Chapter 212
To the west, beyond the broken plains of Valdyrheim, the land rose sharply into the jagged spines of the Fault-Block Mountains, where mists clung to the slopes like ghostly banners. The air there was sharp and heavy with the scent of pine and wet stone, pierced at intervals by the haunting howls of wolves that hunted through the ravines below. Here, amid the deep valleys and shadow-drowned forests, dwelled the Vargheim Clan , a people as rugged and enduring as the land that shaped them.
The Vargheim were born of cold and stone. Hunters, trappers, and warriors, they lived and died by the rhythm of the wilderness. To them, pain was not something to be feared , it was a teacher, a sacred proof of life. Struggle was worship, and survival was the only true prayer their gods ever answered. They believed that peace rotted the soul , that it dulled the blade and withered the spirit. So when Ragnar's call for unity spread across Valdyrheim, the Vargheim saw not honor but betrayal , a softening of the will, a turning away from the blood-oaths their ancestors had carved into bone and granite.
It was here, amid that proud defiance, that something darker found fertile ground.A new faith, clothed in the language of rebirth and ruin.
The Hands of Renewal emerged quietly at first , whispers among the wanderers and outcasts, then voices in the night carrying promises of deliverance. Their base took root within an ancient quarry, long abandoned and devoured by forest growth. Great stone pillars jutted upward like broken teeth, the ground between them littered with the bones of old labor and forgotten war. There, under shrouds of fog and torchlight, they built their sanctum , a labyrinth of tents and carved altars, their fabrics dyed with blood and ash.
In the heart of this forsaken place stood a colossal effigy of wood, iron, and bone , its form vaguely human, its chest a hollow cage filled with burning embers that pulsed like a living heart. The air around it reeked of herbs, smoke, and sacrifice.
Three figures ruled this new creed: Hadrun the Hollow, Mira Sennblood, and Ulfric Greyvein — the triarchs of the Hands of Renewal.
Hadrun, once a healer on the northern frontier, had turned his art of mending into one of cleansing through agony. His sermons were spoken in tones too calm for the horrors they described — of fire that purified, of pain that redeemed. Mira, a banished seer from the temple of Runeglen, followed him like a shadow, her body draped in feathers and bones. She claimed to see beyond the mortal veil and promised divine ascension to any who would bleed for her vision. Ulfric, a son of Vargheim blood, broad-shouldered and scarred by a lifetime of hunts, used his clan's reverence for strength to command loyalty through fear.
They were no prophets , no divine messengers , only cunning opportunists who knew how to speak to the desperate.
Through deceitful rites and staged miracles, they convinced Rorek Ironmaw, the chieftain of the Vargheim, that the gods of the old age had turned their backs on Ragnar's restraint. They told him that the world must bleed before it could be reborn, and that the west , with its untamed mountains, deep mines, and wild beasts , was the "womb of the new dawn."
As their words took hold, smoke began to rise above the trees , dark plumes marking new encampments of converted clansmen. The cult's rituals spread from hidden caves to open mountain shrines. Every sacrifice, every scream, was offered to the promise of a world reforged.
Meanwhile, from the southern forests near Ormheim, desperate refugees — turned away by fog and fear — began to drift westward. Families and wanderers, lost souls from shattered villages, and soldiers without banners followed old trading paths into the mountains. There, they were greeted not with spears, but with open arms and honeyed words.
The Hands of Renewal welcomed them. They spoke to the hungry and the broken, telling them that their suffering was proof of their worth. "The gods test you," they said, "because you are meant to rebuild what the weak have ruined."
Many believed.
And so, what began as a cult hidden among the ruins became something more , a growing movement, fed by misery and guided by manipulation. Their ranks swelled with refugees and former warriors, while the mountain stronghold of Magnus Ironmaw, once a symbol of defiance, became the beating heart of a new and twisted faith.
At night, the valleys echoed with chants that blended with the cries of wolves , deep, rhythmic, and feverish. Travelers who passed near the Fault-Block peaks claimed to hear the same phrase carried by the wind:
"The world shall bleed… and from its marrow, rise the pure."
Far to the west, in a quiet farming town nestled between the foothills of Vargheim's lower slopes, the rhythm of life had always been simple , harvest the grain, tend to the animals, trade what you could, and pray that the next winter would be kind. Five hundred souls lived there, hardy folk bound together by shared labor and blood ties. The children played near the hayfields, the elders watched the weather, and at dusk, smoke curled from every chimney, painting the twilight gold.
But peace, in those days, had become a rare luxury.
It began with distant cries , travelers who came through the market road, speaking of villages burned and shrines desecrated. Then one morning, the bells rang not for worship, but for warning. The Hands of Renewal had come.
They came from the tree line, a mob of zealots dressed in mismatched armor and cloth dyed in black and red, faces smeared with ash. They bore crude weapons , rusted blades, hunting spears, repurposed scythes , yet their eyes burned with unshakable devotion. Though they were not seasoned warriors, their ferocity made them dangerous. To them, death was not defeat , it was transformation.
The town's defenders , farmers, hunters, and a handful of retired soldiers, held the barricades as best they could. But when the cultists began chanting, slamming their weapons against their shields in rhythm, panic spread. Fire took hold of the thatched roofs. The cries of the wounded rose with the smoke.
