-Scandinavia-
-1403 AD-
(General P.O.V)
The rain had stopped, but the mud lingered, thick and cold under Dia's bare feet as she followed Gertrude down the narrow path between hay-stained barns and crooked fence posts.
The sky hung low, the color of damp wool. Chickens flapped and squawked at the sight of new meat—fresh slaves were always a spectacle.
"This way," Gertrude said, her voice smooth but tired. She wore a faded linen dress that clung to her hips and spoke with the casual authority of someone who had long since stopped hoping. "You'll tend to the laundry, help the mute feed the pigs, and if you don't piss off the Lady, she might let you sleep indoors when it rains."
Dia kept her head low. "Yes, ma'am."
"Don't call me ma'am. I'm no noble. Just someone who got lucky."
They turned the corner near the grain shed and came upon the mercenaries—six of them, armored in patched leather and steel, circling a figure slumped in the mud. Boots moved. Jokes flew. Something dull thudded into flesh.
Dia flinched. "Who—"
"Don't look," Gertrude said sharply. But Dia looked.
A boy, maybe her age, maybe older, hard to tell through the grime and bruises. Blonde hair clung to his scalp in wet clumps. He was curled in the mud like a dying dog, arms over his head. A few of the mercenaries laughed as one kicked him in the ribs. Another spat. "Dumb mute."
"Why aren't we stopping this?" Dia whispered.
"Because we want to live." Gertrude's tone was flat. "They work for Reinhardt. First son. He's got more titles than brains, but his men follow his word like dogs to raw meat. That one—" she gestured at the boy with a jerk of her chin, "—that's just Siegfried. The mute. Born a slave. Raised in the fields. He never talks, never fights back. Never even cries."
Dia's fists clenched.
Gertrude glanced at her. "You'll learn. Around here, keeping your head down is the only way to keep it on. Now come on."
The mercenaries parted as a tall man with a lion's mane of golden hair approached, laughing as he slapped a man on the back.
"Enough," said Reinhardt. "Save your energy. We patrol in an hour."
With that, the amusement ended. The guards wandered off, laughing and spitting in the mud. Siegfried didn't move.
Gertrude walked on. Dia hesitated but followed.
The boy lay still for another moment. Then—
(Siegfried's P.O.V)
The moment the footsteps faded, I let out a breath. Not from pain. From the effort of staying still.
You don't get used to pain. You survive it. You learn how to hold it in like breath in your lungs. You wait until it passes or you do. Taken from 20 years of slave experience.
I pushed myself up, slow and quiet. Mud clung to my back, my ribs ached where the boots landed hardest. But none of that mattered.
The piglet was still there.
Curled beneath me, snorting soft and scared. I cradled it, checking for broken bones. Its mother had been killed two days ago—gutted and left for rot because she scratched a merc's leg.
I couldn't sit back and watch those idiots torment her offspring.
"You alright, little one?" I whispered.
The piglet sniffled and snuggled close, its nose under my chin.
I rubbed its head gently, careful not to wince. "Sorry about your momma."
The wind stirred the reeds by the sty. I carried the piglet back toward the pen, one step at a time through the muck, quiet as the cold sky watching above.
As long as some people drew breath, I wasn't going to waste mine on them.
(General P.O.V)
-Lord Egon's Compound-
The Grand Hall smelled of spiced wine, sweat, and smoke. Animal fat crackled in the hearth while shadows from antlered chandeliers danced across the timber walls. Servants moved like ghosts, silent and quick, heads bowed as they filled cups and fetched bones from the long oak tables.
Dia moved among them, careful not to trip over her hem or meet anyone's eyes. The bruises on her wrist from yesterday's branding still throbbed, but she kept her hands steady as she poured mead into silver goblets.
At the head of the hall, seated beneath a wolfskin banner, was the master—Lord Egon von Halbrecht. His white beard shone like frozen fog, and his deep voice boomed across the room.
"To my son, Reinhardt!" he roared, raising his cup. "Breaker of the North! Scourge of heathens!"
The room erupted in cheers. The mercenaries banged fists on the tables, cups sloshing. Meat was torn with teeth and thrown to dogs that barked beneath the table legs.
