Chapter 216
The sky above Valdyrheim trembled with uneasy light. Storm clouds gathered over the plains like bruises spreading across the heavens, their edges flickering with streaks of mana lightning, the aftershock of Daniel and Melgil's experiment reaching into the real world. What began as a tabletop simulation had evolved into a living, breathing phenomenon. Runes pulsed faintly in the air around them, invisible threads of Harmony extending outward, weaving into the world's leylines. Every gust of wind, every shift of emotion across the plains, resonated through that network like the plucking of a string.
Daniel stood at the heart of their chamber, his hands hovering over the rune matrix as the simulation turned real. The Rune Harmony reacted to human will, to panic, rage, and despair , feeding on the emotional turbulence spreading across the continent. What should have been an elegant fusion of order and energy was now rippling chaotically, bending to the storm of fear that gripped the clans.
Melgil steadied the connection, her voice calm amid the trembling air. "It's not the runes losing balance, it's the world itself. The people's belief is shaping the resonance. Their fear is rewriting the pattern."
Before Daniel could reply, the rune disk flashed with crimson light, a signal from the western frontier. He turned sharply toward the projection that shimmered above the table. It showed the marshlands west of the Skjorn Peaks, and the unmistakable surge of dark Seiðr rising from its heart.
There, amidst the fog and stagnant pools, Mira Sennblood walked again, but no longer as the girl who had been betrayed, hunted, and supposedly killed by the White Devil Guild's assassins. Her body was stitched together in grotesque seams, pale flesh straining across jagged sutures. Limbs from unknown sources were bound to her shoulders, elbows, and knees, each movement accompanied by faint, sickly creaks. Her eyes burned with hollow embers beneath a pallid, scarred face, and a tangle of matted hair hung over her shoulders like dark smoke. The air itself recoiled from her presence.
Where she stepped, the mud boiled and hissed, as though the land itself sensed the unnatural life coursing through her veins. Whispers of old words tumbled from her lips, half-understood incantations fused with raw rage, the echoes of her death and betrayal feeding the power that now defined her. She was no longer merely a player from Earth; she was an undead Völva, a walking conduit of vengeance and forbidden Seiðr.
From beneath the marsh water, pale hands clawed upward, Draugr, the drowned warriors of forgotten battles, their armor corroded and their eyes burning with blue ghostfire. The marshland itself responded, a living curse born from Mira's stitched body and unhealed grief. She smiled bitterly through the cracks in her stitched lips, whispering to the corpses she had raised.
"Now you'll see me. All of you. You'll remember what you made."
The ripple of her power did not go unnoticed. Across Valdyrheim, every awakened player, every skald-born warrior, and every priest of the old gods felt it, a cold pulse like the beating of a heart buried deep beneath the world. Confusion spread first, then terror. Some fell to their knees, believing the ancient gods had awoken. Others saw opportunity in the chaos.
The White Devil faction, ever calculating, gathered swiftly under their elders' command. They recognized the signs for what they were, the beginning of the second-floor main scenario quest. Their elders' eyes gleamed with ruthless ambition. While others panicked, they prepared to seize advantage, calling their champions to arms.
In contrast, the guild of Alexsei Sokolov and her sister stood divided. They denounced the White Devil's manipulations, yet even their words could not stop the tide. The elders had already planted their schemes too deep, spreading misinformation among the clans. Old grudges flared like wildfire.
In the east, the War Clans broke their peace first. Entire banners were raised overnight, and the clang of steel echoed from valley to valley. The chieftains declared that the voices from the sky were divine commands, omens from the gods demanding war. Blood spilled before dawn, as brother turned against brother, each believing himself chosen.
Fear became a religion.
The cult remnants, those who once worshiped the forgotten gods, fanned the flames with forged visions and false prophecies. Panic took root faster than reason could grow. In the south, the Hands of Renewal, long thought dissolved, revealed themselves once more. Their leaders, Hadrun the Hollow and Ulfric Greyvein, emerged from shadow like a fever returning after years of dormancy.
They had once been victims, outcasts from the first floor, beaten, starved, and humiliated by nobles who treated the Tower like their personal empire. Broken by cruelty and injustice, they had turned to madness, their pain curdled into a hunger for destruction. When they witnessed what the Netherborn had done, slaughtering worlds to spread the doctrine of chaos, they took it as gospel. They believed that peace was a lie, that the world deserved to burn.
Now, as the clans tore at each other's throats, they whispered to Mira and fed her hate. Together, they sought to turn Valdyrheim into the proving ground for their creed.
To the far north, Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane, who called himself the son of Fenrir, took the chaos as a sign of divine ascension. "Let the weak tremble," he roared to his warlords. "This is the age of gods reborn, and I shall be first among them!" His armies, painted with wolf-blood runes, marched upon the borderlands, setting entire villages aflame in the name of his supposed father.
And yet, amid this encroaching madness, one bastion still stood, the city of Storm Skjorn Fjord, the heart of the central plains. Its ruler, Jarl Ragnar Stormbreaker, held his realm together not through deceit or dogma but through unyielding strength and honor. Here, disputes were settled in the Arena of Oaths, where the guilty and the proud alike fought to the death rather than dragging others into their quarrels. It was brutal, but it worked. Storm Skjorn was the only place left untouched by civil war, for now.
From their high vantage point above the city, Daniel and Melgil watched the chaos unfold across the projection table. The Rune Harmony trembled with the overload of conflicting emotions and violent intent pouring through it. The world's balance itself was starting to crack.
And far to the west, in the depths of the Marsh Land, the slumbering enemy stirred. The Draugr's awakening had disrupted something older, something that had been dreaming beneath the mud since the age before men. Its heartbeat pulsed through the ley lines, faint but growing stronger.
Melgil's gaze hardened. "Whatever Mira has done… she's broken the seal. The Marsh remembers its curse."
Daniel's hand hovered over the rune disk, the air around him shivering with power. "Then the second-floor war has begun."
Outside, thunder rolled, not from the storm, but from the footsteps of armies beginning to march.