In desperation, the town's elder, Eldric Thorne, took shelter in the stone chapel. He tore a page from the prayer book and wrote a hurried letter with shaking hands , a plea for help addressed to Bjorn Halvarsson, a man once born in this very town before taking up arms under Ragnar's banner.
"Bjorn, son of Halvar,Our people are dying. The Hands of Renewal have come from the west, calling fire upon our homes. They demand that we kneel to their 'new dawn.' Those who refuse are chained or slain.You once swore to defend our kin , if any honor remains in that oath, come back to us., Eldric Thorne, on behalf of the folk of Redvale."
The message was sent northward with a rider before nightfall, vanishing into the fog-choked road.
And Redvale was not alone.
Across the western frontier of Valdyrheim, dozens of towns fell under siege or submission. Villages once bound to Ragnar's law now flew the black sigil of the Hands of Renewal , a burning tree encircled by thorns. Those who converted were spared but enslaved, forced to labor in the cult's mines or build shrines to their false gods. Others were taken into the mountains, never to return.
Word spread fast, carried by refugees, merchants, and frightened survivors who had barely escaped with their lives. It was said that the cultists moved like a plague, sweeping through the valleys and foothills, guided by whispers of "purification."
Meanwhile, far to the east in the recovering lands of Valsmir, Daniel remained focused on his chosen path , not of conquest, but reform.
The newly restored town, once scarred by civil strife, had begun to change under his quiet leadership. The great gates of Valsmir were opened, and for the first time in living memory, warriors of different clans were invited to train together, not to fight each other.
Under Daniel's supervision, the first Glíma Training Hall was built , a wide structure of stone and timber, open to the wind and sky. Inside, fifty students trained each morning, their chants and strikes echoing through the valley. Daniel taught them not just the art of wrestling and close combat, but the philosophy behind it , restraint, precision, and respect for strength. To fight was to control, not to destroy.
And beside him, Melgil found her own purpose. Where once she walked as a silent shadow at Daniel's side, she now taught openly , teaching the youth reading, writing, and basic rune comprehension. For many of the Skald-born, it was their first encounter with formal education; the concept of learning beyond the blade was foreign to them. Yet under her patient guidance, they learned.
Each letter written, each name signed upon parchment, became a small act of defiance against the ignorance that once defined their world.
But even as hope bloomed within Valsmir's walls, darkness gathered in the west.
Reports of the cult's violence began to pile up , sealed letters carried by exhausted riders from the outer settlements. Names of towns like Redvale, Dranholt, and Wyrmstead appeared again and again, marked with the same message:
"They come with fire. They come with faith."
Daniel read each report in silence, his expression hardening. Melgil, ever perceptive, could see it in his eyes , that balance between mercy and duty beginning to waver. The time for observation was ending.
The world beyond Valsmir's gates was burning again, and this time, it burned in the name of his own legend.
Far to the west, in a quiet farming town nestled between the foothills of Vargheim's lower slopes, the rhythm of life had always been simple . harvest the grain, tend to the animals, trade what you could, and pray that the next winter would be kind. Five hundred souls lived there, hardy folk bound together by shared labor and blood ties. The children played near the hayfields, the elders watched the weather, and at dusk, smoke curled from every chimney, painting the twilight gold.
But peace, in those days, had become a rare luxury.
It began with distant cries , travelers who came through the market road, speaking of villages burned and shrines desecrated. Then one morning, the bells rang not for worship, but for warning. The Hands of Renewal had come.
They came from the treeline, a mob of zealots dressed in mismatched armor and cloth dyed in black and red, faces smeared with ash. They bore crude weapons , rusted blades, hunting spears, repurposed scythes , yet their eyes burned with unshakable devotion. Though they were not seasoned warriors, their ferocity made them dangerous. To them, death was not defeat , it was transformation.
The town's defenders , farmers, hunters, and a handful of retired soldiers , held the barricades as best they could. But when the cultists began chanting, slamming their weapons against their shields in rhythm, panic spread. Fire took hold of the thatched roofs. The cries of the wounded rose with the smoke.
In desperation, the town's elder, Eldric Thorne, took shelter in the stone chapel. He tore a page from the prayer book and wrote a hurried letter with shaking hands , a plea for help addressed to Bjorn Halvarsson, a man once born in this very town before taking up arms under Ragnar's banner.
"Bjorn, son of Halvar,Our people are dying. The Hands of Renewal have come from the west, calling fire upon our homes. They demand that we kneel to their 'new dawn.' Those who refuse are chained or slain.You once swore to defend our kin ; if any honor remains in that oath, come back to us. Eldric Thorne, on behalf of the folk of Redvale."
The message was sent northward with a rider before nightfall, vanishing into the fog-choked road.
And Redvale was not alone.
Across the western frontier of Valdyrheim, dozens of towns fell under siege or submission. Villages once bound to Ragnar's law now flew the black sigil of the Hands of Renewal , a burning tree encircled by thorns. Those who converted were spared but enslaved, forced to labor in the cult's mines or build shrines to their false gods. Others were taken into the mountains, never to return.
Word spread fast , carried by refugees, merchants, and frightened survivors who had barely escaped with their lives. It was said that the cultists moved like a plague, sweeping through the valleys and foothills, guided by whispers of "purification."
Meanwhile, far to the east in the recovering lands of Valsmir, Daniel remained focused on his chosen path , not of conquest, but reform.
