Chapter 221 - Doctrine of Veridica

Chapter 221

The arena remained silent long after Daniel lowered his hands. Dust drifted lazily in the air like dying embers, suspended in a world that had momentarily forgotten how to breathe. Faint orange glimmers crawled across the scorched stone floor, the lingering heat of his Netherborn Seiðr crackling beneath the surface like stubborn lightning refusing to fade after the storm. Harald, Sigrid, and Arvid stood in the center of the devastation, chests heaving, cuts stinging, legs buckling yet refusing to fall. They were bruised, battered, and pushed to the very edge of their spirit, but they remained upright not out of pride or defiance but because collapsing now felt like denying a truth that had carved itself into their bones.

Above them, the elders of Valdyrheim stood frozen in a collective silence so profound it felt sacramental; battle-scarred chieftains and hardened commanders, men and women who had stared down giants, beasts, and gods, now struggled to comprehend what they had just witnessed. This had not been a demonstration. This had been the birth of a new era. It was Alva Valsmir who broke the stillness, her voice soft, stripped of its usual iron. "His teachings… they could reshape the way Valdyrheim fights for the next thousand years." Even the proud heirs of Frostmaul, Ironveil, and Thryne lowered their heads, humbled by the revelation that their young warriors had not merely fought, they had been transformed.

Then Ragnar Stormbreaker stepped forward, the balcony groaning beneath the weight of his massive frame. His shadow fell like a mountain swallowing the sun, but it was the look in his eyes, raw awe, hunger, and the electric thrill of a warrior meeting the impossible, that commanded the room. "This training ground is no longer enough," he rumbled, voice echoing through the stone halls. "Daniel, Netherborn, your path leads higher. Much higher." Daniel met his gaze with steady calm. "You already know the place."

Ragnar's grin spread slowly across his face. "Aye. Skjorn Peaks. Five thousand meters above the heart of the world… ten kilometers wide, ringed by cliffs and storms. A sacred land where my ancestors trained to defy gods." Elders stiffened; even speaking the name Skjorn Peaks was reserved for coronations or declarations of war. Yet Ragnar lifted a fist to his chest and declared, "Now it shall become the cradle of Valdyrheim's next generation."

News of the demonstration spread like wildfire, through the central clans, across the mountain passes, into valley tribes and border outposts, to the eastern front still whispering legends of Daniel's wrath against corrupted beasts. Scouts rode across plains and trading posts shouting, "The Netherborn walks among us, and he teaches!" Within days, dozens came. Within weeks, hundreds.

Within a month, the training grounds overflowed with warriors desperate to learn the fusion of instinct and Seiðr Daniel had unleashed. Daniel adapted without hesitation. Three students became thirty, then three hundred, then entire war-bands. He taught Earth-born combat strategy, shield-walls, ambush-breaking wedges, moving fortifications, pincer offensives. He trained Seiðr-flow unity, breathing under magical pressure, redirecting energy through motion instead of brute force.

He pushed fear-inoculation drills, teaching warriors to stand unbroken beneath overwhelming presence. He unleashed controlled Netherborn aura bursts, brief windows of power that forced adaptation and hardened minds against terror. Through every session, warriors learned to fight not just harder, but sharper, faster, and with terrifying clarity.

And through it all, someone watched. A presence hidden in beams and shadows, a girl no one was meant to know existed. Eirunn Stormbreaker moved along the edges of the stronghold like a drifting phantom, her iron-tipped crutches whispering against the stone. Heavy wolf-grey cloaks wrapped her slender frame, swallowing her presence the way fog swallows moonlight. Her pale fingers gripped the fabric as though even breathing too deeply might disrupt the fragile stability of her bones.

She mastered invisibility not through Seiðr arts but through necessity, through a life spent learning how to shrink, how to fade, how to move between breaths. Every step was deliberate. Every motion careful. Her body was fragile, but her gaze was anything but. Her eyes followed the young warriors with a surgeon's precision, dissecting their stance, timing, balance, and Seiðr pulse. And Daniel, she watched him most of all. The way he bent the air. The way fear and revelation danced across the faces of those who faced him. The world seemed to reduce itself to the patterns of his movement.

Stormbreakers were shaped like boulders.Eirunn was shaped like a blade.

She had skin pale as winter moonlight, silver-black hair braided down her waist like midnight lightning, and old-soul eyes too sharp for someone only nineteen. Faint Seiðr scars spread across her ribs and spine, cracked starlight hidden beneath thick cloth. She looked delicate, but she carried a quiet intensity that could cut deeper than steel.

She rarely spoke. She never complained. Silence was her refuge and her burden. She did not envy the strong; she studied them. Especially Daniel. Especially Melgil, whom she admired with a tenderness she never admitted aloud. She wanted that same recognition, the warmth Melgil earned, the effortless brilliance Daniel radiated. They were beings of impossible existence, people who defied limits, who embodied power without being consumed by it.

She had not been born weak. She had been born blazing. Her Seiðr overflowed as an infant, her core too large for her tiny body. During a winter storm, lightning struck the stronghold; the surge resonated with her overloaded core and tore her apart from the inside, cracking bones, boiling blood, nearly rupturing her heart.

Though healers saved her, her core shattered into three unstable fragments too powerful to remove and too volatile to use. Ragnar carried her in his arms when the healers whispered the truth: "She will not survive the warrior path." To protect her, he made the hardest choice of his life, he hid her existence from Valdyrheim. Let the world believe he had one son who died young.

Let them never know of the daughter whose power threatened her life. Only four allied clans swore the oath of secrecy. So Eirunn grew in the shadows. learning to walk again, to breathe again, to stand with a shattered core, fighting not with strength but with thought. She became a strategist, a Seiðr scholar, a quiet blade honed in secrecy.

And watching Daniel now, this being who moved like a contradiction between fury and serenity, who fused fear, courage, instinct, and Seiðr into something transcendent, her breath caught. He wasn't merely a fighter. He wasn't merely a mage. He was the first person she had ever seen who might teach her how to survive the unstable power inside her. And perhaps… someday… how to wield it.

Eirunn had watched Melgil long before she dared approach her, watched the graceful ease with which the Blood-forged warrior moved, watched the fluid union of discipline and instinct that marked every step she took. Daniel fought like a force of nature, but Melgil fought like music; every motion had rhythm, every shift of weight resonated with an internal harmony that Eirunn felt humming in her ribs like a distant string pulled taut.

She had remained hidden behind a pillar that overlooked the courtyard where Melgil trained alone at dusk, the sky bruised purple and red above her. Eirunn never meant to be seen—she knew how to fold herself into silence, how to become nothing more than a shadow among shadows. But Melgil turned her head the moment Eirunn arrived, her gaze sliding toward the veil of stone with the casual certainty of someone who did not need eyes to feel presence. It was not aggression. It was not threat. It was simple awareness, sharp, soft, all at once.

Eirunn froze, fingers tightening on her crutches, heart hammering in a rhythm her fractured Seiðr core hated. She had expected suspicion… fear… disgust… the usual progression when someone strong sensed something unstable near them. But Melgil did not react like a warrior detecting danger. Instead, her aura softened, like warm embers stirred by a gentle wind.

There was no hostility, no tightening of stance, no flash of defensive Seiðr. Melgil simply breathed,and in that breath, Eirunn felt something impossible. Recognition. Not of identity,they had never met. Recognition of intention, of emotion, as if Melgil had reached into the air between them and tasted the shape of Eirunn's feelings.

Admiration.

Curiosity.

Awe.

Nothing dark. Nothing tainted. Nothing that threatened.

Melgil returned her attention to her training, but her movements subtly changed, her blades lowered a fraction, her steps slowed just enough for Eirunn to follow the pattern, as if she were demonstrating rather than performing. Eirunn blinked, taken aback. This was… deliberate. A wordless invitation to study. Her breath hitched as she leaned forward, instinctively absorbing every shift, how Melgil pivoted on the balls of her feet to preserve balance, how her posture aligned seamlessly with her breathing, how she pushed Seiðr through her limbs in controlled pulses rather than continuous streams. It was the kind of detail Eirunn had only read about in scrolls, never witnessed in real motion.

Minutes passed like drifting snow before Melgil finally spoke, her voice soft but resonant, cutting cleanly through the courtyard's twilight hush.

"You don't need to hide."

Eirunn stiffened. Her crutches creaked. A dozen excuses gathered on her tongue but refused to form, scattered by Melgil's calm tone, not commanding, not questioning, simply stating a truth she had known from the moment Eirunn arrived.

Melgil turned, her expression open and unthreatening, her eyes warm despite the sharpness of their blood-forged hue. "You were watching with intent," she said gently. "Not malice."

Eirunn swallowed, her throat tight. "You… could feel that?"

Melgil gave a small, knowing smile. "I sense emotions more clearly than most sense footsteps." Her eyes softened further. "And yours were honest."

Eirunn felt heat gather beneath her ribs, a mixture of embarrassment and relief so foreign she nearly stepped back. She had been called many things in her life: cursed, unstable, dangerous. No one had ever looked at her and said her feelings were honest. No one had ever welcomed her presence instead of fearing it.

Melgil motioned to the empty space beside her, an invitation neither forceful nor pitying. "If you want to watch, then watch openly. I won't chase you away."

Eirunn hesitated, but the weight of the cloak she always hid beneath suddenly felt heavier than usual, suffocating. Slowly, cautiously, she stepped into the open. Melgil did not stare at her scars, did not glance at her crutches, did not measure her weakness. She simply nodded in acknowledgment, as if Eirunn had always belonged in that space.