Two days passed since the announcement echoed through the world. two days since the first blood was spilled beneath the banners of forgotten gods. What began as scattered skirmishes had now grown into something far darker.
From the mist-laden valleys of the east, smoke rose in crooked pillars that blotted the dawn. Villages burned in silence. Crows and ravens, hundreds of them, tore across the skies carrying desperate pleas tied to their legs, wax-sealed letters marked with the sigils of fallen Jarls and desperate clans. Each message cried for aid, warning of endless assaults that showed no mercy.
At the heart of the eastern plains, Jarl Astrid Skyrend, the Shieldmaiden of the East, stood upon the shattered battlements of her keep. Her armor was dented, her cloak frayed by wind and battlefire. The once-golden banners of her clan hung torn above her, fluttering weakly in the stormlight. Beneath her command, her people struggled to rebuild after weeks of ceaseless raids—raids led by the Bloodmane brood, children of the mad Jarl Eirikr who called himself the son of Fenrir.
They came like wolves in the night.
Rugal Bloodmane, eldest of the pack, led with the grim efficiency of a general born to conquest. His scarred arms bore runes of storm and fang, and his voice carried across the battlefield like rolling thunder. Every strike of his axe broke shields; every command drove men into formation with the discipline of a seasoned warlord. He fought not for glory, but to prove his bloodline divine.
Behind him rode his brother, Hrolf the Howler, wild laughter splitting the din of war. His long dark hair streamed behind him like a mane of shadow, and his filed canines flashed red beneath the firelight. To face him was to face chaos itself; he moved with no rhythm or form, yet his blade always found its mark. To his warriors, his madness was inspiration, to his enemies, terror.
And from the ridges, unseen but deadly, their sister Sigrid Bloodmane rained down death from afar. Her arrows burned with runic flame, each shot guided by fury and vengeance. The scar across her face , a burn that claimed her left eye , only hardened her resolve. Her whispers carried in the wind, commanding her archers with a predator's grace.
Astrid had repelled them again and again, but the cost was bleeding her kingdom dry. Her people were weary, her soldiers exhausted, and her stores nearly gone. Yet even as she readied herself for another siege, something in the air shifted, a feeling older than war.
It began as a faint tremor beneath the soil.
The scouts who first noticed it thought it thunder, but thunder does not echo from below. Then came the scent: wet iron, decay, and old blood. The ground near the eastern swamps, long abandoned and overgrown, began to stir. Those lands were once home to ancient tribes wiped out generations ago in battles so brutal that even their names were erased from song. The soil itself was said to be cursed, the bones of warriors and kings buried beneath the stagnant water.
Now that earth moved again.
From the mud rose shapes that no living man had seen for centuries. Armored corpses, still wearing the colors of clans that no longer existed. Fleshless hands gripping rusted swords. Helmets filled with nothing but shadow and the faint blue flicker of soul fire. They rose in silence, yet their presence screamed through the land, a chorus of rage and grief bound by unseen will.
Across the eastern watchtowers, guards faltered at the sight. "By the All-Father…" one whispered, voice shaking. "They're… walking."
And walk they did. Hundreds at first. Then thousands. Their armor clattered faintly as if recalling forgotten marches. They moved not as mindless husks but with grim purpose—their steps perfectly aligned, their eyes burning toward the west.
Astrid's captains sent for riders, their faces pale. Ravens and crows once again filled the air, wings blackening the horizon as they carried urgent messages to every surviving Jarl.
The dead were moving.
But these revenants were not rising by accident, nor by coincidence. Something unseen, buried deep within the marsh and soil, was calling them. A malice older than the clans, awakened by the surge of Seiðr that followed Daniel and Melgil's experiments and Mira Sennblood's reckless summoning. The resonance between Rune Harmony and corrupted will had birthed a ripple too strong, and that ripple had become a beacon.
Even the Draugr Mira had awakened in the western marsh began to shift, their attention turning eastward, as though answering a silent command. The air itself grew heavier, saturated with dread.
Astrid stood upon the ramparts as the ground trembled once more. Far beyond the mists, the horizon shimmered with faint blue light, countless eyes opening in the dark.
"They are not marching for the Bloodmanes," she said quietly, her voice nearly drowned by the wind. "They march for something else."
The captain beside her swallowed hard. "Then who commands them, my Jarl?"
Astrid looked toward the distant marshland where no fire burned, only a slow pulse of black energy rising like breath from the earth. Her hand tightened around her sword.
"The world itself," she whispered, "has remembered its hatred."
And as the crows flew westward, bearing word of the dead army's approach, the war of gods and mortals began to take shape, its rhythm no longer written by kings or heroes, but by the ancient malice that had finally awakened from its grave.
Through the shifting marsh mists, Mira Sennblood began her march eastward. The stitched Völva moved with an unnatural grace, each step leaving blackened footprints that sizzled on the saturated earth. Her eyes, burning with unyielding hatred, never wavered from the horizon; for reasons even unknown to the clans, her fury was fixed upon the eastern plains. The western marshlands, long forgotten and untamed, served as her path, winding like veins of ancient death through stagnant waters and choking reeds.
Her Draugr followed in solemn formation, moving silently beneath the thick fog. Hundreds of undead warriors, their rusted armor slick with swamp water, obeyed her every command. Their pale hands gripped weapons that had not known warmth in centuries, and yet each stroke of their march was purposeful. The fog hid them from prying eyes, masking the slow, inevitable advance of death across the land.
Where the marsh waters ran and converged into deeper swamps, Mira used the terrain to her advantage. She commanded the Draugr to fan out, silently surrounding narrow channels and hidden reeds, creating a network of ambushes and traps. The fog was no longer just concealment—it became a living extension of her wrath, suffocating the sight of anyone daring to approach. Birds fled the skies in panic, cawing warnings to the few survivors still daring to watch.