"He razed their village to ash!" Egon continued. "Put the brutes to the sword. The gods watched that day—and they wept, for they knew the North had found its new master."
"Soon," slurred a drunken knight, "you'll be more than heir. You'll be Lord of these lands."
"And then…" Reinhardt grinned from his father's side, golden and smug, "…even the Dragon nesting in the mountains near, Fafnir the Skybreath himself will fall to my blade."
The room howled with laughter and toasts.
Lord Egon leaned back. "Name your desire, my son. This hall, this land, this future is yours. What does your heart seek?"
Reinhardt's eyes scanned the hall. Slowly. Deliberately. For her. The new sandy haired slave girl. She had some fire in her, that one.
Dia was already gone.
The barn was quiet, the kind of quiet that came after a day of noise and cruelty.
The piglets had settled, their bodies huddled for warmth. The straw had been changed. The air smelled of hay, manure, and damp wood. Somewhere far off, wolves cried beneath the waning moon.
Siegfried sat near the trough, shirtless. His chest rose and fell in calm rhythm, the bruises from earlier nowhere to be seen.
Flesh that should be purple and swollen was instead smooth. Pale. Untouched. Not even tender.
It always healed fast. Since as far back as he could remember.
And that wasn't all.
His hearing could catch whispers from across the farm. His nose could track the scent of wildflowers or blood. His strength—once hidden out of fear—was unnatural. Once, he'd stopped a charging ox with his bare hands. Another time, he'd fallen from the granary roof and walked away without a scratch.
And the world… it spoke to him. In quiet ways.
Birds didn't fear him. Horses leaned into his palm. Trees seemed to shift as if they knew him. He could feel the health of the land, the breath of the earth under his skin. As if he was part of it. As if he belonged to something bigger.
Not a slave. Not a ghost beaten into silence.
He wasn't sure what he was. But deep in the marrow of his bones, he believed it.
He was meant for more.
The barn doors creaked open.
Siegfried tensed.
Dia stepped in, carrying a wooden tray.
She looked around, then spotted him in the shadows.
"I brought you something," she said, setting the tray down—steaming stew and a dented mug of rum.
Siegfried blinked. A rare gift. Warm food meant for the warriors. Not scraps. Not slop.
"I took it before they noticed," Dia said softly. "It's not much, but…"
She hesitated, then sat cross-legged beside him.
"They wanted to know where I was," she added. "Reinhardt was looking."
He nodded once, then took the mug and drank deep.
Dia studied him.
"You don't say much."
He looked at her, eyes bright even in the dim barn light.
"I guess that's why they call you 'the mute,'" she said. "But you're not really mute, are you?"
A small smile touched the corner of Siegfried's mouth.
"No," he whispered, voice rough and unused. Only Lord Egon knew he could talk but chose silence.
Dia blinked, then smiled back. "Didn't think so."
Outside, a storm stirred somewhere on the horizon, too far to hear.
"The thunderer is merry tonight."
Dia watched Siegfried sip the rum slowly, like someone tasting warmth for the first time.
His shirt still hung from a nail behind him, and his bare torso, lean and scarred, caught the low flicker of lantern light.
"You're strong," she continued quietly. "Not huge like the young master's mercenaries, but… you're solid. You could've fought them off."
Siegfried didn't look at her.
"Why didn't you?"
He rubbed his thumb along the rim of the mug. "Because I'd lose," he said. "There were six of them. Maybe more. They have steel. I have hands."
"You could've run."
He shook his head. "Where would I go? I wear a brand. Any village would turn me in. Any lord would claim me. They hunt us. For coin. For sport."
Dia clenched her jaw. "So that's it? Take the beatings. Survive. Repeat?"
"It's better than dying for nothing."
She stood suddenly, staring at him like he was something broken. "I'm not living like this," she hissed. "Not because some old bastard owns a map with my name scrawled on it."
Siegfried looked up at her, quiet again.
"I will run. I don't care how far or how long it takes. You can't keep a bird caged and expect it to sing."
Siegfried watched her, something emerging behind his eyes. Respect. Worry. Maybe both.
"You burn too bright," he said. "People like you… you don't last long here."
