. His version of Glíma was not bound by old rules or styles. It was alive, capable of growing with the fighter, shaped by logic, timing, and the constant search for efficiency.
To those who watched, it looked complicated and beyond what they normaly do. To Daniel, it was the beginning of a new martial arts discipline.
His Glíma was not born from theory but from a lifetime of instinct, forged through lessons that reached back to Earth , a life long gone but never forgotten. His father had been a close-combat instructor, a man who believed that precision mattered more than power. From him, Daniel learned the value of structure: how to control distance, how to predict movement through subtle shifts in weight, and how to turn an opponent's aggression into an opening. His father's teachings were direct, efficient, and grounded in survival.
His mother, by contrast, had come from a lineage of Onna-Bugeisha , warrior women descended from an old samurai clan. From her, Daniel inherited the discipline of form, the patience of repetition, and the moral code that once guided the blade. She taught him that combat was not about domination but about balance , between body and spirit, mind and motion. Her way was sharp yet graceful, rooted in respect and self-control.
Even though that life had long passed, those two worlds lived within him. The practicality of his father and the elegance of his mother shaped Daniel's instincts into something unique. When he began forming Glíma, he didn't merely combine techniques , he merged philosophies. He studied how every movement carried intention, how the smallest adjustment could decide the outcome of a fight.
He trained relentlessly when he was young, his prodigious savant syndrome made him focus too much on this, because it was in his nature to do so, analyzing every discipline he encountered research and like a living sponge he absorb everything and his body, mind and heart followed , until he reach the pinnacle of perfection. He would break down techniques to their core, stripping away what was unnecessary and reinforcing what was universal , timing, leverage, and awareness. His approach became almost scientific, yet still guided by intuition.
Over time, Glíma evolved into more than a fighting art. It became a reflection of Daniel's identity , a discipline of constant growth. To him, mastery wasn't about reaching perfection but about never stopping the process of refinement.
Those who trained under him said his movements seemed effortless, but beneath that grace lay decades of discipline and countless silent hours of practice. Daniel didn't just create a new martial art ,he carried forward the legacy of two worlds and gave it new life through his hands.
But Daniel never expected that, in his search for mastery, he would unlock a quest hint , one tied to a land where war and bloodshed were woven into daily life.
The peace that the city of Storm Skjorn Fjord enjoyed was not easily earned. It stood as a quiet testament to countless sacrifices , the blood spilled to protect their homes had become the very soil their city was built upon.
At the heart of this peace stood Ragnar Stormbreaker, the lord of the fjord. To an outsider, Ragnar appeared every bit the warlord , broad-shouldered, scarred, his presence carrying the weight of storms. Yet beneath that fierce exterior lay a man of restraint and principle.
Ragnar had no love for meaningless conflict. Unlike the other war clans that sought power and fame through endless conquest, he had learned from a young age that pride often costs more than it gives. His father, Eirik Stormbreaker had once led their small clan through a devastating raid , not as conquerors, but as defenders. When rival clans descended upon their fertile valley, driven by envy of the Stormbreaker's prosperity under the thunder-peaked mountains, Eirik fought not for glory but to protect his people.
Ragnar remembered that night clearly , the sky ablaze, the mountain echoing with steel and screams. He had watched his father stand in the doorway of their home, axe in hand, not as a warlord but as a father shielding his family. Eirik's final words to him were simple:"A warrior's duty is not to seek death, but to make sure those he loves can live another day."
Those words carved deep into Ragnar's heart. From that day on, he vowed that his strength would never be used for greed or pride. He trained to become a protector, not a conqueror. When he later inherited leadership of the clan, he transformed the once-scarred valley into a fortress of peace , the Storm Skjorn Fjord.
Under his rule, warriors still trained, weapons were still forged, but their purpose changed. They fought only when survival demanded it. Every blade drawn in his city carried meaning , not for power, but for the defense of their people. Ragnar believed that true strength lay not in the wars one won, but in the peace one could keep.
And so, in a land consumed by endless bloodshed, Ragnar and his people became an anomaly warriors who found honor not in conquest, but in restraint.
The Storm Skjorn Fjord lay cradled at the base of the Skjorn Peaks, a towering mountain range whose highest summit rose over three thousand meters into the clouds. From a middle elevation, roughly a hundred meters above the valley floor, the Stormbreaker Garrison stood like an unblinking eye, its watchful gaze sweeping across the plains below. The central plain stretched forty kilometers from east to west and twenty-five north to south, forming the living heart of Ragnar Stormbreaker's domain. At its very center loomed the Monolith of Skjorn, a vast black pillar of stone believed to predate human settlement itself ,a relic that had seen ages rise and fall. Around this ancient sentinel, Ragnar's people had built their city, carving their homes and halls from the mountain's roots and the black basalt ridges that shielded them.