Miles away, north and far from the central Skjorn Peaks that rose 800 meters above the plains like jagged spires of frozen stone, the city of Storm Skjorn Fjord watched with diligent eyes. Its towers and high walls, crafted to withstand both storm and siege, overlooked the eastern horizon. Within the city, sentries and scouts reported glimpses of unnatural movement—fog-shrouded figures gliding through swamps that should have been impassable. But even the trained eye could not comprehend the magnitude of what was coming.
Above it all, Daniel and Melgil stood in their chamber, hands tracing the rune matrix as they projected the unfolding tableau across the world. Amid the chaos, they continued their work, sharing knowledge with those who sought it, training the young Skald-born warriors in the arts of their making. Every motion, every strike, was imbued with the principles of Rune Harmony, the living weave of mana now flowing openly through their spells.
The lessons were more than martial; they were faith in action. Daniel and Melgil recounted the stories of the Netherborn, correcting the myths and half-truths that had corrupted generations. To the skeptics, their words sounded impossible—how could one touch the unseen threads of the world and bend them to will? But demonstrations of Rune Harmony left no doubt. Even a spell producing mere sufficient damage shook the earth and tore through ranks of steel-clad warriors. For the young Skald-born, long trained in melee combat and martial rigor, the devastation was terrifying, and awe-inspiring.
Mana danced along Daniel's fingers as he showed the subtle weave of a containment spell, the energy snapping like lightning before dissipating harmlessly into the air. Melgil guided a group of young warriors in harmonizing their attacks with the mana flowing through their bodies, teaching them to feel the resonance rather than force it. Faith and combat intertwined, history and present joined as living lineage. Skepticism crumbled under the evidence, they could see, hear, and feel the power manifest.
And all the while, in the east, Mira's army pressed onward. Her anger, focused and unrelenting, radiated like a pulse through the marsh. The Draugr obeyed without hesitation, an extension of her stitched form, each step through the fog carrying death closer to the lands of the living. Though Daniel and Melgil trained and inspired, the pulse from the western marsh hinted at a reckoning beyond what even Rune Harmony could immediately contain.
The young Skald-born watched projections of the marshland campaign with wide eyes, hearts pounding as the specters of the dead rose and marched with purpose. Every demonstration of Daniel and Melgil's magic reinforced their understanding: the old ways of blade and shield were no longer sufficient. A new war demanded a new kind of warrior, one who could wield faith, story, and mana as one.
And far ahead, through the dense fog and swamp waters, Mira's hollow eyes glimmered, stitched lips parting in a silent, bitter promise. The eastern plains were hers to claim, or to damn.
The fog of the eastern marshes thickened, curling like living smoke around the twisted reeds and stagnant pools. Mira's Draugr marched with measured precision, their skeletal forms cutting through the muck and water as though it were air. The first villages of the eastern plains, scattered hamlets of timber and stone, awoke to the distant echo of hollow footsteps and the faint glimmer of ghostfire across the marsh.
As the Draugr advanced, they exploited every nuance of the terrain. Narrow channels forced the villagers' defenders into chokepoints; sudden hollows in the swamp swallowed cavalry, while reeds concealed archers who struck with deadly precision. The fog, heavy and unnatural, masked the undead army's movement, allowing Mira to orchestrate attacks from miles away. Each skirmish was swift, brutal, and nearly silent. Fires flared only after the villagers had fled—or fallen—leaving nothing but charred remnants and the ghostly whisper of despair.
From their vantage point, Daniel and Melgil observed through the projection matrix, their hands weaving complex rune patterns in the air. They trained the young Skald-born to react to this chaos, using Rune Harmony to manipulate terrain and energy, creating barriers, illusions, and traps that could slow the advance of the undead.
"Focus on resonance alignment," Melgil instructed, her voice steady despite the trembling of the matrix. "Use their own fear against them. Bind their panic into a counterflow , they sense it, and the Draugr hesitate."
Daniel nodded, demonstrating a spell to weave phantom walls of sound and light across the fog. The illusion caused some of Mira's front ranks to falter, colliding with one another in confusion. "It's not perfect," he said, "but the more the Skald-born feel it, the more control we can exert over the battlefield without even touching them physically."
Young warriors, trained for years in blade and shield, now found themselves dancing on the edge of something beyond comprehension. Runes traced along their arms as they channeled small bursts of mana, slashing through the undead ranks with a combination of physical strikes and magical resonance. Even a single disruption caused the Draugr to hesitate, the unnatural cohesion of Mira's army momentarily fractured.
Amid the chaos, a crow took flight, its wings black against the heavy fog. Tied to its leg was a wax-sealed message from the mercenary clans, those who had taken refuge and carved a tenuous existence in the rugged eastern valleys. The message carried news, requests for coordination, and a plea for guidance. The bird arced over the marsh, undeterred by the spectral threat below, until it found its way to the keep of Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend.
Addison Lazarus watched the bird with keen eyes, her fingers tightening on the reins of reality as she prepared to intercept and respond. She had long insisted on securing a connection to the eastern realms, understanding that communication, not brute force alone, would decide the survival of the scattered clans. Her own guild, the eastern Lazarus, had persisted along the path they had begun months ago, moving silently, observing, training, and laying the groundwork for alliances.
News of guild members marrying Skald-born warriors had surfaced like wildfire across the lands, but Addison dismissed it as baseless rumor. "The Tower didn't check credentials," she muttered, voice low but sharp. "As long as they carry the insignia of the four guilds that cleared the Empire of Graves, they enter. Nothing more. Nothing less. We have no time for gossip."
Time itself felt short. One year had been given as the exclusive window for their intervention, a year Addison now understood was barely a heartbeat in the reckoning of this realm. "This isn't a game anymore," she said, eyes narrowing at the projection of the eastern marsh. "Quest hints weren't ever this complicated. Nothing in the Tower prepared us for this scale."
Below, in the villages, the first casualties of Mira's orchestrated assault began to mount. Smoke rose from burned huts; livestock fled in chaos; survivors huddled in cellars, praying silently to gods they weren't sure existed. Even among hardened mercenaries and militia, panic began to ripple, fed by the unnatural precision of the Draugr. Each skirmish became a lesson in the lethal efficiency of the undead Völva's command.