The newly restored town, once scarred by civil strife, had begun to change under his quiet leadership. The great gates of Valsmir were opened, and for the first time in living memory, warriors of different clans were invited to train together, not to fight each other.
Under Daniel's supervision, the first Glíma Training Hall was built , a wide structure of stone and timber, open to the wind and sky. Inside, fifty students trained each morning, their chants and strikes echoing through the valley. Daniel taught them not just the art of wrestling and close combat, but the philosophy behind it , restraint, precision, and respect for strength. To fight was to control, not to destroy.
And beside him, Melgil found her own purpose. Where once she walked as a silent shadow at Daniel's side, she now taught openly . teaching the youth reading, writing, and basic rune comprehension. For many of the Skald-born, it was their first encounter with formal education; the concept of learning beyond the blade was foreign to them. Yet under her patient guidance, they learned.
Each letter written, each name signed upon parchment, became a small act of defiance against the ignorance that once defined their world.
But even as hope bloomed within Valsmir's walls, darkness gathered in the west.
Reports of the cult's violence began to pile up , sealed letters carried by exhausted riders from the outer settlements. Names of towns like Redvale, Dranholt, and Wyrmstead appeared again and again, marked with the same message:
"They come with fire. They come with faith."
Daniel read each report in silence, his expression hardening. Melgil, ever perceptive, could see it in his eyes , that balance between mercy and duty beginning to waver. The time for observation was ending.
The world beyond Valsmir's gates was burning again, and this time, it burned in the name of his own legend.
Would you like me to continue with the next scene showing Bjorn receiving Eldric's letter and deciding whether to answer the call, possibly leading to his first encounter with the cult's forces?
You said :continue with the next scene showing Bjorn receiving Eldric's letter and deciding whether to answer the call, possibly leading to his first encounter with the cult's forces? as Runa Hallveig female vice captain of the stormfangs rush out to help knowing Bjorn Halvarsson will never allow his warriors leave their main task, she was sure Bjorn Halvarsson will personally leave and face the issue alone as , many reports are now coming in as most of the criminal factions are using the new faith to disguises their wrong doings
The sun had barely lifted over the Stormfang barracks when Bjorn Halvarsson stood before the training yard, sweat glistening on his shoulders as he drove his blade into the practice post with a dull, echoing thud. His men watched in silence . they had learned to read the signs. When Bjorn trained this early, it meant bad news had arrived.
A rider stood nearby, mud still wet on his boots, his horse breathing hard from a night-long gallop. The man had brought a letter sealed with red wax, marked by a symbol Bjorn hadn't seen in years a simple wheat stalk and hammer, the emblem of his birth town: Redvale.
Bjorn took the parchment in silence, broke the seal, and read. His jaw tightened.
"Bjorn, son of Halvar… Our people are dying. The Hands of Renewal have come…"
He didn't need to read the rest to know what it meant. He could already hear the fear in Eldric's words. He had grown up beside those fields, played under the same trees that were now burning. His first sword was forged from the same iron mined beneath those hills. And now, they were calling for him , not as a soldier of Ragnar's peace, but as a son of Redvale.
Behind him, Runa Hallveig, vice-captain of the Stormfangs, entered the yard with measured steps. Her long braid swung with every stride, and her pale blue eyes held a sharp mix of frustration and understanding.
"You got the message, didn't you?" she said, glancing at the seal crushed in his fist.
Bjorn nodded, his voice low. "Redvale's burning. The Hands of Renewal are using the old roads again. They're moving faster than we thought."
Runa folded her arms, her expression grim. "You know what Ragnar ordered , we're to hold our position until Daniel sends word. The west is outside our jurisdiction unless"
"Unless it's personal," Bjorn cut in, his tone edged but calm. "And this is."
She exhaled sharply. "Bjorn, if you ride out there, half the clan will follow. And if you die, Ragnar will hold me responsible."
Bjorn turned to her then, his gaze steady. "Then don't tell him until I'm gone."
Runa frowned, stepping closer. "You think you're the only one who cares about those people? You're our commander. You can't just throw yourself into a mob of zealots with a handful of blades."
Bjorn's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile . one that didn't reach his eyes. "You forget who trained me, Runa. I've fought worse than farmers with torches."
Her hand shot out, gripping his arm. "I'm not worried about them. I'm worried about you."
For a moment, neither spoke. The wind carried the scent of rain and iron from the western horizon. Finally, Bjorn placed a hand over hers, his voice softening. "You're the only one I trust to keep the Stormfangs steady while I'm gone. If I fail, tell Ragnar everything. If I succeed… tell him nothing."
Runa's jaw clenched. "You stubborn fool."
"Always," Bjorn said, strapping his sword across his back.
By nightfall, Bjorn had already left the fortress, taking only his horse, a pack of provisions, and the old sigil of Redvale tied around his arm. He rode through the storm-swept valleys, where thunder rolled above the peaks and flashes of lightning revealed distant columns of smoke. The world was changing , again , and he could feel it in the air.
As he approached the outskirts of Redvale, the smell of ash and blood filled his lungs. The fields were scorched, homes torn apart. He saw figures moving among the ruins — silhouettes carrying torches and banners painted with the black sigil of the Hands of Renewal. They weren't soldiers; they were zealots , farmers turned executioners, thieves turned prophets.
Bjorn dismounted silently, drawing his blade. The first cultist didn't even see him before his throat met the steel. Another turned and screamed something about "the cleansing," but the cry was cut short by Bjorn's axe.
