The moon cast its silvery glow over the sleeping city, casting long shadows across the streets and homes. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of blooming wildflowers and the distant tang of salt from the ocean. In a small, cozy house on the outskirts of the city, a young man named kael lay tossing and turning in his bed. His dreams were filled with vivid images of a woman, her long hair flowing behind her like a river of gold. She was calling out to him, her voice a desperate whisper that seemed to come from all around him. Kael sat up with a start, his heart racing and his sheets drenched with sweat. He looked around his darkened room, trying to shake off the feeling of unease that lingered from his dream. The wind outside seemed to pick up, rustling the leaves of the trees and causing the shutters on his window to creak. He threw off his covers and got out of bed, padding over to the window to push it open. The window, a traditional Norse "gluggi" with intricate carv

Together, they left the eatery, getting lost in the crowd of people thronging the streets. The sound of hammering on metal, the smell of freshly baked bread, and the chatter of the crowd enveloped them as they made their way towards the city gate. As they walked through the Burh, a young woman named Lyra, one of the palace's honoured attendants, known as a "Hirdkona", caught Kael's eye. She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling with interest, as they passed each other in the hallway. Vigdis noticed the exchange and elbowed Kael playfully. "Ah, looks like someone's got their eye on you, Kael! Just a try won't hurt, eh?" he teased, using the Norse phrase "Ein þrýr, ein þrýr" (one try, one try). Kael blushed and shook his head, but Vigdis just chuckled and clapped him on the back. They entered the gathered guards' briefing, where their Hersir, the leader of the guard, was addressing the group. "As you all know, an incident occurred in the Víðimýri field last night. A dark force, know

The Hersir stood tall, his face set in a respectful expression. "You know the Völva doesn't leave her 'hútr', Konungr," he replied, using the Norse term for the Völva's sacred hut. "Even at my words, she wouldn't stir. But I sent for a 'spá' from her [a glimpse into the threads of fate that bind us], to unravel the tangled threads of this darkness." The Konungr's face darkened, his voice taking on a harsh tone. "You sent a 'leysingi' in a matter like this?" he growled, using the Norse term for a freedman or a low-ranking soldier. "A boy, barely out of his 'þrekkr'?" The Hersir stood firm, his eyes locked on the Konungr's. "Kael is no ordinary 'leysingi', Konungr," he said. "He is a 'karl', a free man, and a decorated soldier. He wears the 'sverð' of his fathers, and has fought bravely in battle. I sent him to the Völva Kaida because I knew he would return with her words, and the wisdom of the Norns. The Konungr's expression softened slightly, his eyes narrowing as he considered t

Kael was in his quarters, pondering the words of the Völva Kaida. "She gave her life to save you," the old woman had said. A flash of memory burst into his mind, a moment from his childhood when his mother had spoken words of encouragement to him. "You are the best thing that has happened to us all, in all of Nørhaven," she had said, her eyes shining with pride. "They don't know it yet, but the Norns do. Your father would be proud of you, where he is in the halls of Valhalla." Kael's heart swelled with emotion as he remembered his mother's words. "Join the Fyrd, Kael," she had said, using the Norse word for army. "You will be of great use to us all when the time comes." "What do you mean, when the comes?" young Kael had asked, his brow furrowed with curiosity. His mother had chuckled and waved the question away. "Look at how good you look, my little Víkingr!" she had said, using the Norse word for Viking warrior. Kael smiled, feeling a sense of nostalgia wash over him. He pic

The first light of dawn seeped through the wooden slats of the longhouse, painting the fur-covered bed in soft gold. The warmth of the night’s fire had faded, leaving only the ghostly embers glowing in the hearth. The air was thick with the lingering scent of pine, ale, and the deep musk of passion. Kael stirred beneath the heavy furs, his muscles aching—not from battle, but from the fervor of the night before. His skin still bore the traces of her touch, the faint red scratches along his back, the ghost of her lips lingering on his chest. He opened his eyes to find her still beside him, her bare form partially draped in the furs, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders. In the dim morning light, she looked like a goddess carved from the dreams of men—her skin still flushed with the remnants of their fevered embrace. For a moment, he simply watched her, his breath steady, his heart strangely full. But the world outside was waking. And with it, duty called. A loud crash ech