Yet the clans themselves were far from passive. From the ridges and hidden passes of the eastern hills, warbands moved with practiced ruthlessness, honed by generations of constant conflict. The plains had always been a realm ruled by blood and cunning. Raiders, outcasts, and hardened veterans of countless feuds now faced a new enemy—one that did not tire, did not plead, and did not bargain.
Daniel and Melgil continued their work, teaching the young Skald-born to merge story, faith, and combat. Legends of the Netherborn, once dismissed as myth, were now living lessons. Every misstep or hesitation in battle became a teaching point: how to channel fear, how to reinforce morale, and how to strike in harmony with the Rune Network. Observing the devastation Mira caused, even the most battle-hardened Skald-born felt the weight of a reality far greater than any tale of conquest they had known.
And above it all, Mira's stitched form pressed forward through the fog, her hollow eyes fixed on the east. Every step was deliberate; every command to the Draugr carried the force of her wrath. Miles from the north, far from the central Skjorn Peaks, she moved toward the plains like a shadow of inevitability. Her reason, her target, remained mysterious, but the path of destruction she carved was undeniable. The world itself, bound by Rune Harmony and shaped by belief, would bear witness to her wrath, and only the strongest, most disciplined, and most faithful could hope to challenge it.
Addison, standing within the eastern Lazarus stronghold, felt the pressure of the timeline and the stakes. One year, she reminded herself. One year to prepare, to connect the eastern clans, and to guide them toward survival. Every lesson, every alliance, every careful deployment of knowledge was vital. Fail, and the marsh, the Draugr, and the undead Völva would sweep across the plains like a tide of hatred too powerful to resist.
The war of clans, gods, and the risen dead was no longer a distant threat—it had begun in earnest. And in this world, only those who could meld skill, story, and faith into living action might endure the storm to come.
The town of Sioa lay nestled against the northern edge of a vast, glassy lake, its waters stretching like molten silver beneath the morning sun. Mist curled along the shoreline, weaving between docks and timbered houses, while the distant marshes to the west exhaled a ghostly haze that reached hungrily toward the settlement. Sioa was modest but strategically vital, a hub connecting the eastern plains to the upper mountain ranges where countless independent cities clustered, each ruled by lesser war clans.
Four smaller clans had pledged temporary allegiance, their banners fluttering weakly in the crisp wind as they watched the arrival of new allies with cautious hope. Across the town, the Red Bloodwolves, led by Freyja Skarvald, established a perimeter, their crimson-and-black insignia slashing against the pale morning light. At twenty-two, Freyja was the youngest among her people, but already her name carried weight across the northern clans. Her eyes, steel-gray and unyielding, scanned the horizon as she oversaw the placement of scouts and defensive wards along the lake's edge. Her cloak, dyed deep red and clasped with a wolf's tooth, flared in the breeze, marking her as both leader and predator.
Inside the makeshift command tent, a circle of Red Bloodwolves gathered, their faces hardened by battle, their hands scarred from steel and frost. Kaelen "Ironfang" Skarvald, the former leader, sat slumped in a corner, nursing a mug of mead, his once-fearsome presence diminished by despair and drink. Freyja did not spare him a glance; she had inherited more than his name . she had inherited the duty to rally these scattered warriors in a world now teetering on the edge of chaos. She turned to her closest captains, her voice ringing clear over the faint clamor of preparations outside. "We cannot wait for the undead to come to us," she said, placing a hand atop the map of the surrounding lands. "Mira's Völva moves through the swamps like a shadow you cannot see. We strike first, or we die unremembered. The lake shields us, the marsh slows them. but only if we use it wisely."
One of her captains, a broad-shouldered man named Haldor, leaned forward. "The Draugr will not break ranks easily, Freyja. They are not living men. How do we even measure their strength?"
Freyja's eyes narrowed, cold fire burning within. "Strength alone will not defeat them. Look at the marsh and the fog. Every step they take is calculated, yes—but they cannot anticipate the minds of living warriors. Use the lake's reflection to confuse them, the reeds to channel them into traps, and the fog… the fog becomes our ally if we know its secret. Tonight, we train. By dawn, they will regret ever stepping beyond their cursed swamps."
A young scout, barely sixteen, piped up nervously. "But Freyja… what if the townsfolk, what if Sioa cannot hold? Two thousand souls, four clans… even with the Bloodwolves, what if we fail?"
Freyja walked past him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension coiled in the boy's muscles. "Then we fight harder," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. "We are not gods, and this is no game. These people are counting on us because we have the courage to stand where others flee. Fear is a tool, not a master. You will learn to wield it, or you will learn why it is called a teacher of death."
The Red Bloodwolves moved out to inspect the outer perimeter, their boots sinking into the wet earth of the lake's marshy edge. Here, reeds grew thick and water pooled in unexpected hollows. Freyja crouched beside one of the deeper channels, her hand skimming the water's surface. "See the currents?" she said softly, almost to herself. "The Draugr will follow them. They will not know the trap until it is too late."
Haldor knelt beside her, tracing runic patterns in the soil with a finger. "You truly believe we can hold them off?" he asked, doubt threading his tone.
Freyja's gaze lifted to the distant west, where the low fog hid the first hints of movement—the unnatural ripple of undead marching through the marshlands. "I do not hope," she replied, her words like steel. "I act. And so must you. The clans to the upper east mountains look to us as a line they cannot cross. Tonight, Sioa becomes a fortress, and tomorrow… tomorrow, the Draugr learn that even death has limits when faced with the living."
Above, the lake shimmered beneath a rising sun, mist curling into ghostly shapes over the water. The town of Sioa, with its two thousand souls and four allied clans, braced itself, unaware that history was about to etch itself across the plains. Freyja's Red Bloodwolves moved like shadows along the banks, setting traps, signaling scouts, and marking vantage points. Every flicker of movement in the fog became a potential strike, every ripple in the lake a warning of what was to come.