"Yeah?" Dia snorted. "So what's your plan? Work your way to freedom?" She gestured at his scars. "Wait till the Master tosses you a gold coin and a pat on the back? Or maybe suck up like Gertrude and spread your legs for Reinhardt?"
The barn suddenly felt colder.
Siegfried's eyes darted toward the doors. He stood fast, lifting a hand.
"Quiet," he said, voice low. "Footsteps."
Dia blinked, stepping back into the shadows just as the barn doors creaked open.
Torchlight spilled in.
Reinhardt swaggered in, flanked by his mercenaries. His tunic was open, mead stains on his cuffs, blade at his hip glinting with dull menace.
"Well, well," Reinhardt drawled, eyes locking onto Dia. "You slipped away early, little bird. I was beginning to think you didn't enjoy my company."
His gaze drifted to the tray on the ground, then to Siegfried—shirtless, standing behind Dia.
His expression darkened.
"You would feed him?" Reinhardt hissed, stepping closer. "You would insult me… by breaking bread with that?"
Dia didn't back down. "He's worth more than every pig at your table."
Reinhardt slapped her.
The sound cracked through the barn.
Dia reeled but didn't fall. Blood touched the corner of her lip.
"You ungrateful little wretch," Reinhardt snarled. "You think I'd let a slave girl mock me in front of my men?"
He turned, eyes glowing with cruel amusement. "Gut her."
One of the mercs stepped forward, drawing back his fist—
Only to have it crash against something solid.
Siegfried.
He stood between them now, unmoving. The punch had landed square on his cheek, but he didn't flinch.
The barn froze.
"That's enough." Siegfried said, voice calm. Measured. Spoken.
Every man went still.
The mute had spoken.
Reinhardt stared, stunned. Then his lips twisted into something feral.
"I always wondered what you sounded like," he said, unsheathing his blade with a hiss of steel. "Now I know. Good. Now I can cut your goddamn head off to shut you up again."
Reinhardt's sword gleamed as it caught the lantern light, rising with intent. The barn, once quiet, exploded into motion.
One of the mercenaries lunged first, blade raised. Siegfried moved faster. He ducked under the strike, grabbed the man by the collar, and hurled him into a pile of crates with a sickening crack.
Another came at him from behind—Siegfried spun, drove an elbow into the man's throat, then disarmed him with a twist and a kick that sent him sprawling.
Dia scrambled backward, hands bound in front of her, watching as Siegfried became a blur of fists and raw force. He fought without hesitation, every strike deliberate. Every move efficient.
But numbers wore him down.
A blade sliced across his side. Another slammed into his ribs with a boot. One merc pinned his arm while another cracked a club across his back. He grunted but didn't fall—until the third slammed the hilt of a sword into his temple.
Siegfried collapsed onto one knee, blood trickling from his forehead. His vision swam.
They beat him down. And still he rose. Until finally, four of them held him—arms stretched, knees pressed into mud—forced to watch.
Reinhardt stepped over debris, face twisted in triumph and fury. Dia knelt in the straw, bruised but defiant, staring the bastard in the eye even as he raised his sword high.
"No," Siegfried gasped, struggling against the grips. "Please—no!"
Reinhardt smiled. "Watch, mute. This is the price of defiance."
He pulled back his sword.
"NO!"
The word tore from Siegfried's throat, primal and raw.
And then—
CRACK!
A flash of brilliant blue lightning shattered the barn roof. Wood splintered and hay ignited. A bolt of pure energy screamed down from the heavens—
—and struck Reinhardt.
In a heartbeat, he was gone. Flesh charred. Steel melted. His body collapsed in a heap of smoke and ruin, eyes wide in death.
Silence swallowed the barn.
The mercenaries released Siegfried in stunned horror, backing away from the smoking corpse.
Dia stared, frozen.
Siegfried didn't move.
The storm above rumbled, distant and powerful, but no more lightning fell.
He looked down at his hands, then to the scorched floor, heart pounding like a war drum.
He had screamed.
And something had answered.
The silence stretched, brittle and suffocating, before Siegfried whispered, almost too soft to hear:
"…What did I do?"
:----------:
Chapter 2 Title:- Fafnir.