And for the first time in her life, Eirunn felt seen, not as a secret kept by oaths,not as a fragile vessel for unstable power, but as a mind, a presence, a person.

She drew a slow breath, steadying herself as Melgil resumed her training with graceful precision, movements now intentionally clear, meant to be understood.

It was not friendship. Not yet.

But it was the first step, a quiet beginning carved from admiration, acceptance, and the wordless understanding between two beings who lived outside the boundaries of what their world expected.

Melgil finished her last flowing strike, blades humming as they cut a clean arc through the dusk air. She sheathed them with a soft metallic click, then turned fully toward Eirunn, making no sudden movements, no overwhelming flare of aura that might startle her. Instead, she simply tilted her head, expression soft, as though she were addressing a skittish fawn rather than the hidden daughter of Ragnar Stormbreaker.

"You've watched my training for three days now," Melgil said gently, her voice warm but unintrusive. "Always from the shadows. Always silent." She took one small step forward, not enough to threaten, just enough to show sincerity. "Would you… like to step into the light this time?"

Eirunn's breath hitched. She instinctively tightened her grip on her crutches, the familiar knot of anxiety curling up her spine. "I… I didn't mean to disturb," she whispered, voice small but steady. "I just, watching you move helps me understand things. I learn better when I see it."

Melgil's eyes brightened with a quiet smile. "Then come where you can see clearer." She gestured to the open courtyard. "No one should have to learn from the shadows."

Eirunn swallowed. Her legs trembled, not from pain, but from the terrifying novelty of being addressed, acknowledged, invited. "I'm… not sure I should. My father"

"Your father hides you because he loves you," Melgil finished softly, stepping close enough for her voice to reach but far enough not to overwhelm. "But love should not mean loneliness." Her expression softened even further. "Come. Even if only for a few moments."

Eirunn hesitated, her cloak shifting as she took a slow, uncertain step forward. Moonlight spilled across her figure for the first time, illuminating the pale lines of Seiðr-scars glowing faintly beneath her collar. She braced herself for disgust, pity, fear.

None came.

Melgil's eyes widened only with appreciation, appreciation for Eirunn's courage, not judgment of her body.

"There you are," Melgil said with genuine warmth. "I knew your face would be a beautiful one."

Eirunn flushed, caught between embarrassment and disbelief. "You don't… have to say that."

"I don't say anything I don't mean," Melgil replied, folding her arms loosely. "I speak less than most, but when I do, I tell the truth."

Eirunn looked down, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're very different from what the clans say about Blood-forged warriors."

Melgil chuckled softly, the sound warm and surprisingly gentle. "I suppose we all are more than what the clans assume." She tilted her head again, studying Eirunn with thoughtful eyes. "May I ask your name?"

Eirunn paused, then drew a breath as though stepping off a cliff. "Eirunn," she said quietly. "Eirunn Storm"She stopped herself, suddenly fearful.

Melgil finished the sentence for her, voice calm. "Eirunn Stormbreaker."At Eirunn's stunned expression, Melgil offered a reassuring smile. "You carry your father's eyes. And his stubbornness."

Eirunn blinked rapidly, unsure whether to be frightened or relieved. "You… knew?"

"I sensed you long before I saw you," Melgil said. "Your Seiðr hums differently. Strong, but fractured like a harp with a broken frame." Her gaze held no judgment. Only understanding. "But even a broken harp can make beautiful music, Eirunn."

Eirunn's throat tightened. "You don't think I'm cursed?"

"Cursed?" Melgil stepped closer and placed a soft hand on Eirunn's shoulder, a gesture so gentle Eirunn almost recoiled from the unfamiliar warmth. "No. I think you're surviving power that would have killed most adults. That makes you extraordinary."

Eirunn drew a shaky breath, unable to meet her eyes.

"Hey," Melgil said softly, tilting her chin up with two fingers. "Look at me."

Eirunn obeyed despite herself.

"I don't want you to hide from me. If you want to learn… if you want to watch… if you want to talk… you're welcome here anytime. No shadows required."

Eirunn stared, stunned by the simple certainty in Melgil's voice. "…You'd really let me watch? Even like this?"

"Especially like this," Melgil replied. "A good warrior watches. An exceptional one understands." She smiled. "You have the mind of someone who will make legends."

Eirunn's lips parted, her voice barely a breath. "I always wanted… to meet you. You and Daniel. You two are… everything I admired since I was a child."

Melgil's expression softened with a warmth that made Eirunn's chest ache. "Then let this be your first lesson," she murmured. "You don't need to admire us from afar."

She gently stepped aside, creating a space beside her.

"Stand with me, Eirunn. Not behind me."

Slowly, trembling, Eirunn stepped into place.

For the first time in her life…she wasn't a shadow.

She was seen.

She was welcomed.

And perhaps, slowly, she was beginning to belong.

Ragnar stood at the far edge of the courtyard, half-hidden behind one of the storm-worn pillars of the Fjordhall. For years he had prayed, quietly, hopelessly, that his daughter might one day step out of her solitude. And now, as he watched Eirunn walk nervously beside Melgil, her shoulders tight but her eyes open, something in his chest cracked. Not with pain—no, with a fierce, quiet pride. His daughter was finally stepping into a world that had always frightened her. She was choosing light over shadow, voice over silence. Ragnar pressed a hand to his beard, masking the emotion burning in his throat. Thank you, he thought, not to gods, but to the strange man whose arrival had changed everything.

Meanwhile, the city was swelling with murmurs. Storm Skjorn Fjord had always been never been steeped in myth, but a storms that spoke, iron that remembered, ancestors whose eyes glowed in their old faith . And now they had Daniel as a Netherborn, A being who fought like a tempest given shape. A warrior who moved faster than thought. A teacher who shattered limits simply by existing. Many citizens knelt when he passed. Some whispered new prayers. Others carved little stone figures of him and Melgil, leaving them beside the shrines of old gods as if preparing room for newcomers.

Daniel hated it.

He stood before a gathering of the townsfolk one cold afternoon, rain flickering in thin diagonal lines. His voice was steady, patient, but there was an edge beneath—a quiet insistence that demanded understanding, not worship.

"Listen to me," Daniel began, raising a hand to stop another group from bowing. "I am not a god. Neither is Melgil. Power does not make one divine, it only gives one responsibility."

The people shifted uneasily. A few lowered their eyes. Some stubbornly kept staring at him as if expecting the sky to split open behind his shoulders.

Daniel continued, tone sharpening into clarity."You think strength comes from heaven. You think courage is a blessing. But those ideas are chains. If you always believe power must come from above, then you will never look at yourselves, and realize the same strength has always been inside you."

He paced slowly, letting his footsteps echo."I have seen gods," he said. "I have seen beings who demanded blood for glory and obedience for their amusement. I refuse to stand among them. I refuse to be the kind of entity who teaches people to kneel instead of rise."

A murmur ran through the crowd.

Daniel lifted his hand and pointed gently, not accusingly, toward the city."Every time you pray to something that asks you to kill for honor, you surrender your humanity. Every time you worship something that thrives on fear, you give away your freedom. And every time you call someone like me a 'god,' you stop believing in your own potential."

Lightning cracked across the clouds above, illuminating the runic towers of the fjord. Daniel didn't flinch.

"My strength," he said, voice lowering into something almost gentle, "comes from discipline, fear, sacrifice, and knowledge. All things that you can have. All things that do not require divine blood or cosmic birth."

He glanced toward Melgil and Eirunn, Melgil steady and confident, Eirunn shy but shining with newfound courage, and allowed himself a small smile.

"Do not worship me," Daniel finished. "Learn from me. Question me. Challenge me. Doubt me. But do not kneel. I am not here to be your god. I am here to tear down the idea that you ever needed one."

For a long moment, the city was silent.

Not because they were afraid.

But because, for the first time, they understood.

And from the shadows of the hall, Ragnar wiped his eyes, knowing that his daughter had stepped into a world where she no longer needed divine permission to be brave. She only needed herself.

Eirunn's first lesson began quietly, just the two of them on the rain-dusted terrace behind the Fjordhall, where the stone tiles still held the day's warmth. Melgil knelt beside her, demonstrating the slow circular flow of Seiðr-breath through the ribs and the hips. Eirunn followed a moment later, her movements hesitant, as if any sudden shift might make her bones crack apart.

Melgil watched carefully, not with prophecy, not with supernatural vision, but with the trained eye of someone who had survived far too long by reading people with precision. The girl's shoulders were worn unevenly from years of overcompensating pain. Her energy, her inner pulse, carried a familiar fracture. Not inherited power… inherited scars.

"You carry the same strain as your father," Melgil said softly, almost to herself.

Eirunn froze. Her breath caught in her throat.

Melgil raised both hands in peace. "Don't worry. I don't see the future. I don't peer into souls. I simply pay attention. Your father hides his wounds like armor. You hide yours like a second skin. Anyone who looked, truly looked,would see it."

Eirunn lowered her gaze, embarrassed, but Melgil's voice stayed warm.

"This world worships strength. And it devours anything it considers weak."Her tone sharpened as she added, "And you, Eirunn… you were kept hidden for a reason. Someone wanted you to grow without being trampled."

For a moment, only the sound of distant waves filled the air.

Then Melgil placed a hand gently on Eirunn's shoulder, a gesture careful enough not to startle her."If you wish," she offered, "we can train somewhere with fewer eyes. No judgment. No pressure. A place where your pace matters, not theirs."