Under Ragnar's leadership, and with the aid of seven allied war clans ,the once-barren plain had transformed into a thriving city-state. The fortress city of Storm Skjorn Fjord stood protected by steep ridges and natural walls of stone, its defenses reinforced by generations of discipline and craft. For years, they had maintained a fragile but enduring peace within a fifteen-kilometer radius, where trade and life flourished under Ragnar's steady hand. Yet beyond that circle of safety, the land fractured. Smaller clans clung to old ways, each claiming its own territory, each resisting Ragnar's call for unity in the name of independence, faith, or pride.
To the northwest lay the Vargheim Clan, masters of the hunt, proud descendants of nomadic wolf-trappers who roamed long before the fjord was built. They ruled four villages with nearly eighteen hundred souls and saw peace as a disease that softened men's spirits. To them, Ragnar's restraint was an insult to their ancestors; they believed true strength could only be proven through bloodshed.
Southward, buried in the ore-rich valleys of the foothills, lived the Ironroot Clan, three villages and some twenty-three hundred people hardened by labor and fire. They were miners, smiths, and heavy infantry whose pride rested in their craftsmanship. Though they respected Ragnar's authority, they mistrusted centralized rule. Their loyalty was not to kings or councils, but to the forge and the profit it brought. They sold weapons to any side that could pay, and in the chaos of war, they found stability.
Northeast, near the frozen river passes that led toward Huldmark, the Frostfang Clan carved out an existence among ice and stone. Five villages and nearly two thousand souls lived by the bow and the ambush, their survival tied to the hunt and the raid. To them, struggle was sacred; peace, a poison that dulled the bloodline.
Eastward stretched the vast territory of the Redmane Clan, six villages and some thirty-five hundred people, the largest of the lesser clans. Horse-born raiders and traders, they ruled the plains facing Ormheim Forest, swift and daring in open-field battle. Their chieftain, Bryndel Redmane, was both charismatic and cunning, a man who saw Ragnar's ideals as dangerous naivety. He profited from chaos, controlling key trade routes and growing rich on the turmoil that peace threatened to erase.
To the west, in the swampy marshlands only six kilometers from the fjord, the Skorv Clan hid in shadow. Numbering just nine hundred across two villages, they were smugglers, poison-makers, and thieves, thriving where law could not reach. To them, peace was not salvation, it was extinction. Their lives depended on secrecy and the dark edges of trade.
Ten kilometers north, clinging to the ridges and high pastures, lived the Thulmar Clan, four villages and fifteen hundred shepherds, hunters, and sentries who kept faith with the old mountain gods. Stoic and spiritual, they believed Ragnar's alliance of clans was an affront to divine order. Isolation, to them, was purity. Their silence was not hostility but conviction, born of ancient rituals whispered to the wind.
Southeast, near the trade paths that wound toward Huldmark, stood the Eldsvorn Clan. Three villages, twelve hundred people, builders, healers, and torchbearers who kept the crafts alive. Practical but fearful, they respected Ragnar yet doubted his dream. To them, peace invited weakness, and weakness invited invaders. They feared that one day, foreign banners from Huldmark or Ormheim might rise where their forges now stood.
Together, these seven clans formed an uneasy ring around Storm Skjorn Fjord, an outer belt of fragmented power stretching ten to twenty kilometers from the city walls. Each clan held between two and six villages, their populations ranging from a few hundred to several thousand. Divided, they were manageable; united, they could muster nearly twelve thousand warriors—enough to shake the balance of Ragnar's fragile peace.
Ragnar Stormbreaker understood this better than anyone. He had lived through the endless cycle of pride and vengeance that had torn the North apart for generations. He knew that to rule by fear would only sow rebellion, and to force unity would draw new blood to the soil already heavy with the dead. So instead, he chose vigilance and patience. From the Stormbreaker Garrison, perched high upon the Skjorn Peaks, his sentinels watched the horizon day and night, ready for the day when the scattered clans might finally come to understand that peace, too, could be forged stronger than war.