When it was done, he stood alone among the dead, rain washing the blood from the dirt. His heart was heavy, not from battle , but from what he understood now.
These weren't just madmen. They were desperate men, people abandoned by peace, clinging to a lie that promised meaning in the ruins.
Back at the Stormfang fortress, Runa Hallveig stood in the war room, pacing before the map-strewn table. Reports had begun flooding in , not just from Redvale, but from towns across the west. Everywhere, small gangs and criminal bands had taken up the Hands' banner, using the cult's name to disguise their own greed and violence.
It wasn't faith spreading through Valdyrheim. It was opportunism, festering under the mask of divinity.
Runa's thoughts drifted to Bjorn, alone in the wild, facing that chaos head-on. She clenched her fists and muttered under her breath, "You better come back, you reckless bastard. Because this isn't just one town anymore . it's a storm."
The wind howled across the ridges as Bjorn Halvarsson rode hard through the mountain paths of western Valdyrheim. His cloak snapped behind him like a banner of stormclouds. The sky was bruised with early dusk, and smoke curled faintly on the horizon , Redvale, his home.
The closer he came, the more the air reeked of ash and Seiðr gone wrong — unstable, feverish. When his boots hit the dirt of the main road, what had once been a thriving trade village now felt hollow, ghostlike. Shattered doors, scorched roofs, and splatters of dried blood marked the ground.
Bjorn's jaw clenched as he walked toward the square. A few villagers, soot-streaked and limping, were tending to the wounded under the dim light of burning braziers.
"Halvarsson!" someone gasped , Eldri, the old blacksmith who'd taught Bjorn how to temper his first blade. "You came… thank the gods."
Bjorn knelt beside him. "What happened here?"
Eldri's eyes darted toward the charred granary at the square's edge. "They came out of nowhere. Those… zealots. The ones calling themselves the Hands of Renewal. At first, they spoke of cleansing and rebirth , then suddenly turned on us like beasts."
Bjorn frowned. "Beasts?"
The blacksmith nodded weakly. "They screamed words they didn't understand. Some tore their own skin. Their eyes" he shuddered. "It was as if something inside them was twisting them apart."
A young Stormfang scout jogged up, panting. "Commander, we managed to push them out past the ridge, but… they fought like they didn't feel pain. Not soldiers , farmers, herders, even temple scribes , yet they charged as if possessed."
Bjorn's hand went to the hilt of his axe. His tone was low, steady. "Casualties?"
"Dozens wounded," the scout said grimly. "And… a dozen children missing. Taken, we think."
Bjorn's gaze hardened. "Taken where?"
"No one saw. The cult's leader , a man in white robes , kept shouting something about 'the offering returning balance.' Then they vanished into the marsh routes."
For a long moment, Bjorn said nothing. Then he stood, scanning the horizon where the faintest glow of torches still flickered in the west.
Eldri coughed weakly. "Bjorn… these aren't men anymore. Whatever's inside them , it's spreading."
Bjorn placed a hand on the old man's shoulder. "Then it ends here. I swear it."
He turned to his men. "Secure the wounded. Fortify what's left. I'm riding after them. I need to see what drives this madness."
The scout hesitated. "Alone, Commander?"
Bjorn's eyes were cold steel. "If this is what I think it is, I can't risk more men. Someone's twisting Seiðr into something unholy, and I'll find out who."
Later that night , Valsmir Keep
Rain drummed softly against the windows of the war hall. Ragnar stood over a table spread with maps and clan markers, the flickering firelight casting deep shadows across his scarred face. Daniel leaned beside him, calm but thoughtful, watching the runes carved into the wood glow faintly.
Ragnar grunted. "So it's begun."
Daniel's eyes flicked toward him. "You mean the cult's advance?"
Ragnar nodded. "Aye. The reports from the west confirm it. The Hands of Renewal are spreading like a fever. They speak of purification… but all I see is chaos."
Daniel traced a line across the western map . Redvale, then farther north into the Vargheim marshlands. "They're not expanding randomly. They're following a pattern . lines of old energy channels. Forgotten Seiðr veins."
Ragnar frowned. "You're saying this is planned?"
"Yes," Daniel said, tone quiet but certain. "Someone's directing them . using fragments of the old world's knowledge. And if they've found a way to bind Seiðr to mortal will…" He trailed off.
Melgil, seated nearby, finished his thought. "…then they're trying to reshape faith into power. Control belief . control the people."
Ragnar slammed a hand on the table. "We'll crush them, then."
Daniel shook his head. "You'll win the battle, but not the war. You can't kill faith with blades, Ragnar. It'll only return in another form, angrier, more desperate."
Ragnar growled low in his throat. "Then what do you suggest, outlander?"
Daniel's gaze met his, calm but burning with intent. "We show them something stronger to believe in. Something that doesn't twist them. We rebuild the clans . not through fear, but through reason and strength."
Ragnar eyed him for a long moment. "And you think Bjorn can hold the west long enough for that?"
Daniel turned toward the rain-smeared window. Beyond the storm, lightning flickered faintly , the same direction Bjorn had ridden. "If anyone can," he said quietly, "it's him. But he's about to face the truth of what we're really fighting . not a cult, but a sickness in the spirit of men."