Eirunn looked toward the courtyard where the other young warriors were still sparring—loud, confident, eager to impress Daniel. Her stomach tightened with dread.

"I… don't want to go down there," she whispered."Down?" Melgil tilted her head."To the underground chamber," Eirunn said, voice trembling. "The one everyone talks about… the one Father guards."

Melgil studied her expression closely, fear mixed with awe. And something else: shame for feeling afraid.

Melgil nodded with new understanding.

Beneath the mountains of Storm Skjorn Fjord lay one of the city's oldest secrets, a cavern-temple forged thousands of years ago by the same extinct race Daniel belonged to.

The only access was a hidden stone lift carved with spiral runes, operated by a mechanism older than the fjord itself. When the lift descended, the air changed, denser, colder, humming with ancient memory.

The chamber itself was vast, so massive a giant could have stood inside without brushing the ceiling. The walls were hewn from black glacier-stone, reinforced by glowing runic lattices that pulsed like faint heartbeats. Each rune was etched with surgical precision, every line positioned to strengthen the stone, redirect pressure, and prevent collapse even under divine battle.

This was no human structure.

This was an arena built for beings who could shatter mountains with their fists.

Enormous pillars shaped like braided roots spiraled upward toward the ceiling, each carved with depictions of the Netherborn, Daniel's own people, engaged in combat, meditation, and rites that mortals had long forgotten. The floor bore a massive circular seal, etched with labyrinthine patterns designed to absorb kinetic force. A single punch thrown at full power would ripple across the chamber, dying harmlessly against the far walls.

This was why Ragnar had not flinched when Daniel revealed his Netherborn form, he had stood in a place built for them.

"You're afraid to train here," Melgil said softly as the lift stopped. Eirunn didn't answer. Her eyes were wide, almost overwhelmed by the sheer myth carved into every surface.

Melgil stepped beside her. "That is fine. Truly. Even seasoned warriors feel small when they enter this hall." She placed a gentle hand over Eirunn's. "But you do not need to go down there today."

Relief flooded Eirunn's face.

"But," Melgil added with a small smile, "you should know something important. Temples like this were never built to glorify gods. They were built so warriors could learn without destroying their home. Your fear of this place does not make you weak. It makes you human."

She stepped back into the light filtering down from the lift opening above.

"Let us train up top today. At your pace. In your way."

Eirunn nodded, eyes reflecting both gratitude and cautious hope.

And somewhere far above, in the open courtyard where starlight cut through the clouds, Ragnar exhaled in relief, knowing Melgil was giving his daughter something he alone never could:a path into the world that didn't require abandoning who she truly was.

The underground temple hummed with a strange, almost living resonance, as though the black granite-stone and runic lattices remembered every strike, every footfall, every warrior who had ever dared to train here. A hundred young Skaldborn lined up along the polished floors, their eyes wide with the awe and nervous tension that came from standing in a place older than memory itself. The carvings on the walls depicted battles fought by the Netherborn, their forms impossibly tall, impossibly fast, and impossibly strong, warriors who seemed to move as much through spirit as flesh. It was a history etched into stone, a silent tutor for every student who entered this sanctum.

And yet, amidst the throng of seasoned trainees, one figure moved with a quiet grace that drew every gaze without effort. Eirunn Stormbreaker, pale and willowy, advanced slowly on her crutches. The click of iron tips against the stone echoed faintly, but it was the rhythm of her body, steady and deliberate despite obvious frailty, that captured the attention of all present. This was the first time any of them had seen a Skaldborn walking with crutches, an act that would have seemed weakness in any other context, but here, in the sacred hall, it radiated determination.

Arvid Raskir's broad shoulders stiffened as he observed her. The sheer presence of someone from the Stormbreaker bloodline, fragile by appearances yet undeniably composed, commanded respect. Sigrid Ironveil, muscles tensed as if ready to react, softened in understanding; he could see the same unyielding core that Daniel had often praised in his students, a silent power honed by necessity.

Harald Thryne's eyes, sharp and analytical, scanned her movement for flaws, finding none. And Eira Valsmir, the daughter of a respected stormbreaker house, who had heard rumors of the hidden Stormbreaker heir but never dared to investigate, felt an unfamiliar twinge of curiosity and admiration. She realized now why no one had spoken of Eirunn's fate: the girl had been deliberately shielded, allowed to grow under the protective shadow of Ragnar's care after Astrid Stormbreaker succumbed to illness when Eirunn was only ten.

The other trainees, unaware of Eirunn's true lineage, watched silently as she took her place among them. Melgil had insisted that Eirunn line up as a warrior, not a healer, a deliberate choice to teach her the value of courage, discipline, and resilience above all else. In a society where lineage often dictated destiny, and the strong ruled while the weak were relegated to shadow, Melgil's decision was radical. The young Stormborns sensed her secret, though they did not know it fully. Yet even without knowing the details, Arvid, Sigrid, Harald, and Eira understood the reasoning behind her concealment: it was not shame that kept her silent, but protection, and a quiet defiance against the world's cruel hierarchy.

The underground temple seemed to shift subtly with intent, the thick granite-stone walls absorbing the presence of every warrior who moved within its cavernous halls. Melgil's voice cut through the quiet hum of anticipation, calm but resolute. "From today onward, we change our focus," she announced, her gaze sweeping across the fifty-one new trainees. "You will no longer merely perfect your strikes. You will learn to channel Seiðr through your body itself. Every motion, every breath, every step must flow with spiritual energy. Your physicality must become a conduit, not just a weapon."

Four massive training arenas lay before them, each a perfect square of fifteen meters by fifteen meters, separated by five-meter corridors where instructors and observers could pace freely. The walls were reinforced with runes that glowed faintly, an ancient lattice designed to contain energy surges, to test endurance, and to amplify the subtle pressures of Seiðr.

The floors were thick stone, carved from bedrock older than the Fjord itself, and Melgil had subtly altered their properties: gravity incrementally increased with each passing day, forcing trainees to adapt to heavier steps and more deliberate force. The weapons they carried, swords, axes, and spears, were bound with her rune work, becoming incrementally heavier with every repetition, designed to forge strength and precision beyond what their normal bodies could endure.

"Begin with the circuits," Melgil instructed. "Each of you will run around all four arenas ten times. Keep your focus. Let your breathing guide your energy. Feel every muscle, every tendon, every pulse of your heart. This is not endurance alone, this is the beginning of Seiðr integration into your physical form."

The trainees adjusted their grips, eyes narrowing as they began the laps. Those who had already passed this stage returned to the central arenas, repeating the fundamental nine-strike slash sequence. Every swing, every measured thrust, had to be precise, deliberate, and harmonized with their internal Seiðr energy. Melgil walked among them, observing quietly, letting her keen perception notice the subtle flickers of intent, the way their energy shifted as fatigue set in.

Unseen, the floors grew subtly heavier beneath their feet, every weapon gaining a fraction more weight with each pass. The trainees did not realize that each exertion pushed their bodies past previous limits, sculpting strength and spiritual resonance as surely as a chisel carved stone. By the end of the first circuit, faces were flushed, breath came in harsh bursts, but Melgil's eyes glittered with approval. She could see the sparks of adaptation already forming, muscles learning to move against increasing force, Seiðr energy beginning to cohere into tangible power, and a quiet determination hardening in those who had thought themselves exhausted.

Even Eirunn, moving cautiously on her crutches, felt the subtle pressure. Each careful step was an exercise in balance, each breath a channeling of energy. The temple itself seemed to lean toward her, the runes faintly pulsing as if acknowledging her resilience. While the others ran, swung, and fell into rhythm with Melgil's design, Eirunn's body, and her spirit, became a living bridge between fragile humanity and unbound power, setting a quiet example that rippled outward, touching every trainee who dared to look beyond mere physical strength.

By the end of the day, sweat and exhaustion hung thick in the air, but Melgil's presence remained steady, her instructions clear: "Tomorrow, we increase weight ,The body is but a vessel. Seiðr must flow through it. Only then will your strikes carry not just force, but meaning." And so, the underground temple became more than a hall of training, it became a crucible, forging a new generation of Skaldborn warriors who would learn that strength was as much spiritual as it was physical, and that every hardship, every forced repetition, was a step toward mastery of themselves and the energies that flowed through them.

Ragnar stood on the cliffside, the salt wind whipping around him, his massive frame tense yet unmoving. His eyes were fixed on the entrance of the underground temple, where the glow of rune-light reflected off the polished stone floors, illuminating the disciplined chaos of the training halls.

And there she was, Eirunn, his only daughter, moving with a careful determination that made his chest tighten. Every step she took with her crutches was deliberate, measured, yet somehow fluid. She was no longer hiding, no longer retreating into shadow. For the first time since her mother's death, she had stepped fully into the light, drawn by something deeper than obligation or expectation. The presence of Daniel and Melgil had created a spark in her, a revelation that true strength did not lie in brute muscle or rigid bloodline alone, but in courage, persistence, and the will to claim one's place in the world. Ragnar's eyes glistened with pride; his daughter was finally learning to see herself as a force, not a burden.

Inside the temple, Daniel moved with quiet purpose. The moment his gaze swept the training floor, he sensed it, the distinct, familiar energy that mirrored Ragnar's own, flowing through a smaller, yet remarkably resolute form. It was Eirunn. Even as she ran, crutches clattering softly against the stone, Daniel could feel the raw determination beneath the fragility, the untrained brilliance seeking harmony. He noted the way she pushed herself against the weight, against her limitations, moving alongside the other Skaldborn trainees as though gravity itself tested her at every step.