The city of Storm Skjorn Fjord lies cradled at the base of the Skjorn Peaks, where snowmelt rivers carve through dark volcanic stone before flowing into the fertile plains below. From the city's high garrison perched halfway up the mountain, one can see the sprawling central valley stretch for nearly forty kilometers, hemmed in by rugged foothills and distant forests. The heartland surrounding the city is mostly open grassland dotted with low shrubs and scattered pine clusters , a rare haven of calm in a land where survival depends on vigilance.
To the north, about ten kilometers away, the Thulmar Clan occupies the high ridges that catch the mountain winds. Their villages cling to rocky ledges and narrow pastures where hardy sheep and mountain goats graze among juniper and wild heather. The air here is thin and cold, and snow lingers even in summer. The Thulmar people live close to the old shrines carved into the cliffs, where they still worship the mountain spirits said to guard their ancestors.
Turning north-east, the Frostfang Clan claims the frozen riverlands, roughly twelve to fifteen kilometers from the city. This region is dense with pine, spruce, and birch, giving way to icy streams that eventually feed into the cursed forest of Ormheim, visible on the horizon. Frostfang hunters thrive here, tracking elk, boar, and snow lynx. Their settlements are half-buried in frostwood groves, designed to withstand harsh winters and sudden blizzards rolling down from the peaks.
To the east, the land flattens into wide, wind-swept plains stretching eighteen kilometers toward Ormheim Forest, a dark and tangled expanse that most dare not enter. The Redmane Clan dominates this area, their horse herds grazing among wild grass and patches of red moss that stain the soil after rain. Herds of bison and wild deer roam the eastern plains, and the Redmane riders are known to tame or hunt them for sport. Their villages are built around wooden stables and open yards , symbols of freedom and movement.
The south-eastern route leads toward Huldmark, a distant realm beyond the border hills. Between the fjord city and Huldmark lies the territory of the Eldsvorn Clan, roughly twelve kilometers from Storm Skjorn Fjord. The land here is temperate and fertile, dotted with alder trees and low farmlands irrigated by mountain streams. The air carries the scent of grain and iron , their forges and workshops producing tools for trade more often than weapons. Herd dogs, pack mules, and barn swallows are common sights here, marking their people's more peaceful habits.
To the south, about ten kilometers from the city, rise the mining valleys of the Ironroot Clan. The landscape is harsh and uneven, filled with black stone veins and mineral ridges where the sound of pickaxes echoes through the hills. The soil here is poor, but iron and copper lie just beneath the surface. Moss and hardy ferns grow between the stones, and mountain crows circle overhead, drawn to the smoke of the smelters. The Ironroot forges are a vital part of the region's economy, but their independence keeps them at odds with Ragnar's unity.
Moving south-west, across the shallow bogs about six kilometers away, lie the murky marshlands of the Skorv Clan. The land is low and wet, fed by runoffs from the melting glaciers. Thick reeds and black willows dominate the terrain, and the air hums with insects. Amphibians, eels, and marsh deer thrive here, while the Skorv use the fog and terrain to hide their movements. Their villages are built on wooden stilts above the water, illuminated by dim torchlight at night , a haunting sight from afar.
To the west, the ground rises again into broken hills that lead toward the mountain shadows. Here, roughly eight kilometers out, lies the realm of the Vargheim Clan. Their territory is a mix of rocky slopes and forested ravines where wolves roam freely and are often revered as sacred companions. The Vargheim live close to nature's edge, hunting bears and elk while keeping to ancient traditions of blood-oaths and dominance. Their forests are thick with spruce and ash, their paths winding and dangerous to outsiders.
From the garrison at the Skjorn Peaks, one can see how these lands form a natural circle around the central city , fertile plains at the heart, surrounded by harsh frontiers that mirror the temperaments of those who inhabit them. Beyond the outer ring lies the dark tree line of Ormheim Forest to the east and the misty horizon of Huldmark to the south , reminders that even in times of uneasy peace, Storm Skjorn Fjord remains an island of order in a world that still remembers war.
The peace of Storm Skjorn Fjord endured not because the land was calm, but because Ragnar's will was iron. Every day, he balanced the weight of diplomacy and force, knowing that one misstep could awaken the old rivalries simmering beyond the walls. The garrison's watchtowers burned with signal fires that never dimmed, and the city below thrived in the narrow space between prosperity and threat. Traders passed through its gates under banners of neutrality, and the clang of blacksmiths echoed in the mountain's shadow. Children grew up learning both craft and combat, for peace in the Fjord was not the absence of war—it was its restraint.
