The great hall of Hliðskjálf’s Hold stood in grim silence, the gathered warlords, seeresses, and emissaries forming a circle around the burning braziers. Shadows flickered against the walls, cast by the sacred flame of wisdom that had long guided the rulers of the Aesir. This was no meeting of gods, but of those who fought in their name—commanders, warriors, and keepers of ancient knowledge. Kael stood at the center, his cloak still heavy with the damp chill of Svarthallr, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword. Before him sat the war council: Hjalmarr, the hardened war-chief of the North; Sigvar, the battle-scarred Jarl of the Einherjar; and the silent, knowing presence of Völva Kaida, whose eyes missed nothing. "You have returned from Svarthallr," Hjalmarr said at last, his gaze sharp. "What did you find?" Kael inhaled, steadying himself. "The Dökkálfar were waiting. They have grown strong in the shadows, bolstered by Loki’s hand. They do not act as warriors but as spe

The creature’s screech reverberated through the ruined depths of Vetrheim, a sound that was neither wholly of this world nor the next. The shadows around it pulsed and writhed, responding to its pain as Kael’s blade cleaved through its ever-shifting form. The warband fought with relentless fury. Vigdis’s Sword gleamed with frost, every strike sending cracks through the encroaching dark. Freydis moved with the precision of a seasoned warrior, her twin blades slicing through tendrils of shadow before they could grasp her. But the creature did not die. Each time a wound was inflicted, the darkness coiled and sealed the gash shut. It was not a beast of flesh and bone—it was something far older, something that did not belong to the realm of mortals. Kael knew this. And yet, it feared him. He felt the sword’s power pulsing in his grip, its light unwavering even as the shadows thickened around him. It was not just steel—it was something more. Something meant for him. "Why do

The wind howled through the stronghold of Hliðskjálf’s Hold as Kael stepped out from the war chamber. The night was thick with frost, the air biting against his skin. He had little time to waste. Vigdis was waiting for him. His sworn brother-in-arms stood with his arms crossed, watching Kael with a knowing smirk. “Another fool’s errand, is it?” Kael smirked back. “You always knew I was a fool.” Vigdis chuckled, shaking his head. “Aye. That I did.” He stepped closer, his tone turning serious. “Gjálmheimr. You’re certain?” Kael nodded. “Loki’s eyes are turning there. That alone is reason enough to go.” Vigdis sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then I ride with you.” Kael clapped his hand against his shoulder. “I would expect nothing less.” Before long, more warriors began to gather. Some were seasoned fighters—soldiers from past battles who had bled for the Nine Realms. Others were younger, seeking their place in the sagas to come. By dawn, the warband was chosen.

The wind howled as Kael and his warband rode toward Svanhild’s Fortress, their furs dusted with frost, their horses trudging through the icy terrain. The towering stronghold loomed ahead, its ancient stone walls kissed by the pale glow of the moon. Kael had been here before—this was the stronghold where he had left Eira in the care of the shieldmaidens, a sacred bastion for warriors chosen by Freyja herself. But even from a distance, something about the fortress felt… different. The air was heavier, thick with something unseen. Freydis rode beside him, her face unreadable beneath her hood. Vigdis, his ever-loyal companion, surveyed the distant watchtowers with wary eyes. They were all battle-worn after the hunt for the Nithing Sorcerer, but there was no time to rest. Ragnarök’s shadow loomed over them, and every victory only seemed to usher in a greater storm. The gates groaned open as they approached, and the scent of iron, sweat, and burning wood greeted them. Shieldmaidens

The winds howled like spirits mourning the dead as Kael and his warband rode from Svanhild’s Fortress at dawn, the cold biting into their cloaks and armor. The road ahead was treacherous—Vetrheim, the land of eternal frost and forgotten battles, was a place where warriors either proved their worth or perished in the ice. Their warband, twenty strong, rode in silence through the snow-laden valley. Every warrior understood what awaited them. The Dökkálfar had stirred—shadows whispered of their growing power, and if the war council's warnings were true, their influence had spread into the frozen lands. Kael rode at the head of the warband, his sword resting against his back, the weight of his duty pressing heavier than the steel. Beside him, Vigdis rode in stride, his usual smirk absent as his eyes scanned the horizon. “Say what’s on your mind,” Kael said without turning. Vigdis exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Just thinking. We left many behind from Nørhaven, even now at Svan