Inside the tent, Freyja returned to the map, her fingers tracing the pathways from the marsh to the upper mountain cities. "We hold here, we connect with the clans beyond. The undead think they march unchallenged, but they do not know the Red Bloodwolves yet. We fight not for glory, but for survival. And for every soul who cannot fight for themselves, we are their strength."
The firelight caught her expression, illuminating the fierce determination of youth tempered by responsibility. Around her, the Red Bloodwolves nodded, eyes burning with the promise of battle. Outside, the fog swirled, hiding the first tendrils of Mira's creeping influence. And far to the west, the stitched Völva moved through her marsh, unaware that the tides of fate were shifting in the east, carried on the courage of a twenty-two-year-old warrior and her pack of blooded wolves.
By the following day, the air above the eastern plains had changed. The marshlands near Sioa were no longer quiet; the lake's still waters now reflected the tension that gripped the land. News came from every direction , scattered reports of ghostly armies, of mist-covered trails where footsteps lingered but no living soul was seen. Not all the messages were true, and not all could be confirmed. Yet in a world already sharpened by centuries of war, no village, town, or fortress dared ignore them.
Across the realm, even merchants carried blades on their belts, and farmers kept spears near their doorways. In the taverns of Sioa, laughter had faded, replaced by the constant clatter of armor being mended and weapons being checked. The warrior spirit that defined the northern lands had awakened once again , not out of pride, but out of necessity.
Among those sharpening their resolve were Freyja Skarvald's Red Bloodwolves. They had been wanderers once, mercenaries without banner or purpose, living on reputation and memory. But here, on the marshy edge of Sioa, they had a chance to regain honor — to stand not as vagabonds, but as true warriors of the north.
The day passed in tense preparation. Freyja's voice carried over the encampment as she gave orders to the four allied clans , the Sjoring, the Uldren, the Bearfang, and the small but fierce Froskett line. Her tone was calm, commanding.
"Every torch stays low," she said, her eyes sweeping over the shoreline. "They see by sound and scent, not light. The swamp will carry their steps to us long before their eyes ever will. Remember that."
The traps were already in place , clever works of both nature and craftsmanship. Hidden pits along the lake's edge were camouflaged beneath water lilies and floating debris. Ropes bound to stakes would pull tight under pressure, dragging anything that stepped into them beneath the murky shallows. Spears carved from alderwood were sunk upright into the mud where Draugr were likely to pass, their tips coated with resin and blessed runes meant to disrupt necrotic essence.
As the sun bled into the horizon, the mist thickened. The lake turned from silver to iron gray. From her watchpoint on the wooden palisade, Freyja could see movement across the distant fog , faint silhouettes, shifting and uncertain.
A scout slid down from the northern ridge, panting. "Movement… a full column," he gasped. "No banners, no sound. Just the fog moving with them. I saw… faces. Pale. Hollow."
Freyja's jaw tightened. "Signal the Wolfhorns," she said. "We hold formation. No panic, no retreat until I say so."
The Wolfhorn's low bellow rolled across the night, its echo swallowed by the mist. The warriors of Sioa took position , two thousand townsfolk and clan-born fighters, half-trained but unbroken. The Bloodwolves moved through them like seasoned hunters, adjusting ranks, whispering commands, setting torches at intervals that would mislead approaching enemies.
Haldor approached her side, his face half-shadowed by the rising moon. "They're testing us, Freyja. I can feel it."
"They always do," she replied, eyes narrowing. "But we test them back."
And then the first skirmish began.
From the fog emerged shapes that did not breathe , pale, water-logged warriors with hollow sockets glowing faint blue. The Draugr advanced in eerie silence, their formation unnaturally precise. Each step seemed guided by something unseen , a will far beyond the battlefield itself. The air grew cold, thick with the scent of decay.
"Archers!" Freyja barked.
A volley of arrows sliced through the mist, vanishing into the dark. For a moment, there was silence , then the dull thuds of impact, followed by the rattling collapse of two Draugr. But the rest kept coming, unfazed by death or pain.
The first line of the swamp traps triggered , a sudden splash, a deep, sucking sound, and the cracking of bone as Draugr fell into hidden pits. Spears of alderwood drove through rotted armor, glowing faintly with rune-light before fading. The warriors cheered, but Freyja lifted her hand sharply.
"Do not celebrate. They will adapt."
And she was right. From somewhere beyond the fog, the Draugr's formation shifted, altering its rhythm. The second wave split, one group pressing forward toward the main barricade, the other veering toward the lake's shallows. The movement was too coordinated to be instinct. Mira was there, somewhere in the distance, her presence stretching through the mist like invisible thread, guiding her army with terrifying precision.
Freyja gritted her teeth. "She's testing our line. She's watching how we react."
"How can you know?" Haldor asked, readying his axe.
"Because that's what I'd do," she replied.
The battle surged. The swamp came alive with sound , the hiss of arrows, the splash of bodies striking water, the deep roar of the Red Bloodwolves charging from the flanks. Sioa's defenders fought fiercely, using terrain and discipline to their advantage. Warriors dragged Draugr into the marsh and pinned them beneath the water, others smashed skulls and shattered limbs only for the corpses to twitch and try to rise again.
A burst of rune-light flared across the battlefield as one of the allied clans triggered their warding glyphs, burning a patch of fog away and revealing dozens of Draugr caught mid-advance. For a moment, Freyja saw them clearly , drowned faces, twisted by remnants of fury and pain. Her grip on her sword tightened. "Whatever curse binds them," she whispered, "I'll cut through it."
Then came the voice , distant, faint, carried by the fog like a memory of thunder. It was Mira, her tone both commanding and sorrowful, echoing across the battlefield without a body to bear it. "Do not resist what is already written. All flesh returns to silence."
The warriors froze for a breath. Even the Red Bloodwolves felt a chill crawl along their spines. Freyja's eyes flashed. "Then let her hear this," she growled, raising her blade high. "We are the ones who write our fate!"
Her cry tore through the mist like lightning. The Bloodwolves howled in unison , a fierce, defiant roar that rolled over the lake, shaking the courage of even the dead. The line held. The Draugr wavered. For the first time since the campaign began, Mira's perfect rhythm faltered.