But the world beyond had begun to stir again. Scouts spoke of shifting movements among the Frostfang and Redmane clans, of whispered alliances forming in the dark valleys. The Ironroot forges burned longer into the nights, and strange traders from Huldmark had been sighted along the southeastern paths, carrying goods that reeked faintly of foreign steel.
Ragnar knew the signs. Peace, he often said, is like standing atop a frozen lake—it holds, but never forever. Beneath it, pressure waits.
It was during this fragile calm that Daniel appeared, and with him, something unseen began to change. His arrival was quiet, no banners, no heralds, only the weight of his presence and the foreign discipline in his movements. To most, he was another wanderer seeking passage through the northern peaks. But those who watched closely could feel something stirring around him, as though the mountain itself recognized him.
When Daniel trained within the courtyard beneath the Monolith of Skjorn, his movements drew attention. Warriors paused to watch, their eyes narrowing at the seamless flow of his strikes, neither wholly foreign nor familiar. And then it happened: a faint shimmer rippled across the Monolith's black surface, unseen by most but not by him. Symbols, ancient and angular, glimmered faintly before fading into stone once more.
The quest hint had revealed itself.
To Daniel, it was more than a sign, it was a call. Somehow, his path was now entangled with Ragnar's domain, its fractured clans, and the thin peace that held them together. He could feel it in the still air, in the weight of history buried beneath the basalt. Something was awakening in the land of Storm Skjorn Fjord, and whether he willed it or not, Daniel had become part of it.
As days passed, Daniel and Melgil began to unravel the true reason behind the endless wars that plagued the outer clans. It wasn't simply greed or ambition that drove them, it was faith. Each clan's blade was guided by the gods they worshiped, and those beliefs had become the chains that bound them to conflict.
The Vargheim howled to the spirits of the Hunt, believing that bloodshed pleased their ancestors. The Frostfang prayed to the Cold Father, convinced that only suffering forged worthy descendants. The Redmane chanted to deities of fortune and flame, claiming that victory brought divine favor. Even the Thulmar, high among the ridges, shunned Ragnar's alliance because they followed the old mountain gods, who demanded solitude as a form of purity. Every clan's devotion justified its violence.
But Ragnar's faith was different. His people no longer bowed to gods of conquest. Instead, they honored Thundraar, the thunder god of protection and storms, a deity who shielded, rather than destroyed. It was said that when lightning struck the Skjorn Peaks, it was not a sign of wrath, but of vigilance. Ragnar's interpretation of Thundraar's will had become the moral spine of Storm Skjorn Fjord: to stand strong, to defend what was theirs, but never to strike without reason.
Daniel found this belief fascinating. It reminded him of something familiar, echoes of his own father's words about restraint and purpose. Yet, he also saw its fragility. A faith built on protection could only endure if its people believed peace was worth defending. The outer clans, born in hardship and survival, saw peace as surrender. Changing that mindset would take more than strength; it would take understanding.
Melgil, ever attuned to the flow of emotions and Seiðr energy that wove through human hearts, could feel the tension in the air each time they visited a clan. Hatred was easy to sense—raw, heavy, and burning, but underneath it, she found something else: fear. Fear that peace would erase who they were. Fear that the gods would abandon them if they laid down their arms.
Daniel saw the same truth in their eyes. He began to realize that his initial plan, to clear his quest through dominance, to impose unity by force, would only feed the very cycle he sought to end. Each victory would only create another enemy. Each defeat, another wound in the land's history.
So he changed. Slowly, deliberately.
Every night, as they camped under the cold light of the northern stars, he shared his thoughts with Melgil. She listened, sometimes silent, sometimes smiling faintly, her emotional turbulence softening under his steady presence. Daniel never forgot to remind her that she mattered, not as his companion alone, but as his equal in this strange journey. She was the balance that kept his will from hardening into tyranny.
Through her calm and Daniel's discipline, their approach began to shift. Instead of demanding obedience, they sought understanding. Daniel spoke to chieftains not as a conqueror, but as a reformer, questioning what their gods truly demanded of them. He asked them what honor meant if it only birthed endless blood. He didn't mock their faith; he reinterpreted it, guiding them to see that even their gods could be understood in new light.
When he finally spoke with Ragnar about it, he understood the man better. Ragnar did not reject faith; he simply believed that divinity should serve life, not consume it. His beliefs were almost secular in nature, a reverence for the thunder god not as an all-commanding being, but as a symbol of balance and vigilance.
And in that realization, Daniel saw a reflection of himself. The god Ragnar worshipped was not a destroyer, and Daniel, for the first time, no longer wished to be one either.