Daniel's eyes shifted over the rest of the trainees. He was calm, disciplined, but the moment he caught a hint of arrogance, cruelty, or the belittling of another, his presence changed. Every stray movement carried silent authority. Those who thought to mock or undermine their peers suddenly felt a weight in the air, a pressure that made even the bravest hesitate.

Daniel would spar with them immediately, not out of rage, but to teach the harsh lesson that arrogance, cruelty, or dishonor had no place among warriors. The young Skaldborn felt it in their bones: Daniel's discipline carved fear deep into their hearts, not a mindless terror, but a sharp, clarifying edge that reminded them they were not thugs, not bandits. They were warriors. Every misstep, every lapse of respect, was met with precision, a controlled counter, a test of honor and humility.

And so, as Ragnar watched from above, the training temple became a crucible unlike any the Fjord had ever seen. Eirunn pressed onward, a broken body moving with indomitable will. Around her, Daniel sculpted the next generation, not with empty praise, but with unflinching standards, exacting tests, and a philosophy that demanded warriors of heart, mind, and spirit. Here, in this ancient, rune-carved temple,

the young Skaldborn learned that true strength was not about domination, but about courage tempered with respect, and that anyone who failed to honor that code would feel the full weight of a master's hand. Ragnar allowed himself a quiet breath, feeling pride, awe, and relief wash over him: his daughter was finally beginning to step into her own legacy, and the Fjord would never be the same.

Ragnar's eyes never left the temple as the days unfolded, watching the careful orchestration of training that Daniel and Melgil had implemented. The approach was unlike anything Valdyrheim had ever known: martial arts were no longer simply a measure of who could crush the other first, but a philosophy of restraint, awareness, and preservation. Daniel had made it clear from the first day that the goal was not to humiliate or kill a weaker opponent, but to cultivate skill, precision, and understanding of combat so that every strike, every maneuver, carried intention, purpose, and responsibility.

In Daniel's teachings, the weakest enemy was not a target for slaughter, it was a test of discipline, patience, and moral judgment. Melgil's influence reinforced this perspective. She had long observed the world through reason, intuition, and keen perception rather than force alone. Together, they shaped a vision of martial arts that was a tool to protect, not to oppress, a language of power that demanded honor above all else.

The first fifty trainees, those who had already endured the initial trials and whose bodies and minds had begun to harden, were given a different level of guidance. Ragnar had assigned them to real-world missions under the supervision of veteran warriors like Bjorn Halvarsson and Runa Hallveig. These excursions were not simple skirmishes or rote exercises; they were carefully designed to give practical experience, to test strategy, adaptability, and courage in situations where lives could depend on skill and wisdom rather than sheer force.

Daniel remained deeply involved with the underground temple, teaching close-quarters combat with a precision that forced even the strongest to rethink their understanding of motion, timing, and energy. He treated all the trainees equally, regardless of lineage, size, or fame, instilling the same uncompromising standard in each. No one was favored, and no one excused.

Eirunn's presence remained quietly central to this philosophy. Though Daniel and Melgil both possessed the ability to heal her crippled legs in an instant, they refused. To do so would have undermined the lesson of perseverance, resilience, and the mastery of limitations. Every step she took with her crutches, every moment she pressed her body past exhaustion, became part of a rigorous schooling in patience and willpower. Daniel, watching her, could perceive what Melgil sensed as well: Eirunn possessed a vast Seiðr energy capacity, larger than her own father's, her potential still raw and untamed, yet infinitely malleable. It was the kind of power that could be frightening, even destructive, in the wrong hands—but tempered by her mind, her discipline, and the ethical framework Daniel and Melgil instilled, it could become legendary.

The daily regimen was relentless. Each day began earlier, the training arenas echoing with the rhythmic pounding of feet and the controlled clash of weapons. The exercises intensified constantly: running the four interconnected 15-by-15-meter arenas in circuits that pushed cardiovascular limits; weapon drills with Melgil's rune-cast enhancements, making blades heavier and more resistant to control; and Seiðr exercises that forced trainees to harmonize their energy with the earth, the air, and the subtle currents of magic around them.

Even the floor itself was manipulated, the gravity shifting incrementally to challenge endurance and balance. Yet in all this strain, Eirunn never faltered. She was consistently the last to finish, yet never whined, never complained, never showed despair. Her body trembled, sweat streaked her pale skin, and her muscles burned, but her expression remained steadfast, resolute, and clear.

Daniel observed this silently, a rare smile flickering across his otherwise impassive features. In her endurance, in her refusal to yield despite the apparent weakness of her body, he saw the unmistakable mark of noble blood, a warrior's heritage not just of strength, but of spirit. She was nineteen, small in frame compared to many of the other trainees, yet she carried herself with the courage, patience, and relentless will of a veteran soldier. Even Arvid Raskir, Sigrid Ironveil, Harald Thryne, and Eira Valsmir, each formidable in their own right, could not help but feel a shifting respect as they watched her. Her determination was magnetic; it reshaped the energy of the room, and it made the other trainees push harder, synchronize better, and recognize that true strength was measured not merely by the speed of one's strike, but by the indomitable persistence to see it through until the very end.

Under Daniel and Melgil's guidance, the temple became more than a place of training, it became a crucible for character. Each day forged the young Skaldborn in body, mind, and Seiðr, but also in moral discernment, courage, and honor. And in the center of it all, Eirunn Stormbreaker moved with a quiet, relentless grace, proving that even the most fractured vessel could carry within it a power capable of reshaping the world. Ragnar, watching from afar, felt both awe and relief: his daughter was finally stepping into her own, and the Fjord's legacy of warriors had gained a new standard, a standard that was not just about victory, but about mastery of self, discipline, and heart.

As Daniel Rothchester's teachings spread like wildfire across Valdyrheim, a new philosophy began to take root, less a faith and more a disciplined, lived approach to life and combat, one that fused the mystical precision of Seiðr with reason, morality, and self-mastery. It was called Veridica, a name drawn from the old tongue meaning "truth in action," and it was a doctrine that reshaped how the people of the land and eventually the wider and furthest parts of Valdyrheim , perceived strength, honor, and purpose.

In Veridica, strength was never measured by the blood spilled or enemies crushed beneath one's heel, but by mastery over oneself, body, mind, and spirit harmonized to act with clarity and intention. Every strike, every movement, every exertion carried purpose; wasteful force, arrogance, or cruelty was dishonorable, and combat itself became a language of reason rather than a display of raw, unbridled power. Courage, too, was redefined: fear was natural, even necessary, but facing it consciously, acknowledging its presence, and acting with intent cultivated resilience and character.

The preservation of life became paramount, violence was a tool, not a spectacle, wielded to protect, to achieve, and to safeguard, not to glorify gods whose demands had once driven clans into needless slaughter. Discipline became sacred: daily drills, measured training, reflection on mistakes, and the careful cultivation of Seiðr energy shaped warriors not just in skill, but in wisdom and moral fortitude. Weakness was not shunned or derided but understood, analyzed, and transformed into strength. Finally, reason guided all decisions: the ripple of one's actions extended beyond the battlefield, shaping cities, clans, and generations yet unborn.

The people of Valdyrheim responded instinctively to this new order. Warriors who had been raised to seek glory through obedience and ritual now found a deeper, more personal measure of honor. Citizens, too, embraced the philosophy, discovering a way to respect courage and strength without bowing to capricious gods or following destructive dogma. Stories of Daniel and Melgil teaching young Skaldborn in the Fjord spread through taverns, training halls, and markets, painting vivid images of the Netherborn guiding students with patient discipline, pushing them to the limits of endurance, and showing them that true power lay in the balance of mind, body, and spirit.

Even the harsh northern war clans, hardened by tradition and conquest, could not escape the whispers of Veridica: its principles seeped through the walls of fortresses, reaching the Draugr armies as rumors of reasoned strength, deliberate action, and self-mastery began to challenge old, faith-driven mandates. In every city and village, in every training hall and arena, a quiet revolution took place, a reshaping of ideals, where honor was no longer the domain of deities demanding blood, but of mortals learning to temper their power with wisdom, their courage with awareness, and their actions with truth.

Through Veridica, Daniel and Melgil did not merely teach fighting; they cultivated a vision of life itself, where the highest victory was mastery over the self, and the noblest legacy was a world shaped by reason, discipline, and the unwavering courage to act rightly, even in the face of fear and death.

Far to the north, where the mountains clawed at the sky and the wind cut like sharpened steel, the White Devil Guild Enders moved with methodical, relentless purpose. Their leader, Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane, towered over his subordinates, his crimson-furred cloak flowing like a shadow of blood and frost. Unlike the Fjord, where Daniel and Melgil shaped warriors through discipline, reason, and Seiðr, Eirikr's empire thrived on fear, domination, and the unnatural. Thousands of undead, each bound through arcane blood rites and necromantic will, filled the icy barrens and snow-choked valleys, their hollow eyes reflecting the dim northern sun. They marched without pause, without need for sustenance or rest, a perfect army for a Jarl who believed his lineage traced back to the blood of the gods themselves.