And somewhere beyond the marsh, hidden beneath layers of fog and runic interference, Mira paused , her hands trembling slightly, her expression unreadable. Something in Freyja's defiance struck deeper than she expected, stirring echoes of emotion she had long buried beneath rage.
The skirmish lasted until dawn. When the mist finally lifted, the shores of Sioa were littered with bodies , both living and dead. The lake ran dark with blood and mire. But the town still stood. The Red Bloodwolves had held their ground. And though the cost was high, word would soon spread that the first assault of the Draugr had been repelled.
Freyja stood upon the palisade, her sword resting across her shoulder, watching the sun rise through the fog. "She'll come again," she murmured. "But now she knows , we are not prey."
Haldor joined her, his armor stained and dented. "Then we'll be ready."
The wind carried their words eastward, over the marshes and the dying fog, toward the unseen gaze of Mira , who watched, silent and calculating, as her army regrouped for the next move in this deadly, fog-drenched war of endurance.
That night, the town of Sioa became the stage for Mira's vengeance.The storm arrived first , walls of wind and sleet that drowned out screams before they could rise. Then came the Draugr , an unending tide of corpses marching through the fog, their weapons dripping black ichor.
The Red Bloodwolves, once famed for their ferocity, found themselves swallowed by chaos.Their leader, Freyja Skarvald, rallied her twenty warriors atop the barricades, shouting over the storm:
"Hold your ground! This is still human soil!"
But the swamp had already claimed it.The ground beneath their boots turned to liquid filth; undead arms burst upward, dragging men screaming into the dark. Arrows hissed through the rain, but none found living targets.
Mira's Draugr struck like waves , silent, merciless, unending. The Bloodwolves fell one by one, torn apart by the risen townsfolk of Sioa itself , children, blacksmiths, farmers , all reborn under Mira's Seiðr.
By dawn, the storm had passed.The town was quiet.Two thousand souls lay still , then rose again, their eyes burning with the blue fire of servitude.
From the ruins, Freyja Skarvald crawled out , half-dead, her left arm torn at the shoulder, one eye seared blind by Draugr rot. Her crimson cloak hung in tatters, her axe buried in the chest of a fallen comrade she could no longer recognize.
She stumbled through the blackened forest until she collapsed near an abandoned tavern miles from the swamp. Inside, a lone lantern flickered , and a familiar voice broke the silence.
"Freyja…? Gods, what happened to you?"
It was Runa Hallveig, the vice captain of the Stormfangs, her expression hardening as she saw the ruin that had once been the proud Bloodwolf leader. Freyja tried to speak, but her voice cracked under exhaustion and horror.
"Sioa… is gone," she rasped. "They're all gone. The dead , they walk , Mira commands them."
Runa's eyes darkened. She tore a strip from her cloak to bind what remained of Freyja's arm.
"Then the storm will come for her next," Runa said quietly. "No matter what she's become."
Outside, thunder rolled again , distant, but growing closer.
The climb toward Skjorn Peaks was a battle in itself. The mountain winds tore through the pines like restless spirits, howling across the ridges that crowned the fortress of Jarl Ragnar Stormbreaker. The fortress stood like a frozen scar upon the world , black stone towers jutting from the cliffs, their watchfires glowing dimly through the snowstorm.
Runa Hallveig arrived at the gates at dawn, her cloak stiff with frost, the weight of her report heavy on her heart. She had ridden through the night, the wounded Freyja Skarvald wrapped in furs behind her, delirious from fever and blood loss. Runa had not planned this journey; her visit to Sioa had been personal , a detour born from guilt and curiosity. She had once called those lands home. Now, only ashes and corpses remained.
Inside the great hall, Jarl Ragnar stood before the hearth , a mountain of a man with braided silver hair and eyes like stormlit steel. The walls around him bore trophies of a hundred wars: shattered axes, banners faded by time, and the skulls of beasts long extinct. When Runa entered, the hall fell silent. Only the crackle of fire remained.
She dropped to one knee, the scent of death still clinging to her armor.
"My Jarl," she said, voice low but steady. "Sioa has fallen."
Ragnar's expression hardened.
"Fallen? You mean raided?""No," Runa replied. "Erased."
She spoke of what she had seen , the storm, the Draugr, the screaming of the Bloodwolves as the swamp swallowed them whole. She described Freyja's broken body, the eyes of the dead glowing beneath the lake's mist, the unmistakable signature of Mira's Seiðr.
When she finished, the hall felt colder than before.
"Two thousand dead," Ragnar murmured, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "And all of them turned."
He paced before the hearth, his shadow flickering against the stone walls.
"The east will demand answers. Sioa lies under the banners of Jarl Astrid Skyrend — she will not take this loss lightly."
Runa lowered her head.
"Astrid's scouts were delayed by the storms. They'll find nothing left. Only the dead."
Ragnar said nothing for a long time. The weight of command pressed on his shoulders like the mountain itself. At last, he turned to his scribe.
"Prepare a raven," he ordered. "To Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend of the East. Tell her the truth — that the Draugr have awakened in the marshlands, that Mira has returned from whatever grave the gods forgot. And that Sioa is no more."
He turned his gaze toward Runa, his voice heavy with restrained fury.
"You will stay here until the raven returns. When Astrid replies, we ride. The White Devil Guild will not face this threat alone."
Runa hesitated, her voice softer now.
"My Jarl… I went to Sioa for personal reasons. I didn't intend to,""You were meant to see it," Ragnar interrupted. "The gods put you there so that the truth would reach me before it reached the east. Do not carry shame for surviving."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"Carry wrath instead."
Runa nodded, though her thoughts were distant , drawn to the image of Mira's spectral army rising beneath the storm, the pale faces of the fallen Bloodwolves, and Freyja's last scream echoing through the swamp.
Outside, the ravens took flight. One carried Ragnar's seal toward the east, slicing through the storm toward Astrid Skyrend's stronghold in the frozen valleys of Varlheim. When she broke the wax and read the words, the world would tremble anew.