What had begun as a quest of conquest was becoming something greater, an act of reformation. And as Melgil stood beside him, her once-chaotic aura now serene, Daniel finally began to understand what true strength was: not in dominance, but in the power to change hearts without breaking them.
The morning was quiet, eerily so, when Daniel and Melgil stepped out of their small wooden shelter. Mist clung to the edges of the settlement, wrapping the newborn structures in a pale veil. Smoke rose from a few distant campfires where new settlers huddled to warm themselves. Birds circled above the forest's edge, and somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of something vast echoed, a sound neither wind nor beast, but something older.
Melgil tilted her head, sensing the faint trace of Seiðr still lingering in the air. "The mountain hums again," she murmured, her silver hair catching the first rays of light.
Daniel nodded, his expression calm but thoughtful. "Siglorr's Leviathan, perhaps. It feels… restless."
Before Melgil could answer, a young female servant ran toward them, his breath sharp and ragged from the cold. He bowed quickly. "Lord Daniel! Lady Melgil! A message from the southern road. Travelers bring strange talk."
Daniel raised an eyebrow. "Rumors?"
this young female servant was appointed by the monor clan leader is Alva Valsmir to be their guide and attendant, Melgil took a liking to her as she was cheerful and , witty and love to share details that was happening around them, Melgil finds heer personality helpful as they both wanted a attendant that could give them information,
The clan leader, Alva Valsmir, had been hesitant at first. She had seen countless warriors and mystics in her lifetime, but none like Daniel and Melgil. Their presence alone carried a weight that unsettled even the most seasoned fighters in her clan.
Yet after witnessing their strength firsthand, Alva's hesitation turned to wary respect. She had watched Daniel dismantle seasoned warriors without anger or arrogance, only precision and control. His movements were effortless, his calmness unnerving.
Even their Jarl, Ragnar Stormbreaker, a hulking seven-foot warrior whose mere presence once silenced halls, had been humbled. In every sparring test or demonstration, Daniel's lean six-foot frame moved with such speed and calculation that Ragnar's immense strength seemed almost childlike in comparison.
It wasn't brute force that made Daniel formidable; it was mastery. Every motion was measured, every strike decisive, as if he understood the rhythm of combat at a level beyond human instinct. Alva could only conclude one thing, if Daniel ever wished it, he could overpower them all.
And yet, he never did.
That restraint, more than his strength, was what earned him the quiet trust of the Valsmir Clan.
The servant nodded nervously. "A new faith, my lord. They call it the Rise of the Netherborn. The Neth'raen Clan of the Central Lands is said to be behind it. People claim they have seen omens, black suns, burning trees, voices whispering from the mountains."
Melgil's eyes narrowed. "Netherborn…" she repeated, the word curling with a strange tone, half amusement, half warning. "It seems your story spreads faster than your foundations."
Daniel's lips curved slightly. "Then it begins."
The servant, still pale, continued: "They say the Neth'raen are led by three warlords. Karnulf, the scarred giant, seven feet tall, eyes black as the void. They say his wound never healed from the age of his first conquest. Bomier, the elder, though still strong as a bear, his chest marked with deep battle scars. And Freka, the youngest, barely twenty, but with the fire of ten warriors. A fresh scar at her throat, and blue eyes that never waver."
Melgil crossed her arms, gazing toward the mountains where the humming grew faintly louder. "And Siglorr aids them, you say? That explains the tremors near Ouroboros Plateau."
Daniel's expression hardened. "If that's true, this 'faith' may not be mere rumor. It could be a test, or a warning."
As they spoke, more families arrived along the dirt road leading to the settlement, farmers, smiths, and wanderers. Some sought work; others simply wanted to stand near the man whispered to command Seiðr without rune or prayer. A man who could stop an axe with his bare hands.
Daniel helped one of the new families settle near the riverbank, his hands steady as he lifted wooden beams with ease. Melgil watched quietly, noting how even the smallest gestures he made his patience, his silence, spread like wildfire among the settlers. Hope began to take root in their hearts, stronger than any sermon.
Yet beneath that growing light, a darker current stirred. The Neth'raen Clan had not meant to spread any doctrine; their silence was twisted into myth by frightened tongues. And with every retelling, the tale grew stranger, some said Daniel was the god reborn, others that he was the herald of the end.