Rumors of Daniel, the Netherborn, and his exploits reached the northern peaks, but they elicited nothing more than derision from Eirikr. The claim that a single man could fell a thousand undead as if he were some living god struck him as laughable, a fairy tale meant to amuse those too naive to understand real power. His eyes glittered with contempt. A mortal? A Netherborn? Pathetic. To Eirikr, only those who commanded legions, whose blood carried divine heritage, could shape the world; any whisper of mortal defiance was folly to be crushed. Yet, pragmatism tempered his arrogance. The plains and eastern territories still called to him: fertile lands, stockpiles of resources, cities rich for conquest. But his greatest weapon was already assembled, a million-strong undead host, forged to never falter, never tire, never hunger.

The northern mountains themselves, jagged and towering at nearly forty kilometers in range and rising to fifteen hundred meters, became the cradle for his army. Valleys stretched wide, blanketed in snow, capable of holding legions beyond counting, and soon every pass would echo with the hollow march of the dead. Eirikr surveyed the landscape from his fortress, a bastion carved into stone, reinforced with necrotic runes and ironclad gates. The air shimmered with the pulse of his army, the quiet hum of thousands of undead hearts, magically bound, waiting for his command. Each step they took churned the snow, grinding frost into a mist that smelled faintly of iron and decay.

The northern clans, twelve in total, marched in alignment with Eirikr's strategy, their mortal soldiers feeding and guarding the edges of the army, their purpose clear: maintain the dead, expand the army's range, and prepare for the inevitable push eastward. To them, the stories of Daniel and Melgil were childish myths, distractions from the reality of conquest and survival. They had no gods to question, no philosophy to consider, only the iron law of strength: control, dominate, and annihilate.

Yet, even as the undead amassed, blanketing the valleys and peaks like a living storm, the air in the north carried an undercurrent of unease. Legends whispered that forces such as Daniel Rothchester were not to be underestimated, not because they wielded gods' power, but because they understood the limits of mortality and the depths of strategy. But Eirikr, blinded by bloodline pride and the sheer might of his tireless army, only laughed. The snow would bear witness soon enough to his ambition: a million undead marching toward the heart of Valdyrheim, unstoppable, untiring, and merciless. And in that frozen silence, a storm was waiting, one born not of the undead, but of reason, courage, and the living will of those Daniel and Melgil were forging in the fjords below.

The sun dipped low over Skardal Flats, painting the small town in hues of crimson and gold. Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys, carrying the faint scent of bread and livestock. The villagers went about their routines, unaware of the shadow creeping closer, Hadrun the Hollow and the remaining Hands of Renewal cultists had quietly infiltrated the town under the cover of evening, seeking to rekindle chaos and impose their fanatical beliefs. Their numbers were fifty strong, skilled in deception, minor Seiðr, and the ruthless tactics that had made them notorious across the north.

Meanwhile, twelve young warriors, recently initiated into Daniel Rothchester's teachings, patrolled the outskirts of the town. Arvid Raskir, Sigrid Ironvei, Harald Thryne, Eira Valsmir, and Eirunn Stormbreaker led the group, each carrying not just weapons, but the lessons of Veridica ingrained in their bodies, the rhythm of Seiðr, the flow of energy, the discipline to strike decisively yet without unnecessary cruelty. They had been told that their purpose was not to seek glory, but to protect life, to act as guardians of the villages too weak to defend themselves, and to face the unexpected with courage and clarity.

The first clash came abruptly. A cultist stepped out from behind a crumbling fence, dagger raised, eyes gleaming with fanaticism. One flick of Arvid's wrist, guided by Melgil's teachings, and the man's dagger flew from his hand as if repelled by an invisible force, a demonstration of Seiðr-infused redirection. Before the others could react, three more cultists lunged, only to meet the synchronized strikes of Harald and Sigrid, their blows precise, fluid, and deadly without hesitation.

Even outnumbered, the twelve moved like a single organism. Each of Daniel's lessons played out in real time: awareness, reaction, flow, and purposeful action. Eirunn, crutches balanced against her slight frame, glided across the terrain, her steps calculated, her strikes unexpected yet forceful. She drew a cultist toward her, allowing his momentum to turn against him, sending him sprawling into a wall. Eira Valsmir intercepted another, her energy pulsing like a tethered storm, subduing the enemy without lethal intent, exactly what Daniel had drilled into them.

Hadrun the Hollow emerged from the shadows, robes whispering over the cobblestones. His eyes, pale as death, swept the battlefield with disdain. "Fools," he hissed. "Do you think you can stop the righteous hand of Renewal with the tricks of a mortal man?" He unleashed a pulse of corrupt Seiðr energy, dark and corrosive, intended to fracture the young warriors' formation.

But the twelve had already learned to sense such forces. They flowed around it like water diverting from stone, closing ranks when needed, opening space when necessary. Each strike, parry, and redirection was deliberate. The cultists' coordination faltered as they found themselves countered at every turn by a team that thought as one. Their spells bounced harmlessly off Arvid's reinforced stance, while Harald and Sigrid disarmed three more with strikes that seemed almost preordained.

Eirunn's eyes flicked toward Hadrun, calm yet burning with a fire that had been tempered through months of relentless training. Even her body, still imperfect, moved with the certainty of someone who understood that true strength lay not in the sheer force of her limbs but in the precision of her mind and spirit. She stepped forward, and with a deft series of crutch-assisted maneuvers, brought down two cultists in rapid succession, each strike perfectly timed to disable rather than kill, leaving Hadrun's forces increasingly disoriented.

By the end of the confrontation, the twelve stood amidst fifty disarmed, incapacitated, or fleeing cultists, the town's farmers watching in awe from behind shuttered windows. The young warriors had not just defended Skardal Flats, they had demonstrated, in living motion, the principles of Veridica. Their power was visible, yet tempered by honor; their skill was undeniable, yet guided by conscience. The villagers saw that this was not the might of a god, nor of chaos, it was human mastery, human courage, and human wisdom, and it could protect those too weak to defend themselves.

As Hadrun retreated, seething and furious at being outmaneuvered by what he considered mere children, the twelve regrouped. Eirunn lowered her new design lofstrand crutches sweat lining her pale forehead, and let out the faintest smile. She had stepped into the light and into her strength, alongside her peers who had witnessed the subtle power of discipline, strategy, and moral purpose. Daniel's philosophy was no longer theory, it was a reality, embodied in twelve warriors who could face fifty foes and prevail without succumbing to arrogance, fear, or unnecessary cruelty.

Hadrun the Hollow slinked back into the shadows, his robes whispering over the cobblestones as he reassessed the situation. The small town of Skardal Flats had not fallen, and the twelve young Veridica-trained warriors had demonstrated skill, discipline, and uncanny cohesion. He paused atop a small rise outside the town, letting the cool evening air sharpen his mind. His eyes glimmered with pale cunning as he drew a sigil in the dirt, sealing it with a faint pulse of dark Seiðr. With the motion, a shadow-carved messenger erupted from the rune, bound to carry a message of dire urgency to the north.

"Ulfric Greyvein," Hadrun hissed, his voice almost swallowed by the wind. "The children of Rothchester have proven themselves beyond expectation. Skardal Flats resisted with only twelve warriors. They follow a discipline unlike any we have seen. You must act… the Wives demand it."

The message carried itself over snow-swept plains, twisting through the towering northern mountains, before reaching the frost-covered ramparts of the Bloodmane stronghold. Inside the northern keep, the halls were filled with the distant echoes of metal and muted chants. Ulfric Greyvein, a loyal captain of the Bloodmane forces, knelt as the message arrived, black frost forming on the parchment like a premonition of the coming storm. He read it carefully, understanding both the threat and the intricate politics embedded in it.

The first to respond was Freydis the Crimson Witch, seated in her private hall a mile to the right of the main fortress. The room was dim, lit by braziers whose flames danced crimson against the pale stone. Her raven-black hair fell over her shoulders as her blood-red eyes tracked the ethereal messengers. She smiled coldly, her lips curling like knives. "So the Netherborn's children play at valor," she murmured. Her voice was like ice sliding over glass. "Send Ulfric. Let him bring the puppets. I wish to see their mettle… and perhaps harvest their essence for study. Those who falter will serve me in blood, willingly or not."

Freydis' fingers traced over her silver runic jewelry, feeling the faint hum of magic as if it responded to her intentions. Her blood weaved subtly, a crimson shimmer outlining her veins as she mentally prepared her spell craft. She had perfected the art of Blood weave, manipulating her own life force or the essence of others to heal, harm, or enslave, but she took no joy in frivolous battles. Every move was calculated. This would be a test of patience and cruelty, and she intended to savor both.

At the same time, a mile to the left of the main castle, Asterid Ironheart, the second wife, paced her great hall. Her golden hair caught the faint light of torches, and the forged steel orb in place of her left eye reflected it with a cold, metallic sheen. Chainmail clinked with every step, though her movements were graceful, trained for battle even in rest. Ulfric's messenger arrived at her doors as well. Asterid read swiftly, her bronze-skinned hands closing into fists, muscles tightening. "Let them come," she said sharply. "Let us see if their so-called discipline holds when the Battle Hymn is unleashed. My Shieldmaidens will turn any doubt into slaughter. Five minutes of frenzy is all it takes to test the mettle of even the bravest."

The northern Bloodmane forces began to shift. Thousands of undead warriors, fueled by necrotic Seiðr and the eternal hunger of the Draugr, stirred in the snow-covered valley below the mountains. The puppets of Freydis and the Shieldmaidens of Asterid readied themselves, each wielding their respective powers, blood and battle frenzy, to ensure that the first clash would be both terrifying and decisive.