For Sioa's fall was not merely a tragedy , it was an omen.And somewhere, deep in the rotting heart of the swamp, Mira stood beneath the black sky, listening to the wind carry her name through the mountains.She smiled. The storm had only just begun
The night was unnaturally still.
Only the distant groan of thunder rolled above the Storm Fjord cliffs, where Daniel sat beneath the lantern lit canopy of the chamber they were staying in , a circle of shifting light etched into the mountain's heart. The firefly's pulsed faintly, synchronized with his breath. Across from him, Melgil was laying her white hair floating like threads of moonlight as she maintained the delicate stare at Daniel as he continued to recall and mentally train ,
Then , a whisper broke the silence.A ripple ran through the light. The runes flickered once, twice . then dimmed into a blue gloom.
Daniel's eyes opened.
A cold wind brushed across his mind, like fingers tracing the edges of a memory. Then came a voice, distant yet familiar, vibrating through his consciousness:
"My lord … the east is being consumed with ancient malice ."
He knew that voice. Nyx.
Nyx didn't speak in words so much as feelings, impressions — flashes of flame, the scent of iron and decay, and the echo of screams beneath the marsh. Then the image sharpened: the town of Sioa, half-submerged in bloodied water, its torches extinguished, its people rising again under Mira's will.
"Sioa has fallen," Nyx's voice trembled through his mind, each word resonating like a ripple through the void between them. "The Bloodwolves… gone. Mira, the one who eluded you and the White Devil, has changed. She was cursed to rise again and has become an undead Völva. She's adapting, Daniel… binding the curse itself to her will."
Daniel's breath caught."Mira…" he whispered, the name tasting of old regret and warning.
"She is heading east," Nyx continued, her voice soft but strained. "To feed her anger."
Daniel frowned. "East? That's peculiar. Why go there? She's a player, she should have no ties to anyone within that region." His voice hardened with suspicion. "Unless something or someone, is calling her."
Nyx's tone deepened. "My lord… these Draugr are unlike those you faced in Karion. They move faster, they think faster. Their rage is no longer just blind hatred—it's focused, sharpened, filled with resentment toward anything that breathes."
The chamber fell silent except for the low hum of the runes that surrounded them. The air itself seemed to darken as if the mountain was holding its breath.
Melgil stirred from her seated position, her eyes half-lidded in concern. She had been listening quietly, attuned to every vibration of Daniel's aura. Rising gracefully, she approached him and rested a hand on his shoulder. Her touch drew him back from the edge of the Seiðr trance.
"The east…" she murmured, her voice a blend of curiosity and unease. "That region hasn't seen movement in years. The marshes, the plains, those are Astrid's dominion. If Mira's curse spreads there, the balance will collapse faster than we can contain it."
Daniel reached up and gently brushed a strand of silver hair from Melgil's face, his expression softening despite the weight pressing upon him.
"My beloved," he said quietly, "I need to clear this problem before it spreads. Would you mind returning to the Leviathan and gathering the Daughters of War? Bring also a few of Siglorr Bouldergrove's warriors to join the hunt in the east. Tell them this isn't a reclamation."… it's a cleansing .
Melgil studied him, the faint glow of rune-light reflecting in her eyes. "You plan to confront her yourself," she said, not as a question but as a certainty.
"I don't have a choice," Daniel replied. "If Mira truly binds the curse to her will, she's rewriting the very essence of quest . Every soul she takes strengthens the curse. If we wait too long, even death won't undo her reach."
He turned toward the window slit carved into the stone wall of the chamber. Beyond it, the night horizon burned faintly , not from torches, but from lightning that crawled endlessly along the clouds above the eastern plains.
"The storm gathers," he said under his breath. "And she's the one calling it."
Melgil placed her palm over his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart and the echo of Nyx's voice still thrumming through him. "Then promise me," she whispered. "If you must face her… don't face her alone."
Daniel gave a faint smile , weary, distant, but sincere."I won't," he said. "Nyx will guide me through the fog… and you'll return with an army."
Melgil hesitated, then leaned close, her forehead resting briefly against his. The runes around them flared brighter, reacting to the unity of their Seiðr.
"Then may my heart watch over you," she said softly.
At that very moment, far beneath the storm-lit peaks, Melgil stood within the fading glow of Daniel's rune circle. The silence around her hummed with residual energy—his presence still lingering like warmth after lightning. The new Seiðr formula he had shared moments before still burned in her mind, its geometry alive and whispering in her thoughts.
She exhaled slowly, centering her mana.
"So this is the link you found, Daniel… Rune Harmony in motion," she murmured.
Drawing a deep breath, she knelt and began to trace a symbol across the floor—each stroke of her finger leaving behind a line of blue flame that hovered above the stone. It was a sigil of Return, one of the forbidden runes that bent distance by linking sympathetic anchors across space. Daniel had warned her it demanded precision—one misplaced curve could scatter her body across dimensions.
But Melgil had an advantage no other mage possessed.
Behind her, the shadows stirred. A faint skittering echoed through the air as a great guardian spider emerged from the ether, its translucent form shimmering with runic threads along its carapace. Eight eyes glowed with intelligence and obedience. It was her creation, her familiar and companion, born from the union of rune craft and old Seiðr.
"Varthir," she whispered to it. "Find the mark."
The spider bowed its head, and a runic pulse rippled through its body. At once, it connected to a symbol carved deep within the Leviathan's inner sanctum, a rune she had once engraved into the heart of the fortress for moments exactly like this.
She raised her hand, and both her rune and the spider's body began to hum in resonance. Threads of silver light intertwined, forming a glowing lattice that reached beyond sight. The air shimmered, bending inward, the space between worlds collapsing into a single heartbeat.
"Carry me home," Melgil said softly.
A brilliant flash engulfed her, and the world folded.