The night had thickened into a heavy mist as Bjorn Halvarsson rode deeper into the marshlands of Vargheim. The air grew damp and foul, clinging to his armor with a weight that made every breath feel like he was swallowing rot. The moon, pale and swollen, hung low behind a shroud of clouds , barely enough light to guide his way through the gnarled roots and stagnant pools that stretched endlessly ahead.
The deeper he went, the more wrong everything felt. His instincts, honed through decades of battle, screamed at him , not with fear, but with disgust. It was as though the very air rejected life. His boots sank into black mud that pulsed faintly with dull, red light.
And then he saw it.
Scattered among the bog reeds were crystalline shards, half-buried in the mire , each one glowing faintly like dying embers. Bjorn crouched, his gloved hand hovering above one of them. A low hum filled the air, rhythmic, almost alive. But as he reached closer, his vision blurred and nausea clawed up his throat.
He staggered back, gripping his axe as if to steady his heartbeat. The world around him pulsed for a brief second , and he swore he heard whispers, faint and desperate, echoing through the fog.
"Renew… cleanse… rebirth…"
Bjorn spat into the mud. "Seiðr… corrupted."
He kicked one shard over, revealing its core , a small black heart-like crystal pulsing faintly. The ground around it was littered with bones , human, half-fused into the swamp as though the land itself had swallowed them.
Suddenly, rustling.
A figure stumbled out from the mist , a cultist, trembling and pale, his veins glowing with the same sickly red light. He lunged with a broken blade, eyes rolled back white, frothing from the mouth. Bjorn sidestepped and slammed his gauntlet into the man's chest, sending him sprawling into the muck. The cultist writhed, convulsing as the crystal embedded in his neck pulsed violently , before cracking apart and turning to ash.
Bjorn stood there for a long breath. "Not possessed…" he muttered. "Poisoned."
He crouched beside the corpse, prying the remaining shard free. The red glow flickered, dying slowly, but the sensation it emitted made his head pound. Whatever this was , it wasn't natural Seiðr. It was manufactured.
And someone was spreading it.
Far above, hidden in the canopy, a faint glimmer of silver eyes observed from the shadows. Nyx, Daniels fused three vassal retainers , in their restricted for watched with quiet intensity. Her body, woven from shadow and silk, moved silently through the trees as her legs touched the ground without a sound.
Her eyes blinked once, and the vision burned across her link , across the vast Seiðr web , and into Daniel's mind.
In the war hall of Valsmir Keep, Daniel froze mid-sentence. His expression darkened. The faint runes around his wrist flickered as Nyx's vision bled through , Bjorn surrounded by pulsing red crystals, the marsh alive with whispering energy.
Ragnar noticed the shift instantly. "What is it?"
Daniel's eyes sharpened. "Bjorn's found something. The cult isn't using faith. They're using… crafted Seiðr. Artificial corruption."
Ragnar frowned. "You mean it's man-made?"
Daniel nodded. "Someone's forging this filth. And if it spreads, it could consume the ley lines beneath the western plains."
He straightened, his usual calm replaced by urgency. "I need to go."
Ragnar snorted. "And how do you plan to get there? You can't use your gate — not with the interference this storm's causing."
Daniel exhaled sharply. "Then I'll ride."
He turned for the door, cloak flaring as he moved. Ragnar followed, grabbing a war horn from the wall. "You're not going alone," the warlord said firmly. "You know something I don't, and I'm not letting you face it without answers."
Outside, the storm was building. Lightning carved the sky as Daniel swung onto the back of one of Ragnar's war horses , a black, broad-shouldered stallion named Svarn. Ragnar mounted beside him, gripping his spear.
Daniel's tone was low but urgent. "If those crystals can twist Seiðr, they can twist the land too. And the west feeds half of Valdyrheim's trade routes. If it falls…"
Ragnar nodded grimly. "Then so does everything else."
Daniel gave a final glance toward the distant storm where Nyx's vision still echoed ,and whispered, "Hold on, Bjorn. We're coming."
Then the two of them spurred their horses forward, hooves tearing through mud and rain as thunder rolled behind them, chasing the lightless road toward Vargheim's cursed marshes , and the truth waiting within.
The path into the marsh's heart led Bjorn Halvarsson through the oldest scars of Vargheim's wilderness , a place locals called The Sunken Hollow. The ground here was black and soft, breathing mist through cracks that smelled of rot and iron. He could sense the pull of Seiðr in the air , not the calm, steady pulse of the land, but something twisted, diseased, and angry.
As he pressed deeper, the fog parted to reveal a half-collapsed rune temple, buried beneath the swamp. The remnants of its pillars jutted from the ground like ribs, and runic inscriptions glowed faintly beneath layers of moss and decay. A faint chanting came from below, rhythmic and cold, accompanied by the sound of metal striking bone. Bjorn's jaw tightened. He followed the voice.
Down a spiral of broken stairs, torchlight flickered across a wide, open chamber. There, among shattered idols and pools of congealed blood, twelve small bodies were arranged in a circle, their hands bound by roots. Strange symbols were carved into their skin, glowing with corrupted Seiðr.
Bjorn froze. His heart dropped into silence."By the gods…" he whispered. "Redvale's children."
At the center of the circle stood a woman draped in black and crimson veils. Her hair was pale as frost, her eyes a sharp violet that seemed to pierce through shadow itself. Around her floated a halo of small, cracked crystals filled with dark energy. Her hands moved gracefully, weaving a sigil of blood in the air.