Far away, near the Valsmir Clan's domain, Eira Valsmir stood atop the tiled roof of their ancestral home, a structure that mirrored the elegance of a Korean clan estate but was built in Viking fashion: wide courtyards of dark timber, roofs adorned with carved dragon heads, and long halls where banners swayed with the mountain winds.
As she recalled Daniel's last demonstration, the way his aura had split the air like a blade—something dark fluttered from the sky. A crow landed beside her, tilting its head. Its feathers shimmered faintly with embers of mana.
Eira frowned, kneeling to whisper to it. "A message?"
The crow let out a low caw, then dropped a small black feather that shimmered with faint runes. Her eyes widened as the markings pulsed.
She turned toward the distant hills where Daniel's new settlement lay, her heart beating faster.
Whatever he had begun, stories, faith, or something more, was already reshaping the Central Lands.
And somewhere beyond the mist, Ragnar's fragile political order was beginning to tremble.
The crow hopped along the edge of the Valsmir clan's storage roof, the morning mist curling like smoke around its black feathers. Eira Valsmir squinted, noticing the faint glint of metal tied to its leg.
"A letter?" she whispered, stepping carefully across the wooden beams.
The crow tilted its head, as if studying her. For a moment, she felt a strange pressure, like the air itself thickened around her. Just as her fingers brushed the edge of its wing, the crow let out a sharp cry and leapt into the air.
"Wait!"
Eira reached out, but it was too late. The bird spiraled upward, circled once over the clan roofs, then darted toward the distant horizon, the direction of Daniel's settlement.
She stood frozen for a long moment, eyes fixed on the shrinking black speck. The air around her felt charged, alive with the faint pulse of Seiðr.
"That wasn't an ordinary messenger," she murmured. "And if it's going to him…"
Without hesitation, she leapt down from the roof, landing lightly on the gravel path below. The guards at the gate called out, but she didn't slow. She had made her decision.
"I'll find out what this means myself."
By midday, far across the plains, the high halls of Ragnar's keep buzzed with tension. The great stone structure, half fortress, half temple, echoed with the murmurs of clan envoys and scouts reporting strange happenings in the Central Lands.
Ragnar sat upon his carved oak throne, his expression grim. His captains spoke in low tones, their words heavy with uncertainty.
"My lord," one said, "the rumors persist. The Netherborn Faith spreads fast. Villages along the southern trade route claim that those who refuse to accept it are burned or driven out."
Ragnar's fist clenched. "And who leads this faith?"
"They speak of the Neth'raen Clan, Karnulf, Bomier, and the young Freka. But… some say they do it in your ally's name."
A murmur rippled through the room. Ragnar's eyes darkened. "Daniel Rothchester."
Before the tension could grow further, the great doors opened. A cold breeze swept through the hall as Daniel entered, Melgil following silently behind him.
The guards stiffened, but Ragnar raised a hand. "Let him through."
Daniel stopped at the foot of the throne. His presence carried calm authority; even those who doubted him felt the weight of his composure.
"I came as soon as I heard," Daniel said. "I will speak plainly, Ragnar, I have not created any faith. Nor have I called myself a god. Whatever is spreading is not of my intent."
Ragnar leaned forward. "Then how do you explain these reports? Villages claim your name is invoked in prayer. Armies march under the sign of the Netherborn."
Daniel exhaled slowly. "The story of the Netherborn was meant to inspire thought, not devotion. It was a lesson, not a scripture. I never expected men to twist it into something holy."
Melgil stepped forward, her voice calm but edged with truth. "Faith, once sparked, cannot simply be erased. It takes root in desperation, in fear, and in hope. If you try to crush it, you'll only make martyrs of those who follow."
Ragnar's gaze flicked to her. "Then what would you have him do, witch of Seiðr? Let them build false gods in his name while they burn my lands?"
"No," Melgil replied. "He must correct it, not destroy it. If he can reach them, guide them, and shape their belief toward understanding rather than blind zeal, it can be contained. The story of the Netherborn was never false, it was simply unfinished."
Ragnar leaned back, his brow furrowed. "So you suggest control instead of eradication."
Daniel nodded. "Yes. Let me take responsibility. This began because of me, it should end under my hand. The truth of the Netherborn must be restored before it becomes a weapon.
The morning mist still lingered low over the valley when Melgil knelt upon the moss-covered soil outside their temporary home. The air was cold and still, carrying only the faint hum of distant wind chimes and the muted heartbeat of the forest. She drew in a slow breath and bit the tip of her index finger. A single drop of crimson fell, sinking into the dark earth like a spark vanishing into oil.