Hadrun observed from his shadowed perch, calculating every angle. The twelve young warriors of Veridica, still blissfully unaware of the scale of what loomed, would soon face a philosophical and martial crucible. This was more than a battle, it was the first true test of Daniel Rothchester's doctrine against the rigid, blood-soaked traditions of Valdyrheim, where divine lineage, undead armies, and the whims of war- lord families greed dictated the fate of millions .

The northern cold winds howled across the mountain range as the two wives of Eirikr Bloodmane, Freydis the Crimson Witch and Asterid Ironheart, stood at the edges of their separate dominions, divided by a single mile of frozen valley yet separated by decades of rivalry. Freydis' fortress of black stone and crimson banners rose like a fang against the dying light, while Asterid's bastion to the east gleamed with steel and golden braziers. Their hatred for each other ran deeper than the mountain roots: Freydis believed her mastery of blood and runes made her the rightful queen beside Eirikr, while Asterid clung to the prophecy that the one with the Ironheart,her lineage, would stand as the destined ruler of the realm. But destiny was a luxury neither could pursue alone. With Eirikr Bloodmane's decree echoing through the cold halls, their personal feud was forced to be set aside. Together, they bent their will toward fulfilling his dark vision—a realm conquered by an unstoppable tide of the dead. With the White Devil Guild's guidance and the remains of the Hands of Renewal twisted to serve necromancy instead of salvation, they raised an army whose numbers now swelled toward a million, filling the snow-covered valley like a silent sea of corpses waiting for command.

The old prophecy of "the Sleepless Legion," once whispered in hushed tones and later dismissed as a childish tale, now breathed again in the world, a horrifying reality forged by ambition and Seiðr corruption. Farmers and wanderers who once spoke of undead as myths now fled in terror as draugr waited silently under Bloodmane banners. as many of hi citizen cower in fear seeing these monster stood in line waiting to be unleashed unto the world, the only thig that name these scared people remain under the flag of the bloodmane was the idea they will be excluded from the massacer these vil creatures will do, the moment they march nto the open land.

The proclamation spread like wildfire across Valdyrheim, a message carried by traders, hunters, passing caravans, and the very wind:

Ragnar Stormbreaker, chieftain of the Four Lesser Clans, had declared before thousands that the Netherborn himself had chosen their land as the cradle of a new discipline built on truth, reason, and strength.Not faith.Not superstition.Not fear.

For the first time in generations, the north had a guiding flame.

The Hands of Renewal collapsed almost overnight.Their "holy revivals," their staged miracles, their promises of resurrection through blind devotion, all of it shattered the moment the people saw something that could not be faked:

Warriors who had truly changed.

Not in appearance, but in presence.Not in words, but in the way they stood—balanced, silent, aware.

Doctrines fell apart before the eyes of frightened priests who once commanded entire villages.Their influence crumbled like dried leaves, swept away by something far more powerful than fanaticism:the undeniable proof of discipline forged by real struggle.

And then they came.

From every corner of Valdyrheim, the lost and the desperate began to move toward the central plains, where Ragnar had opened the clan halls in the name of Veridica.

The roads transformed into rivers of humanity.

Farmers from the southern lowlands, sun-burned and weary, pushed wooden carts piled with whatever they could save, blankets, tools, and cracked heirlooms that clattered with each step. Their children walked barefoot beside them, staring wide-eyed at the mountains rising like jagged teeth on the horizon.

Smiths from the Ironreach forges arrived in soot-stained aprons, smelling of coal and iron. Their thick hands were burned from years of labor, yet they carried their hammers with pride. Some marched in groups, others alone, each seeking to understand the runes they had heard whispered about—runes that granted calm, precision, and strength without requiring worship.

Former cult believers, trembling as if the world might punish them at any moment, traveled in quiet clusters. They clutched torn Renewal charms and looked constantly over their shoulders. Many cried when they saw the clan banners, unsure if they would be accepted or cast out.

Wanderers and hunters, scarred from encounters with creatures that roamed the wilds, walked with hollow eyes. Some had lost entire families to monsters or bandits. Others had survived horrors they refused to speak of. These were people who had seen the world's cruelty firsthand—and had come seeking something that made sense of it.

Even hardened mercenaries, men and women who once laughed in the face of death, approached with caution. The things rising in the north had frightened even them. Rumors of Draugr patrols, of silent horse-headed demons, of whole towns vanishing overnight had driven them toward Veridica's promise of structure.

The plains outside Storm Skjorn Fjord became a sea of tents, carts, and improvised shelters.Smoke from campfires rose in thin spirals toward a sky heavy with snow, while the distant crash of waves echoed against the fjord walls.

And then, something unexpected happened.

The Four Lesser Clans did not turn them away.

The moment the first refugees reached the gates, Ragnar gave the order:

"Open the halls. No one seeking discipline shall be cast out."

Clan warriors carried water barrels to the crowds.Shieldmaidens offered blankets and simple food.Runesmiths built makeshift shelters using scrap wood and canvas.And slowly, the chaos began to organize itself.

Where hundreds had stood confused, the presence of the first one hundred trainees—the pioneers of Veridica—transformed everything.

They moved with silent coordination, guiding people into lines, calming disputes, assigning spaces, and separating the sick from the healthy with calm, steady hands.Their sharp eyes missed nothing.Their posture radiated confidence without aggression.

War-hardened faces softened.Children stopped crying.Even former cultists, who expected hatred, found only silent acknowledgment—as if the pioneers saw not who they had been, but who they could become.

And in the growing crowd, thousands began to whisper the same thing:

The plains beyond Storm Skjorn Fjord became a hive of movement. Smoke from cooking fires mingled with the frost-scented morning air, carrying the murmur of thousands now drawn toward Veridica. The first wave of new recruits had barely set their feet on the frozen ground when the pioneers of the original one hundred, those who had survived bandit raids, cult remnants, and northern horrors, formed their disciplined lines. Their eyes, calm and steady, scanned the newcomers as if weighing their very worth in silence. Each step, each slight gesture, radiated control, a mastery that only real struggle and relentless training could forge.

One young man, ragged and pale, stepped forward first, clutching a tattered cloak about his shoulders, the fabric worn from travel and snow. His voice trembled with awe, yet carried a sharp edge of hope:"Is it true? That the Netherborn teaches through the clans? That he… gives strength without demanding worship?"

A Shieldmaiden from Clan Hrold, armor gleaming faintly with runic etchings, stepped forward, her tone firm but not harsh:"He demands nothing, only that you learn, listen, and survive."

Behind him, a middle-aged woman with calloused hands, fingers still blackened from working soil, stepped forward. Her eyes, red from the wind, shone with desperation and determination."My village burned. My sons… taken by the Renewal. I have nothing left. If your halls will let me in… I'll give my life to learning."

A pioneer trainee, lean and taut from years of practice, stepped beside her, hand extended not in judgment but reassurance:"You need only give effort. The rest, Veridica will shape."

From the edges of the crowd, a smith, soot-stained and hunched from years bent over furnaces, raised his voice:"I want to know how those runes work. The ones your warriors carve on their armor. If knowledge is shared here, then I'll share my craft."

A former cultist, trembling, tears streaking a dirt-stained face, fell to his knees. "I don't want lies anymore. I want truth. I want discipline. I want… to be better."

The pioneer trainees moved to surround him, not with intimidation, but with steady, unwavering reassurance. One of them, a youth whose stance mirrored Daniel's precision, crouched beside the man and spoke gently:"Then stand. Veridica wastes no life that can still change."

And as the first whispers of transformation spread across the plains, a tremor ran through Storm Skjorn Fjord. The ground seemed to acknowledge a presence far heavier than mere mortals. The massive figure of Siglorr, encased in his golem-forged armor of stone, metal, and etched runes, approached the fjord gates. Each step struck like a hammer on an anvil, sending faint reverberations across the wooden palisades.

The gate guards instinctively raised their weapons, but Siglorr's voice, amplified and resonant through runic vents in his helm, cut through the morning frost:"I seek Stormbreaker. And I seek the Netherborn's path. My craft serves them now."

Inside the halls, apprentices whispered among themselves, half in fear, half in awe."Is that a golem?" one asked, eyes wide."No… it moves too naturally," another murmured."I heard dwarves once built armor like that, to hide among giants," a third added, watching the massive figure kneel before Ragnar.

Siglorr's words, calm but resonant, reached only those closest:"My forge, my knowledge, and my silence are yours. Point me to the work. I have much to build."

Ragnar simply smiled, a rare expression of satisfaction crossing his battle-hardened features:"Then you came at the right time, smith. The Netherborn and his companion have changed their faces, And now all of Veridica must follow."

Siglorr turned to his workbench, eyes catching the sketches, rune diagrams, and fragments of ether-reactive scale dust Daniel and Melgil had prepared. He slammed his hammer down, sparks leaping across the metal:"So this is the new visage of the Netherborn… Sharp, efficient, symbolic. Armor that resonates with harmony, not chaos."

And then the forge roared to life.

Dark, reflective plating shaped from Leviathan alloys.Vein-like channels etched with runes that pulsed faintly with balanced ether.Layers of cloth threaded with frost-thread, insulating against the northern chill.Insignias and symbols designed to represent the harmony between body, Seiðr, and mind, glowing softly as if alive.

Every strike of the hammer sang a new note in the language of Veridica. Every bend of metal, every runic engraving, carried the silent message: Strength without cruelty. Power without worship. Discipline as a living expression of truth.

Siglorr's voice, deep and unwavering, echoed over the forge:"Your look is not a costume, Netherborn. It is a language. A warning. And I will forge it into every warrior under your banner."