When she spoke, her voice was both calm and hollow."I was wondering when Vargheim's stray bear would find me."
Bjorn raised his axe, fury igniting in his chest. "You'll answer for this, witch."
She smiled faintly, her lips curling as though amused by a child's outburst. "Oh, I already have. I gave them purpose. They are no longer victims , they are vessels."
Bjorn's muscles tensed. "Who are you?"
The woman bowed her head slightly, mockingly."I am Mira Sennblood… though once, the guild called me Maera Völva ."
The name hit him like a hammer. The White Devil Guild , a rumored infamous organization from the a far off land , that came into their region known for exploiting the weak temperment of many other weak mind war clans , especially them in dealing with trade. rumors had also spread they are secretly conducting slave trades but they could not confirm if it was true as they aligned with the Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane of the upper north region.
Mira continued, stepping closer, the torchlight painting her face in flickering hues of gold and shadow.
"When your realm opened, the guild sent scouts and settlers , eager to tame Valdyrheim and its riches. I merely joined their expedition. And once inside…" She tilted her head, her tone softening as though recalling something beautiful. "I cleansed most of them. Their greed became my fuel."
Bjorn's grip tightened. "You killed them."
"Not all," Mira said, almost teasingly. "One of them , that arrogant bitch Natasha ,still breathes. Barely. I left her as a message for her brother, so he would know the price of betraying the old ways. He wanted peace." Her tone twisted into mockery. "Peace is stagnation. And stagnation… is death."
Before Bjorn could move, Mira's eyes flared crimson, and the ground beneath the children's bodies erupted. Black smoke poured upward as their small corpses convulsed , the runes carved into them igniting like fire. The air filled with a shrill, unnatural wail.
Then they rose.
Twelve Draugr, each towering nearly ten feet, their bodies a grotesque mix of decayed flesh, stone, and metal. Their eyes burned with red Seiðr, and their mouths leaked a dark mist that hissed when it touched the air. Each movement was stiff but powerful , every step shaking the ground as if the swamp itself feared them.
Bjorn raised his axe, heart pounding."You turned them into this?"
Mira's voice was calm, almost reverent. "A small price for rebirth. With every sacrifice, the old gods awaken. And soon, Valdyrheim will kneel beneath the banner of renewal."
Bjorn roared, swinging his axe toward the nearest Draugr. The blade bit deep, sending chunks of corrupted flesh and bone flying , but the creature barely staggered. Its eyes flared brighter, and it struck back with a force that cracked the stone floor. Bjorn dodged, rolling across the slick ground, only to meet another blow from the side.
He fought with precision, fury and grief fusing into every swing, every block. But there were twelve of them , relentless, mindless, driven by Mira's will.
From behind the altar, Mira raised her arms. The crystals circling her pulsed faster. "Fight all you wish, Bjorn Halvarsson. You're only delaying the inevitable."
Bjorn spat blood into the mud. "You talk too much, witch."
Before she could respond, a sudden tremor rattled the chamber , a vibration so sharp it broke several hanging crystals above. Mira paused, her head snapping toward the entrance.
From the dark tunnel above came the echo of hoofbeats. The unmistakable sound of steel and storm.
Bjorn grinned, blood running down his cheek. "Seems your reckoning just arrived."
Outside, Daniel and Ragnar thundered through the flooded pass, Svarn's hooves splashing through black water as lightning split the night sky. The air burned with foul Seiðr, stinging their eyes.
Ragnar shouted over the wind, "Whatever's down there, it reeks of death and blasphemy!"
Daniel's eyes glowed faintly, his expression unreadable. "That's because it is. Something's been unearthed that should've stayed buried."
As they dismounted before the temple's entrance, Daniel placed his hand on the cracked runestone, feeling the pulse of dark Seiðr within. "Mira Sennblood…" he whispered, recognizing the signature. "I thought she vanished years ago."
Ragnar unslung his spear, his tone dark. "Then tonight, we make sure she stays gone."
Together, they descended into the depths , toward Bjorn, the witch, and the twelve abominations waiting below.
Mira Sennblood's life had begun in the gutters of the lower realms , a place where the sun barely reached and cruelty was as common as air. Her parents were laborers in name only, slaves to drink and bitterness. Her mother's words were knives, her father's hands heavier still. Night after night, the walls shook with shouts, then silence, then the sound of her own heartbeat trembling beneath the bed.
By twelve, she had already learned that pain was the only thing that ever listened.
When her mother sold her to the streets, she did not cry. When men came and went, she memorized their voices, their weaknesses , every cruel pleasure, every lie they whispered when they thought no one would remember. She survived by turning every scar into a weapon.
Years passed, and she became known in the back alleys of Ironreach as the whispering girl, a courtesan who never forgot a secret. That was how she fell into the hands of the Crimson Ledger, a criminal syndicate with roots that ran deep , and its shadow stretched all the way to the old White Devil Guild.
At first, Mira served as an informant , bait for their enemies, a voice to draw out truth from the arrogant and powerful. But she was clever, dangerous, and far too observant for the men who thought they owned her. When the guild splintered under Alexsei Sokolov's reforms , when he tried to turn their empire of blood into a legitimate enterprise , Mira was one of those left behind.
