Kael rode through the cold morning mist toward the inner hall of Nørhaven, his mind echoing with the words of the Hersir of the shieldmaiden. When he arrived, he recounted every detail of her message to the Kunungr. “Runestone from the jotuns is unlike any other Galdralag. It must be removed from our vault and taken to Myrkviðr Hold, where its power can be contained,” he explained in a steady tone. The Kunungr’s eyes narrowed as he replied, “We do not wish to lose the power that the runestone would lend to our strength. Our vault is secure—nothing enters or leaves it. Removing the runestone now would only weaken our defenses. We have doubled the guards at the chamber and the vault entrance to ensure that its power remains safely contained.” The debate left a heavy silence hanging in the cool air. Kael’s words were earnest, but the Kunungr stood firm in his belief that the vault’s protection must remain unbroken. Later that night, as Nørhaven lay under a dark sky, a soft glow beg

The journey to Myrkviðr Hold was relentless. The dense, ancient forest loomed ahead, its towering trees twisting like gnarled fingers against the darkened sky. The deeper they rode, the more the air felt thick—heavy with unseen forces. Even the horses grew restless, their hooves faltering on the damp earth. Kael rode at the front, the runestone secured in the hands of the shieldmaiden riding beside him. Though they had escaped the Jotun ambush, an uneasy feeling settled in his chest. Myrkviðr Hold was no ordinary stronghold—it was a place of forgotten power, a sanctuary built to contain magic too dangerous to roam free. The forest shrouded in an eerie silence, as if something ancient watches them. The runestone, now dimmed, pulses faintly as they approach the stronghold. Myrkviðr Hold, nestled deep within the cursed woods of Myrkviðr, is no ordinary fortress. Legends speak of it being a place where magic is weakened, where even the mightiest sorcery crumbles to dust. But it is

The great hall of Hliðskjálf, the seat of the Allfather’s vision, was thick with the scent of burning resin and aged oak. Torches lined the carved wooden walls, their flickering light casting long shadows over the war table where the mightiest warriors and wisest minds of the nine realms had gathered. At the head of the table sat Víðarr, the Silent Avenger, his towering presence like a storm held in restraint. Odin had not yet revealed himself to the realms, and so his son—renowned for his unshakable will—served as his voice. To his right, Tyr, the One-Handed God of War, leaned forward, his eyes burning with grim determination. Surrounding them were Thor’s chosen war-captains, hardened warriors from the fields of Midgard, and battle-wise Vanir emissaries who carried the blessings of Frey and Njörd. Among them stood Hervor Skjaldmö, a legendary shieldmaiden who had carved her name in the sagas of men, and Bödvar the Red, a jarl of Midgard whose forces had defended the realm against

The preparations for the warband were swift and ruthless. Only warriors with iron minds and steel in their souls would march into Svarthallr. Kael handpicked those who would ride beside him—Vigdis, is ever steadfast friend, back at his strength insisted he joins the group, hungry to sway his sword again; three kunungr guards who were sent from Nørhaven ,sworn to die for the realm; and a select group of shieldmaidens and berserkers who had seen horrors and fought through them. But numbers would not decide this battle. Willpower would. The journey to the Black Halls was marked by an unnatural silence. Even the wind seemed to hush, as if unwilling to follow them into the depths of Yggdrasil’s roots. The land changed the closer they came. The trees grew gnarled and twisted, their bark peeling like rotted flesh. The soil blackened beneath their feet, and the air grew thick with whispers—half-heard voices that slithered into their minds. The Völva Kaida had warned them of this. "Sva

The archway loomed before them, its edges carved with runes that shifted when Kael looked directly at them. A whisper of cold air seeped from the darkness beyond, curling around his boots like unseen fingers. No one spoke. They all felt it. This was no longer just a cavern. They had stepped into something older, something woven between reality and the unknown. Vigdis adjusted his grip on his sword. “Are we truly walking into a god’s den?” Kael exhaled. “We have no choice.” He stepped forward, leading the warband through the archway. The moment they crossed the threshold, the world changed. The stone beneath their feet vanished. They were falling. A rush of cold wind swallowed them whole. The warriors shouted, weapons drawn, but there was nothing to grasp—only endless void. The darkness stretched in every direction, twisting, folding upon itself like a living thing. Then Light. A flickering golden glow The fall ended, abruptly, as if they had never fallen at