Outside, the people of the fjord watched the smoke rise from the forge, and for the first time, many truly understood what it meant to follow a path not created by a selfish god , but of mastery, reason, and unyielding purpose.

Every step Daniel and Melgil took was measured, silent against the frozen earth. Snow crunched only faintly under their boots, as if the land itself conspired to hide them. The moon hung low, silver and cold, casting long shadows over abandoned ruins and quiet hamlets. Above, the ether-dust map in the Leviathan's upper chamber had already projected their intended path—a lattice of red pulses marking pockets of chaos, isolated threats that ordinary armies might never find in time.

Daniel's eyes scanned the horizon. Even the slightest movement drew his attention: a stray flicker of torchlight, a shadow that did not belong. He gestured to Melgil, who bent to inspect a shallow ravine. Runic threads hummed faintly across her gauntlets, sensing subtle shifts in spiritual energy—the faint flare of bandit ambushes, or the residual echoes of a cultist ritual.

Daniel whispered, his voice almost lost in the wind:"They don't even know we exist. The Draugr and Nuckelavee obey blindly. Their master commands, and they move like stones. Without intent, they are like mountains. Dangerous only if we stumble carelessly."

Melgil's lips curved slightly. Her eyes never left the horizon."And yet, because they have no malice… we can move as ghosts. Strike where the world thinks no one watches, and disappear before the smoke even rises."

Daniel adjusted the harness on his chest, the rune channels along his armor glowing faintly in harmony with the ether around him. Each pulse resonated with subtle power, designed not to kill unnecessarily, but to incapacitate, to disrupt, to protect."They wait in silence. That is their strength. And it is their weakness. We will choose the time, the place… and the lives we preserve will remember nothing but a shadow."

Melgil crouched, placing a hand over the snow. The faint shimmer of runic energy traced the frozen ground beneath her fingers."By avoiding killing intent, the void cannot sense us. They cannot predict where we strike. We are invisible not because we hide, but because the essence of harm does not exist in our purpose."

A faint rumble echoed from the distance—a small bandit camp had stirred, unaware of the coming reckoning. Daniel's voice was calm, precise:"Ready. Split. Flank from north and south. The map shows their weakness. No fire. No panic. Only precision."

They moved like shadows splitting from a single form. By the time the first survivors saw any sign of them, it was already too late. Bandit swords fell uselessly, traps triggered harmlessly under careful pressure, cultists' runes fizzled as Melgil's hands traced the air above them. Nothing died needlessly. Nothing burned. And yet, every village marked with red on the map was cleansed before the sun rose, as if some unseen hand had passed over the land.

At dawn, Daniel and Melgil returned to the Leviathan. No footprints remained beyond the faint glint of ether dust that would fade with the morning light. Ragnar's message echoed in Daniel's mind, the people would never see the shadow, but they would feel the change, the safety, the order brought to a land teetering on chaos.

Daniel looked at Melgil."They will speak of us as gods… but they must never see the truth. We are not gods. Only the hands that guide what the world cannot."

Melgil nodded, her gaze steady."Then let the Netherborn walk. And let the world wonder why the shadows protect it."

Outside, across Valdyrheim, whispers began to ripple through the villages and frozen highlands. Murmurs of unseen protectors, of strangers appearing and vanishing in the night, carried through the wind. By midday, people would speak not of armies or glory, but of a silent force—a phantom presence that moved like thought, acted like reason, and left only safety in its wake.

And so, the Netherborn walked, unseen, unstoppable, and yet profoundly merciful.

The impact of Daniel and Melgil's shadow operations rippled across Valdyrheim in ways even the most seasoned warriors could not anticipate. Villagers who once cowered at the mere mention of bandits or cultists now whispered in awe of the phantom figures bearing the unmistakable insignia on their backs, the same armor Daniel and Melgil were using , as Siglorr's made similat looking designs in his forge, etched with runes that seemed to pulse with quiet authority. Wherever they appeared, broken crops, burned homes, and shattered spirits were restored almost immediately. Survivors would later speak of seeing limbs healed, wounds closing, even missing parts of bodies returning as if touched by some otherworldly hand.

The criminals and marauders who had once terrorized the countryside vanished without a trace. Bandit camps were dismantled quietly in the night, and when the villagers dared to approach the ruins at dawn, they found food and supplies laid neatly in baskets, protective wards etched into the soil, and enormous spiders, ethereal and yet vividly alive, guarding the towns like patient sentinels. These were the creatures of the Neth'raen clan, trained and secretly guided by Daniel's careful delegation.

Karnulf, a towering figure at seven feet, with sinews like braided steel and a deep scar running from his forehead across the left side of his face, patrolled the eastern farms, ensuring both protection and order. Beside him, Bomier, equally imposing despite his grey hair and years of battle, moved with lethal grace, a scar across his chest and back a testament to countless clashes, his presence a deterrent to anyone daring to disturb the peace. Freka, lean but undeniably powerful, her long black hair catching the sun, blue eyes sharp, bore a fresh scar on her neck, a mark of resilience—and moved among the villagers with a calm authority, openly sharing crops and providing aid with a smile that carried reassurance as much as command.

The dawn rose pale and brittle over Brundal's Hollow, the sunlight struggling through a thin veil of mist that clung to the narrow valley between jagged hills. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, mingling with the cold breath of the frozen river winding through the settlement. Normally, the town would stir slowly, villagers tending livestock, stoking hearths, or preparing for the day's laborsbut today, an undercurrent of tension hummed in every footstep, every clatter of cart wheels, every whisper of wind through bare trees. Something unseen moved in the shadows.

Daniel and Melgil had returned under cover of night, unseen but acutely present, their arrival felt rather than witnessed. With the mastery of the first Rune of the Gateway, their operations no longer required visibility. They moved like ghosts, orchestrating the intricate machinery of Veridica from behind the veil. The previous hours had been spent mapping the terrain, noting vantage points, natural hazards, and weak points in the village's defenses. They had planted subtle wards, hidden in fence posts, tree trunks, and rooftops, wards that would alert the villagers to danger, amplify their coordination, and guide their movements, all without revealing the hand of the Netherborn.

The test came swiftly. From the northern ridge, a band of fifty raiders surged, their eyes gleaming with anticipation of plunder, confident in their target's presumed weakness. But Brundal's Hollow was no ordinary town. Daniel and Melgil's teachings had transformed its inhabitants into disciplined defenders, guided by the principles of Veridica, not brute force, but measured precision, awareness, and purposeful action. Farmers, smiths, and former hunters lined the streets, gripping their weapons with intention. Each stance, step, and swing flowed from their mastery of body, mind, and Seiðr energy, instinct sharpened into instinctive harmony with the land around them.

From the eastern hill, the unstable snowpack gave way, sending a rockslide crashing toward the town. The collision of natural hazard and enemy advance created a roar of stone, ice, and wind. Panic might have broken lesser hearts, but the villagers moved with calm coordination. Guided by Melgil's hidden runes, they redirected the debris with ropes, beams, and pre-dug trenches, channeling it away from homes and livestock and transforming potential destruction into a tool of defense. Daniel observed from a distant ridge, noting with satisfaction how quickly the militia adapted, each movement exceeding the capabilities of seasoned northern warriors.

Then the bandits charged, shouting and swinging, expecting resistance born of fear rather than skill. The villagers met them not with chaos, but with deliberate precision. Shields rose in timed arcs, halberds swung in carefully measured motions, and traps, spike pits, tripwires, and entangling nets. funneled the attackers into narrow lanes where their momentum became a liability. Every strike was designed to subdue, not kill; every motion had purpose. A blacksmith swung his reinforced hammer, but instead of crushing bone, he disarmed two attackers in a single, fluid movement, a flourish honed under Daniel's guidance.

Meanwhile, fire barriers and strategic positioning herded livestock to safety, and the natural hazards themselves became instruments of control, seamlessly integrated into the militia's maneuvers. Melgil's guardian spider, Nyx, moved silently across rooftops and frozen eaves, nudging loose tiles into tripwires and bolstering the villagers' tactics. Her long silver-white hair shimmered in the sun as her presence subtly guided the militia's alignment, reinforcing the harmony of their coordinated defense.

By midday, the bandits were forced into retreat, disoriented, demoralized, disarmed, not by slaughter, but by disciplined resistance. The villagers cheered quietly, not with triumph over foes, but with pride in their own precision, their unity, their capability. Daniel and Melgil revealed themselves only then, stepping from the shadows, their presence recognized, though still awe-inspiring and mysterious. The militia bowed instinctively, not in worship, but in acknowledgment of guidance and teaching.

A council naturally formed in the town square. Villagers spoke eagerly, voices overlapping, sharing astonishment and relief.

An elder farmer, stooped with years of sun and toil etched into his skin, clutched a wooden carving of the Netherborn insignia. "I never believed we could stand… and yet, the bandits fled without spilling blood. My children, my sons, they followed every command, every signal. It was as if the town itself had learned to breathe as one."

A young hunter, eyes bright with exhilaration, added, "The rockslide… we turned what would have destroyed us into a weapon against chaos. I've hunted all my life, yet never felt such clarity, such control, such… precision."

A former cultist, voice trembling, whispered, "I used to pray to gods to protect us. Now I see—it is our own hands, our own courage, our own awareness. No gods. Only action. Only discipline."

Daniel, silent but attentive, allowed a small nod. Melgil, her rune-carved armor catching shards of sunlight, spoke softly, "This is proof. They are learning what we hoped, they are discovering balance, courage, and preservation on their own."