The ground responded.
At first it trembled faintly, then began to pulse with a subtle rhythm, as if the soil itself recognized the drop as a command. Dead leaves and small roots shivered and began to move. Pebbles, splinters of bark, and grains of sand were drawn toward the center of the forming circle. Slowly, they gathered into shape, legs bending, joints creaking, a body assembling out of earth and decay. Within moments, the mound of natural refuse had taken the form of a spider, its limbs delicate yet dense with hidden strength.
Melgil watched the creature rise, a faint smile touching her lips. Her blood served as its core, the heart that tethered it to her will. Unlike Nyx, who possessed a mind of her own and the freedom to act, this new being was bound by precise command, obedient, focused, incapable of rebellion.
She leaned closer, brushing her hand along the creature's rough carapace. "You will guard the gates of Neth'raen," she whispered softly, "and listen to those who speak in truth. The liars, the cruel, the deceivers, bind them quietly and wait for my word."
The spider's eight glassy eyes gleamed faintly in acknowledgment.
From behind, Daniel's footsteps approached, the steady, calm rhythm of someone both curious and cautious. "Melgil…" he murmured, his tone half-wonder and half-concern. He crouched beside her, his gaze fixed on the newly-formed sentinel. "Is this your answer to Siglorr's message?"
Melgil nodded, still focused on the creature. "Yes. Siglorr cannot rely on oaths or magic contracts anymore. So I will give him something better, guardians that think only of protection, not ambition. My will, forged into being."
Daniel studied the spider as it adjusted its limbs. It was alive in a strange way, its movements purposeful, guided by invisible threads of will that flowed from Melgil's blood. The creature tilted its head toward him, uncertain. For an instant, Daniel could almost feel its hesitation, as though it could sense his presence but not his intent.
"It fears me," he said quietly.
Melgil glanced up and gave a small, knowing smile. "Only because it doesn't yet understand." She reached out, letting her fingers glide over the spider's back. "Do not be afraid," she whispered to it, her voice gentle as falling snow. "He is the one I cherish, the one whose hand steadies mine."
At her words, the spider relaxed. It turned toward Daniel and lifted its two front legs in a strange but unmistakable gesture, almost as if in greeting. Daniel couldn't help but chuckle softly, extending a hand but stopping just short of touching it.
"You see?" Melgil said with quiet amusement. "Even creations made of dust and leaves can feel the warmth of intent."
Daniel's eyes softened. He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly through her silken white hair. "Every time you do something like this, it reminds me how much life you can bring into this world… even when surrounded by ruin."
She looked up at him, her expression serene yet shadowed by thought. "It's not life I give, Daniel, it's protection. For them, for us… and for what's coming."
The spider scurried to her shoulder, settling like a silent guardian as its eyes shimmered faintly with blue light, the mark of obedience. The first of the Will-Born Sentinels had been created.
Daniel straightened, his gaze following the creature as it darted up a nearby tree to watch over the settlement. "Then let's hope it's enough," he said softly. "Because if faith can spread this fast… so can fear."
Melgil stood beside him, her fingers still tinged with crimson. "It will be," she replied. "I'll make sure of it."
As the morning sun pierced the clouds and glimmered on the spider's form, it became clear that this was only the beginning. For somewhere in the distance, beyond the forests and mountain shadows, the drums of the false Netherborn still echoed. and the fragile peace of Valdyrheim trembled once more.
Melgil watched quietly as the small spider sentinel, its body woven from soil, bark, and the faint shimmer of her blood, lifted itself from her hand and scurried into the undergrowth. Within seconds, it vanished into the wild, moving with uncanny speed through roots and brambles, its eight legs almost gliding across the ground. The creature's will was simple yet absolute: to return to the Neth'raen settlement hidden deep within the dark side of the Ouroboros Plateau, and to protect it from those who carried ill intent. Unlike a mindless familiar, this sentinel could sense corruption, detecting hostility not through words or expression, but through the subtle vibration of a person's will.
As the spider vanished into the forest's shadows, the connection between creator and creation pulsed faintly in Melgil's mind, a distant echo, like a heartbeat felt through stone. She exhaled softly and looked toward Daniel. "It will find them," she said, her tone calm but resolute. "And it will know who belongs and who does not." Daniel nodded, understanding that her creation was more than a gesture, it was the first line of defense in a war that had yet to begin.