In the chaos that followed, she was sold again , this time to an alchemist named Kareth, a mad scholar obsessed with the fusion of life and Seiðr. It was in his laboratory that Mira first tasted true horror. Kareth carved runes into her skin, drained her blood drop by drop, fed her concoctions brewed from death itself. For months she hovered on the edge of oblivion , until the day she broke her chains, slit his throat, and saw his experiments for what they were: a door.
The corrupted Seiðr he had tried to bind into her flesh had instead awakened something else , a power that drank blood, transformed pain into summoning energy. It whispered to her, showed her how to shape life out of suffering.
"You are the vessel of renewal," it said. "Through blood, the world is reborn."
From that day forward, Mira Sennblood was no longer the broken girl of Ironreach , she was a Völva of Blood, a self-proclaimed prophetess of the crimson truth. She hunted down remnants of the White Devil Guild who had profited from misery, twisting their corpses into the first of her abominations. When she learned of Valdyrheim , the untouched world of old magic , she bribed her way into the guild's first expedition. And the moment she crossed into the realm, she betrayed them.
Now, beneath the marshes of Vargheim, she stood at the height of her creation. The twelve Draugr, carved from the innocent, pulsed with her stolen Seiðr. Her voice trembled with both triumph and madness as she whispered, "Soon, the blood tide will cleanse all of this land… and I will be its godmother."
A distant thunder rolled. Mira's head snapped upward. The sound was not natural ,it carried weight, purpose, and will.
The ground shook. Dust rained from the ceiling. The Draugr turned their heads toward the entrance, their red eyes flickering uneasily.
From the darkness above, a sharp flash of blue-white light ripped through the corridor , Seiðr pure and untainted.
Daniel and Ragnar descended into the temple like a storm breaking over stone. Ragnar's spear flared with lightning as he charged down the final steps, the runes on his armor igniting in arcs of gold. Daniel followed, his calm almost unnerving against the chaos. The corrupted Seiðr recoiled from him , his presence radiating a stabilizing force that stilled the madness in the air.
Mira hissed, lifting her hand as tendrils of blood energy whipped toward them. Ragnar met the strike with his spear, the impact bursting into a wave of blinding sparks.
Daniel raised his right hand, fingers tracing the air. "Bind and divide," he murmured. The ground split into precise geometric lines, and a pulse of white Seiðr surged outward. The nearest Draugr froze, their bodies seizing as their corrupted energy unraveled.
Mira's eyes widened. "That Seiðr… impossible. You control it without chant, without anchor!"
Daniel stepped forward through the rising mist, his gaze steady. "You twist life and call it faith. That's not power, Mira ,that's sickness."
Ragnar's spear struck the ground, lightning arcing around them as the Draugr closed in."Then let's cure it," Ragnar growled.
Daniel's eyes flared, his voice calm as his aura expanded , pure, controlled, unyielding. "Stay close. I'll cleanse the Seiðr. You break their chains."
The chamber erupted in battle , light and thunder clashing against the stench of blood and shadow.
The roar of the twelve Draugr shook the ancient marsh temple, their grotesque, ten-foot forms rising from the blood-stained floor like shadows given flesh. Their skin was cracked and oozing with black sludge that steamed when it touched the air. Their eyes burned red with unholy Seiðr , a corrupted echo of life twisted by blood and grief. Each step they took left behind pools of venomous mist, and the runes carved into their bodies pulsed in rhythm with Mira Sennblood's trembling hands.
Bjorn Halvarsson held his ground, his axe gleaming despite the foul stench choking the air. "Twelve of them," he muttered, his voice a mixture of dread and fury. "Twelve… for the children." His knuckles whitened as the memories of his village's slaughter flashed before his eyes.
Then — the sound of galloping hooves cut through the marsh's gloom. Daniel and Ragnar burst through the fog, Ragnar still gripping the reins of the warhorse they had borrowed from his own stable. Daniel leapt down before the horse had even stopped, landing lightly, his calm presence immediately shifting the battlefield's tension.
Ragnar stared in horror at the towering Draugr. "By the gods… those aren't men anymore."
"No," Daniel replied quietly, eyes narrowing as he studied the runic patterns burning on the Draugr's flesh. "They're constructs , animated through stolen souls and corrupted Seiðr." He extended his hand, feeling the vibration of the energy in the air. "And whoever made them… knows exactly what they're doing."
At the far end of the ruined hall, Mira Sennblood smirked. Her dagger gleamed, etched with fiery runes that flared to life as she whispered an incantation. Flames erupted from her arm as she hurled the dagger toward Daniel ,only for Ragnar to intercept it, raising his great shield and deflecting the blast.
"She uses runic triggers!" Daniel called out, analyzing the blast pattern. "Fire-type energy compressed with mana seals , rare for blood-type casters."
Bjorn gritted his teeth. "You're saying she's mixing Seiðr and rune magic?"
"Exactly," Daniel replied, his tone almost… curious. "I want to see how far that fusion can go."
Before Ragnar could question him, Daniel clasped his palms together , and the Seiðr within him began to hum. The air rippled. He extended one hand toward the nearest Draugr, focusing his will. A faint glow formed , not pure Seiðr this time, but a hybrid mark of his own creation. To Ragnar's shock, a fiery sigil erupted before Daniel, spinning like molten script before unleashing a burst of controlled flame.
The Draugr howled as fire licked across its corrupted form, burning away the black ooze. Ragnar blinked, stunned. "Daniel , that was rune magic!"