When her vision cleared, she stood within the inner chamber of the Leviathan, the massive living fortress that moved like a mountain across the plains. The air was alive with deep, rhythmic vibrations, the sound of the Leviathan's heart beating somewhere in the depths below. The walls pulsed faintly with organic veins of light, each one carved with runes that responded to her arrival.
the guardian spider, scuttled to her side, clicking gently as it began to carve a new symbol on the chamber floor, an anchor rune that would allow Daniel to locate her when the time came.
Melgil looked around the immense room: racks of weapons forged from enchanted iron, banners of the Daughters of War swaying in the Leviathan's breath, and the faint echo of distant footsteps as the fortress crew began to stir at her sudden reappearance.
She drew herself upright, eyes blazing with purpose.
"Summon the Daughters," she ordered the nearest attendant. "And send word to Siglorr Bouldergrove. The Netherborn calls for a hunt in the east."
The Leviathan groaned in reply, its vast metal tendons flexing, as though the beast itself understood the coming storm.
Melgil turned toward the main viewport where rain streaked against thick glass, and lightning briefly illuminated the horizon.
"Hold fast, my love," she whispered under her breath. "The east will burn before she takes another soul."
And with that, she stepped back into the glowing rune circle, her body dissolving into strands of light , carried away toward the Leviathan fortress.
Daniel stood alone as Nyx's voice echoed faintly in his mind once more:
"The east awaits, Netherborn. But be warned , every step you take toward her brings you closer to what you once were."
Daniel's hand closed into a fist."Then let her remember who I was," he whispered.And the runes trembled , answering the call of war once more.
Daniel exhaled sharply, his hands tightening into fists. He could feel the pain through her — not as sight or sound, but as an ache beneath his ribs, like a heartbeat out of rhythm with his own.
"Show me," he whispered.
The chamber brightened, and Nyx's essence spilled through the runes , the light twisting, forming shadows that shaped themselves into visions. Daniel saw the drowned corpses of the lake, the fog glowing faintly with Seiðr corruption, and Mira standing upon the ruins, her eyes hollow yet burning with purpose.Thousands of souls , now part of her Draugr host , marched beneath her whispering command.
Melgil stirred. Her eyes opened as she felt the shift in Daniel's aura.
"You saw it too?" she asked quietly.
Daniel nodded. "Sioa. Gone. Mira's no longer testing us , she's advancing."
"Then the balance has broken," Melgil murmured. "The eastern clans will rally, but they cannot face her alone. The fog itself listens to her voice now."
Daniel rose to his feet, the faint glow of runes tracing along his skin , a natural response of his Netherborn essence. His eyes gleamed with that strange dark light Nyx always said reminded her of "the space between stars."
"We'll send a pulse through Rune Harmony," Daniel said. "Every rune circle across the northern watch posts must be warned. If the Draugr have reached the lake provinces, it means she's expanding her reach through water lines — the old ley currents."
Melgil stood beside him, already preparing the focusing crystals.
"You mean to counter her control of the weather?""No," Daniel said. "To break her rhythm. Mira's power grows in the stillness between storms — I'll flood the ley flow with chaotic Seiðr resonance. It'll hurt her link, maybe even scatter her focus long enough for Astrid's clans to regroup."
As he spoke, the air thickened. A faint shimmer appeared before him , Nyx's ethereal silhouette, half-translucent, as if sculpted from moonlight and mist. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes glowed with sympathy and worry.
"You walk too close to her echo," Nyx whispered. "Every time you touch the Harmony, she feels you too. The bond between Netherborn and Draugr is older than you realize."
Daniel's jaw tightened.
"Then let her feel me," he said. "Let her know I'm coming."
The rune light flared brighter, flooding the chamber with an otherworldly hum. Lines of ancient script spiraled across the floor, and for an instant, the connection between Daniel and Nyx deepened , their thoughts blending into one stream of purpose and fury. Across the distance, Mira's laughter echoed faintly, as if answering from beyond the storm.
"You cannot hide from her forever," Nyx murmured."I don't plan to," Daniel replied. "This ends in the east , one way or another."
And as the Rune Harmony pulsed outward, carrying warnings to the northern strongholds, the first lights of dawn crept over the fjord , pale and thin, as if the sun itself feared to rise upon the world Mira had begun to claim.
"I guess the time I spent learning about this realm has finally come to an end," Daniel murmured, his gaze drifting toward the horizon as the air around him began to hum and stir with unseen energy.
The faint pulse of rune symbols shimmered across his left hand, each line of light weaving and twisting as if alive. His void armor responded instantly, stretching over him like liquid shadow, reflecting the intricate formulas of his new rune symbol designs. Power thrummed through him, a raw, ancient energy amplified beyond understanding, flowing into every fiber of his being.
He seated himself cross-legged atop the stone dais, the air bending around him in quiet resonance. Slowly, deliberately, he began to refine the Rune Harmony, feeling the subtle vibrations of the world's leylines respond, tugging at him like threads of a living tapestry. A mark long suppressed, buried deep within the core of his being, now awakened — faint at first, then blazing in rhythmic pulses that echoed with memories of the last Netherborn war.
Each inhalation drew more energy into the void armor, every exhalation releasing a controlled surge through the runes around him. His body became a nexus, a living forge of Seiðr, mana, and suppressed Netherborn essence. The chamber itself seemed to bend toward him, walls quivering under the force of pure potential.
"It's time to unbind the Netherborn once again," he said, his voice steady but heavy with sorrow and resolve. The words carried the weight of inevitability, the understanding that to awaken such power was to touch both creation and destruction at once.
Around him, the rune network thrummed like a heartbeat. Threads of Harmony spiraled outward, connecting distant places, feeling for Mira's pulse in the east, sensing the echoes of Draugr movements, the trembling of forests, the faint cries of the survivors in Sioa, and the mounting tension in every allied clan. He was no longer merely a student of this realm — he was now a conductor, a catalyst, and the living bridge between the world and the powers it had long feared to awaken.
And as he opened his eyes, silver and unwavering, the first real surge of the Netherborn unbinding began to ripple outward — a quiet, terrible prelude to the storm he would unleash across the eastern plains.