Far away, within the heart of the Neth'raen stronghold, Siglorr Bouldergrove stood atop a wide balcony carved from the mountain's black stone, gazing down upon the settlement below. He had just received Melgil's message through the spirit channel, confirmation that her sentinel was on its way. Without hesitation, he gathered the clan leaders in the central hall and gave his order: the gates would be sealed. No more refugees were to enter, not until they could discern who among the newcomers were true seekers of peace and who were infiltrators carrying the false Netherborn's fire.
"The forests groan beneath the weight of wanderers," Siglorr said, his voice echoing through the chamber. "We can no longer tell the desperate from the deceitful. Until we are certain, the gates remain closed."
Then he turned to the runic pedestal embedded in the hall's foundation—a relic from the age of the Leviathans. With a deep, resonant hum, he activated the Mist Engine, a device designed to protect the cursed forest from invasion. A series of runes ignited in blue light, and a deep vibration rippled through the roots of the plateau. Moments later, a thick, white fog began to spread across the Ormheim Forest, its veil crawling outward for miles. Hidden within that mist was a subtle dose of bewilderment dust, a rare alchemical compound known to disorient the mind and bend one's sense of direction.
Within hours, the transformation was complete. The once-clear forest paths disappeared beneath swirling haze, and the cries of countless wanderers echoed in confusion as they found themselves turned around, walking in circles. Only those pure in intent, those guided by the sentinel's unseen threads, could find the true entrance to Neth'raen.
By dusk, the flood of refugees had halted. Many who could not pass the mist's test camped along the forest's edge, near the borderlands of Huldmark, their fires flickering like scattered stars beneath the twilight sky. The cursed land had closed its gates, and for now, the Neth'raen were safe behind their living wall of fog and will.
But even as calm settled over the dark plateau, Melgil could still feel her sentinel moving through the forest's veins, hunting whispers of malice. The peace they had forged was fragile, held together by faith, secrecy, and the silent vigilance of a spider born from blood and purpose.
The will-born sentinel moved with eerie grace , a blur of shadow and soil skimming across the land. Its eight legs glided over rock and root alike, silent as mist, guided by the faint crimson glow pulsing from the bloodstone core within its body , Melgil's own essence. It darted through valleys and over streams, scaling ridges and weaving between forests with tireless momentum. Within mere hours, it crossed the southern plains and entered the borders of Ormheim, the Cursed Forest. There, the fog was already thick , a veil conjured by Siglorr's machines to protect Neth'raen from the tide of desperate refugees. Yet even the mist seemed to part briefly as the sentinel passed, as though recognizing its mistress's mark.
Not far from the settlement walls, movement stirred among the haze. Shapes , human , stumbled through the blinding fog, their torches flickering weakly in the pale gloom. Some were hunters seeking shelter, others opportunists hoping to steal or scavenge. The sentinel paused, its many eyes gleaming faintly. It could feel their intent , the malice in a few hearts, the fear in others. The creature's body stiffened, vines along its limbs coiling like drawn bows. With a twitch, it released a pulse , an invisible wave that triggered the forest itself to react. Roots slithered, branches creaked, and the ground swallowed the intruders' torches one by one. Only silence remained as the sentinel resumed its journey, slipping deeper into the cursed land to take its post as guardian of the Neth'raen gates.
Meanwhile, far north under a crimson dawn, Daniel and Melgil sat beneath the broken archways of an ancient temple overlooking the valley. A soft breeze carried the smell of ash and pine, mingling with the fading hum of Seiðr still lingering from Melgil's ritual. Daniel watched the horizon, thoughtful, his expression grave.
"The cult's influence is spreading faster than I expected," he murmured. "Every village that suffers from famine or fear seems to turn to them , and their promises."
Melgil's silver eyes flickered, calm yet burdened. "Desperation breeds belief. They call upon false gods because their hearts are empty," she said softly, tracing a rune into the dust with her finger. "But it's not just faith anymore, Daniel. It's control. They're teaching rituals that twist the spirit — not worship but enslavement."
Daniel nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling heavily between them. "Then we'll need to do more than just fight them. We have to replace what they offer , give people reason to hope again."
Melgil turned to him, her expression softening. "And you think that's possible?"
He smiled faintly. "I didn't think you'd create life from your own blood, either. Yet here we are."
Her gaze lowered, a rare warmth flickering across her face. "Then we start small," she whispered. "You with their hearts. And I," , she glanced south, where her sentinel had vanished into the mist , "with their safety."
The wind carried her words into the distance, toward the dark forests of Ormheim , where her creation now stood watch, and where the quiet war for faith and power had only just begun.