For the first time, Brundal's Hollow was thriving, no longer merely surviving. It had become a living testament to Veridica: self-mastery, purposeful action, courage through awareness, honor in preservation, growth through discipline, and a legacy guided by reason. Each shield raised, each carefully considered movement, each defensive success became a story—a seed of the doctrine destined to spread quietly, reshaping Valdyrheim before the Netherborn's disciples would appear in force, before Eirunn Stormbreaker arrived seeking Melgil's counsel.

In the days that followed, the villages across the valleys began reflecting these principles. Small militias trained in secret, crops were better protected, and the people—farmers, artisans, former cultists, began quietly adopting Veridica's tenets. Even Nyx and the hidden golem spiders patrolled unseen, safeguarding life without spectacle. Small carvings of the Netherborn insignia appeared in homes, on plow handles, and around doorframes, not as idols, but as reminders: act with intent, preserve life, grow in discipline.

News spread naturally, carried by travelers, merchants, and those saved from raids. Stories told of shadowy figures who healed the wounded, defended the weak, and vanished without recognition. Children learned to follow the Rune of Balance, smiths honed their craft for protection rather than profit, and militias moved in unison with the rhythm of Veridica. Strength was no longer measured by fear, conquest, or divine favor—it was measured by mastery over self, by courage grounded in awareness, and by actions guided by reason.

As the sun set behind jagged peaks, caravans of villagers from the eastern towns arrived at Storm Skjorn Fjord and Skardal Flats, carrying harvests, tools, and salvaged belongings. Lanterns flickered in the cold evening air, smoke spiraled from hearths, and the space buzzed with conversation. Elder farmers, young smiths, mothers, and former soldiers exchanged stories of protection, growth, and newfound purpose. They spoke of the Netherborn and Melgil, not as gods, but as guides, silent teachers whose principles could be witnessed, imitated, and passed on.

Strength, discipline, and courage, rooted in reason and harmony—had begun to take hold across Valdyrheim. The doctrine of Veridica, truth in action, was no longer theoretical. It lived in the hands, hearts, and minds of those who had seen it in action. Every village repaired, every militia trained, every child taught, became a pulse in a growing network of purpose, spreading silently across the land like the first green shoots breaking through frost-hardened soil, signaling that a new order, rooted in understanding and mastery, was quietly rising.

The first rays of sunlight glinted off the frozen rooftops of Skardal Flats as a solitary figure crested the winding ridge road. Eirunn Stormbreaker moved deliberately, her silhouette framed against the pale morning sky, the modified forearm crutches tapping rhythmically on the frost-hardened ground. These were no ordinary supports: reinforced with rune steel, threaded with subtle ether channels, and crafted under the guidance of Daniel, Melgil, and Siglorr, they allowed her to pivot, bear weight, and maneuver with the fluidity of a standing warrior.

Her presence radiated both resilience and authority, a living testament to the battle that had earned her the moniker whispered across the northern valleys: The Iron Crutch. The nickname carried reverence, acknowledging the courage she had displayed during the cultist uprising—where ingenuity and determination had transformed near-certain death into a defining moment of mastery and strategy, despite her monoplegia.

As Eirunn neared the central plaza of Storm Skjorn Fjord, the bustle of activity drew her attention. Villagers moved with precision, repairing barricades, coordinating militia drills, and distributing supplies. Her eyes noted subtle details: carved Netherborn insignias etched into doorframes, plows, and the handles of tools; faint rune glimmers atop rooftops, posts, and carts; small, precise gestures by the militia signaling coordination invisible to any outsider. Even from a distance, she sensed the invisible guardians patrolling the outskirts, Nyx and the other Golem Spiders, a silent lattice of protection orchestrated with Daniel and Melgil's guidance.

Then, almost imperceptibly, Daniel and Melgil's Netherborn forms vanished, as if the shadows themselves had claimed them. Where moments before their presence had radiated command, only the faint ripple of runic energy lingered in the cold morning air. Eirunn, far from startled, raised a single eyebrow in quiet acknowledgment. She had witnessed their impossible feats before, even halfway through their training, and knew that these disappearances were less magic than discipline, precision, and mastery of the Rune Spell. Many villagers, however, remained unaware of these subtleties, glancing uneasily as if sensing presences that could not be seen.

Her gaze swept over the militia, moving now with a choreography born of rigorous training. What had been farmers, smiths, and hunters were no longer simple villagers—they had become warriors, shaped by coordinated instinct and the quiet guidance of Daniel and Melgil. Among them were the Drengr, the first generation of skald-born warriors trained under the Netherborn's hand. Fully named and recognized for their skill, they roamed the land in groups of five, carrying the teachings of Veridica while still answering to their Jarl. Within their own belief, they had begun to internalize the doctrine, spreading it across villages and settlements.

The once-vacant flatlands outside the central region, barren and uncultivated, were now alive with people from distant towns. Refugees, new settlers, and families eager to purchase land had transformed it into fertile ground. Under the domain of Jarl Ragnar Stormbreaker, four lesser clans prospered, finally experiencing the long-awaited peace. The eastern region and central plains were united under one system, fostering security and prosperity.

The training grounds of Storm Skjorn Fjord had become a living tapestry of movement, discipline, and controlled chaos. Rows of new recruits stood in the frost, breaths rising in visible puffs as they awaited commands. Among them, Melgil's personal guards, the Veyrra, or Daughters of War ,moved with lethal elegance, scanning every motion for mistakes, ready to correct, guide, and teach. Here, recruits learned not just martial technique, but the philosophy behind every movement: Veridica. Self as measure, purposeful action, courage through awareness, honor in preservation, growth through discipline, legacy of reason. Every motion carried intention.

Clans long accustomed to ritualized battles found themselves questioning old fights. Veridica's insistence on precision, purpose, and preservation resonated unexpectedly, drawing even hardened warriors into the new system. They observed the drills, awkward at first, but gradually integrating the philosophy into their movements. Strength no longer meant cruelty, and victory no longer demanded destruction.

To reinforce these lessons, tournaments were organized, not as spectacles of glory, but as controlled tests of skill, coordination, and adaptability. One arena saw hand-to-hand combat, where every strike and dodge flowed with deliberate intent. Another arena featured axes, hammers, and long swords, teaching recruits to improvise with environment and weapon alike. Each clash reinforced the same fundamental truths: awareness, intent, and disciplined action.

Melgil observed from the sidelines, whispering to a lieutenant, "Notice how they anticipate, not react. That is the core of Veridica, action guided by understanding, not reaction to chaos." Her gaze swept over the field: former cultists moving fluidly, a blacksmith's apprentice integrating hammer strikes into footwork, a young woman weaving expertly between opponents. Every motion was doctrine made flesh.

From a higher platform, Daniel watched, his black armor absorbing and reflecting the pale sunlight. "They are learning more than technique," he said softly. "They are learning to measure themselves, to understand rhythm, the weight of choices. The battlefield is no longer a place for dominance alone, it is a place for discipline, strategy, and preservation."

Some older warriors, once reliant on brute strength, now hesitated in awe as young Drengr anticipated their moves with calm precision. Conversations rippled across the grounds. A seasoned fighter from the northern hills whispered, "I've fought for decades, yet these children… they move five steps ahead, and their thought is calm. This… is reason in action."

By evening, the grounds hummed with achievement. Recruits shared stories, laughed at mistakes, and marveled at moments of ingenuity. Wooden Netherborn insignias, once rare, appeared on belts, armor, and training weapons, a symbol of unity and shared discipline. The Veyrra guided and nurtured with renewed purpose, aware that the future of Valdyrheim rested not in fear, but in mastery and deliberate action.

Eirunn herself, at the center of it all, guided a detachment with her modified crutches. Her movements, precise and fluid, left even seasoned observers momentarily breathless. Arvid Raskir, age twenty-three, swung his war axe with measured force; Sigrid Ironveil, age twenty-two, wielded the longsword with calculated poise; Harald Thryne, also twenty-two, coordinated sword and shield flawlessly; Eira Valsmir, twenty-one, moved among the trainees, healing mock wounds with glowing, precise gestures.

A young militia recruit called out, pride in his voice, "Lady Stormbreaker! We've been training in your methods! We coordinate every strike, every block. We are no longer afraid of bandits or the north!"

Eirunn smiled faintly. "I fought the cultists," she said, "and they intended to brake me, but not my resolve. Seeing this… courage, understanding, purpose… this is Veridica in motion. Courage and discipline, tempered by reason, can turn villages into fortresses without walls, without kings, without gods."

Daniel nodded. "The northern Jarl, the challenges to the north… they will test this philosophy. But you see it now, not theory, not instruction, but action, as life itself. We have built this quietly, beneath the eyes of Valdyrheim. Soon, the world beyond these valleys will feel it too."

Melgil extended her hand to the plaza, alive with motion and coordination. "Witness them, Eirunn. The doctrine spreads. Not through worship, but through action, care, courage, and reason."

Eirunn adjusted her crutches, feeling the stability beneath her. "I fought for survival before. Now I see what survival can become… what life can become when guided by purpose and clarity. Let the northern Jarl come. Let Valdyrheim test us. They will find not fear, but readiness."

As the sun rose higher, illuminating frost-lined streets and farmlands beyond, the towns themselves pulsed with energy, a living testament to Veridica. Strength measured in mastery, courage grounded in awareness, action aligned with reason. And at the center, the Iron Crutch of Stormbreaker stood poised, a symbol of resilience, discipline, and the quiet power of reason in motion.