Daniel smiled faintly, never breaking focus. "No… that was Seiðr learning from rune magic." His tone carried a strange satisfaction. "It seems their system isn't so different after all."
Bjorn took the opportunity to charge in, cleaving a Draugr's arm with a roar. Ragnar followed up with a crushing hammer strike that shattered another's spine. Together, they fought with fierce synchronization , brute strength, divine will, and calculated precision. Daniel guided their movements, reading the Draugr's patterns like lines of corrupted code unraveling before his eyes.
Meanwhile, Mira's smirk faltered. The ritual around her was collapsing , the energy once feeding her army now redirected by Daniel's interference. Cracks spread through the rune circles etched into the floor, the blood she had sacrificed boiling into steam. Panic clawed at her as she stumbled backward, clutching her bleeding arm.
"No… it can't end like this," she hissed. "I was promised,"
But her words were drowned by the temple's deep groan as the structure began to collapse. With a desperate glare, Mira turned and fled deeper into the ruins, her cloak vanishing into the choking mist as her summoned creatures fell one by one.
Daniel watched her disappear, his expression unreadable. The fire from his Seiðr still flickered faintly on his fingertips.
"Let her run," Ragnar said, breathing heavily, lowering his hammer. "We'll hunt her later."
Daniel's eyes, however, remained fixed on the fading trail of her corrupted aura. "No," he murmured. "She's not just a witch. She's a player , and her existence here means something far bigger is moving behind the veil."
He turned toward the other two, his voice calm yet resolute."This was no random cult," Daniel said, his tone carrying the quiet weight of understanding. "This was a message , and I intend to answer it."
Outside, thunder rolled across the marshlands , as if the world itself recognized that the balance of Seiðr and magic had just shifted.
The ruins trembled with the fury of a dying beast. Shards of ancient stone fell like rain, and the low hum of broken runes pulsed through the air , the once-sacred temple now unraveling into chaos. The heavy scent of burned blood and corrupted Seiðr filled the cavern as Ragnar and Daniel pressed forward through the collapsing corridor, following the faint trail of Mira Sennblood's energy signature.
The deeper they went, the stronger the vibrations grew , like a heartbeat buried beneath the earth. The flickering torches along the old walls ignited and died again, struggling to stay alive in the choking darkness.
"She's heading toward the lower sanctum," Daniel said, his voice echoing through the crumbling passage. His eyes glowed faintly blue, scanning the fractured runic patterns that still shimmered across the walls. "There's something down there , something she was trying to reach."
Ragnar's boots pounded the stone behind him. "Then we end it before she gets the chance."
As they burst into the final chamber, the sight before them froze Ragnar for a heartbeat. The cavern opened wide, the ceiling lost in darkness, its center dominated by a colossal rune circle drawn in blood. Mira stood within it, trembling, her body partially burned by backlash. The once-graceful witch now looked more like a specter , her clothes torn, her skin blackened by her own magic.
"You" she spat, glaring through strands of blood-soaked hair. "You don't understand what I've seen! This world is a lie! The gods left their errors behind , I'm only finishing their work!"
Daniel's expression hardened, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. "You call slaughtering children correction?"
Mira screamed, her voice breaking as she activated her final rune , a crimson sigil that burst beneath her feet, sending a surge of corrupted Seiðr tearing through the air like a living storm. The ground cracked, runes flaring to life along the chamber's edges.
Ragnar slammed his hammer into the ground, creating a barrier of blue Seiðr light to shield them. "We can't let her finish!"
Daniel moved first , faster than lightning, his steps leaving trails of light. He surged through the chaos, cutting through the tendrils of dark Seiðr lashing at him. Mira's dagger met his blade, sparks flaring as the two forces collided , pure Seiðr against corrupted rune.
For an instant, time seemed to bend. Then — Daniel's blade sliced clean through her forearm.
Mira shrieked, the severed limb falling onto the glowing sigil. Blood splattered the runes, breaking their pattern , the ritual destabilized. Ragnar followed through, leaping across the collapsing platform and driving the blunt head of his hammer into her face. The impact shattered the rune-etched mask she wore , and when she lifted her head, one eye was gone, blood streaming down her cheek.
The chamber began to implode. The runes, now broken, turned against their master, the energy collapsing inward like a dying star.
"Daniel!" Ragnar shouted.
"I know!" Daniel grabbed Ragnar's arm and pulled him back, activating a barrier of Seiðr energy around them both as the entire floor gave way. Mira's scream echoed ,half rage, half despair , before being swallowed by the explosion of crimson light.
When the dust settled, the ruins were gone , replaced by a crater of molten stone and silence. The moonlight from above cut through the smoke, revealing the two men standing amid the wreckage, breathing heavily.
Ragnar's armor was scorched, and Daniel's coat was torn, but both still stood tall. Ragnar turned to him, his voice rough. "Did we get her?"
Daniel looked down at the charred remains of the blood runes. The air shimmered faintly, as if whispering an unfinished curse."She's alive," he said quietly. "Barely. But alive."
Ragnar spat. "Then she'll come back."
Daniel nodded once, eyes fixed on the horizon where the marsh met the night sky. "She will. But next time, she won't be the only one ready."
Lightning flashed in the distance, reflecting in Daniel's calm, determined gaze , the sign of a storm far from over.
He turned away from the ruins as the wind carried the faint echo of Mira's fading laughter through the marsh. "This… was only the beginning."