Chapter 4: The Isle of the Cursed

  “To fight the horde, and sing and cry, Valhalla I am coming.”

  Scene 1: The Mist-Shrouded Shore

  The sky was the color of steel, the morning sun veiled behind a mass of swirling gray mist. The sea was restless behind them, its waves crashing against the blackened sand as if trying to pull them back.

  The Stormborn had survived, but barely.

  Ragnor stood at the edge of the ruined shoreline, feet planted firm, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. His once-proud fleet was now little more than wreckage—ships leaning at unnatural angles along the shore, some half-buried in the sand, others still rocking uneasily in the shallows. Those that had remained intact had been dragged onto land in the dead of night, their hulls battered, their masts shattered.

  They had endured the storm, but the storm had left its mark.

  Now, as dawn stretched its pale fingers across the mist-covered ruins, it was time to move inland.

  Selene appeared beside him, her sharp gaze fixed on the shadows that stretched beyond the ruins. "This place is wrong," she muttered. "I can feel it."

  From behind, Eira stepped forward, her crimson cloak snapping in the wind. Her golden eyes gleamed like molten fire as she surveyed the land ahead. "Because it is," she said, her voice calm, measured. "This is no mere landfall. This is a grave."

  The warriors, exhausted and on edge, shifted uneasily. Some whispered prayers. Others only gripped their weapons tighter, casting wary glances toward the trees, as if expecting unseen eyes to be watching.

  Sigurd scoffed, arms crossed over his chest. "Superstition," he sneered. "The gods have already thrown their worst at us, and we still stand." He turned his gaze to Ragnor. "We need to move. Unless you mean to stay and die in the wreckage."

  Ragnor ignored him, his gaze sweeping across the unfamiliar terrain. The mist curled and drifted, as though something unseen was stirring within it. There were no gulls, no beasts, no movement at all beyond the shifting fog. It was as if the land itself held its breath, waiting.

  A deep unease clawed at the back of his mind.

  He exhaled sharply. "We move inland," he declared. "Form ranks. Shields up. We do not walk blind into this place."

  Sigurd smirked but said nothing.

  The command was given, and the Stormborn warriors tightened their grips on their weapons. They left behind the ruined ships, advancing with careful steps toward the ruins ahead. The mist thickened as they moved, swallowing them one by one, until the world became nothing but gray and shadow.

  Ragnor led them forward, his boots crunching against the stone of a forgotten path, half-buried beneath the earth. His pulse was steady, his breathing even, yet something deep inside him stirred, an instinct as old as time itself.

  This place knew them.

  Eira stopped abruptly at the edge of a weathered archway, half-devoured by twisted vines and decay. She placed her hand against the stone, her fingers tracing faded runes that had not been read in an age. Her expression was unreadable.

  "This is not a place to rest," she whispered. "This is a place to survive."

  She turned, her gaze locking with Ragnor’s. Her next words sent an icy weight into his chest.

  "Welcome to the Isle of the Cursed."

  Scene 2: Frozen in Fear

  The mist hung thick in the air as the Stormborn warriors moved inland, their boots crunching over brittle, frost-coated grass. There was no warmth to this land—no birds in the trees, no distant sound of running water. Only the quiet, as oppressive as a funeral shroud.

  Ragnor led the vanguard, his rune-marked dagger heavy at his hip. Every step felt wrong, like treading upon the bones of something long dead but not yet at rest. The mist swirled unnaturally, shifting around them, as if watching.

  Then, the first warrior stopped.

  "Gods…" the man whispered, voice hollow.

  The others followed his gaze.

  Before them, the land fell away into a hollowed-out valley, where countless figures stood, unmoving. Warriors. Frozen mid-stride, weapons raised, their mouths twisted in silent screams. But these were no men.

  They were statues.

  A cold dread slithered into Ragnor’s gut. The craftsmanship was impossibly detailed—every scar upon their faces, every thread of their ruined armor preserved in stone. It was as though they had been captured in their final moments, frozen not by time, but by something else.

  Selene stepped forward, kneeling beside one of the figures. Her gloved fingers brushed against its chest, where an axe was embedded, the weapon rusted but still lodged in the petrified warrior’s ribs. A slow breath escaped her lips.

  "These were men." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Once."

  Ragnor’s grip tightened on the rune-marked dagger at his hip, his fingers brushing across the carved symbols etched into its hilt. It was warm. Too warm. Like flesh instead of steel.

  As they moved past the statues, the heat pulsed against his palm, almost like a heartbeat, as if the blade knew.

  He exhaled sharply, shoving the feeling aside. But still, the sensation lingered—the silent awareness that his weapon recognized something here, something long buried.

  One of the warriors stepped too close to a frozen figure, brushing against its stone-carved hand. The whispering wind stilled, the air turning heavy. The warrior jerked back, his breath catching in his throat.

  "I swear by the gods," he muttered, his voice tight, "for a moment, I felt it move."

  The Stormborn shifted uneasily, their grip tightening on their weapons.

  Eira moved to Ragnor’s side, eyes glowing faintly in the mist-laden air. "Do you see now?" she murmured. "This is not land. This is a battlefield. One that never ended."

  Ragnor’s jaw tightened. He did not need her omens to feel the truth. This was not a warning. It was a promise.

  His hand drifted to his dagger—and the moment his fingers brushed the hilt, the world shifted.

  A whisper coiled through his mind, low and distant.

  "You have been here before."

  Ragnor’s pulse pounded in his ears. He exhaled sharply, releasing the dagger. The whisper faded.

  Behind him, one of the warriors muttered a quiet prayer. Another spat to the side, warding off evil.

  Sigurd only scoffed. "Fear makes men weak," he said, stepping past one of the frozen warriors. "We do not cower at ghosts."

  The words had barely left his mouth when a gust of wind howled through the valley. The mist thickened.

  And in the silence that followed, it almost sounded like something moved.

  Scene 3: The Gods’ Test (Eira’s Omen)

  Night fell swiftly upon the Isle of the Cursed, devouring the last traces of daylight like a beast swallowing its prey whole. The Stormborn warriors had made camp among the ruins, their fires flickering weakly against the oppressive darkness. The mist, ever-present, curled along the ground like ghostly fingers, creeping between the shattered stones and broken walls that once belonged to a people long forgotten.

  No one spoke of the statues.

  No one spoke of the feeling that they were being watched.

  Ragnor sat upon a jagged slab of rock, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. The rhythmic scrape of steel against stone was the only sound, aside from the restless shifting of the warriors. Their unease was palpable, thick in the air like the coming of a storm.

  Eira stepped from the shadows, her crimson cloak trailing behind her, the firelight casting eerie reflections in her golden eyes. She moved with the certainty of one who did not fear the night, as if she had walked these ruins long before the Stormborn ever set foot upon them.

  "This is a test," she murmured.

  Ragnor lifted his gaze. "A test of what?"

  Eira stopped before him, tilting her head slightly, considering. "Of worth. Of fate." Her eyes flickered toward the flames. "You were never meant to reach Albion untouched."

  Selene, standing nearby, tensed. "What are you saying?"

  Eira’s gaze drifted over the warriors, each lost in their own silent contemplation, their hands never far from their weapons. "This island was not placed in your path by chance," she said softly. "It was always meant to be here. And those who set foot upon it…" She turned back to Ragnor. "…will not leave unchanged."

  A gust of wind swept through the ruins, stirring the embers of the fires, sending sparks spiraling into the night. The warriors muttered among themselves.

  Ragnor exhaled through his nose, setting his blade aside. "I do not bend to the will of gods."

  Eira’s lips curved into something that was neither a smile nor a frown. "Then you do not understand them," she said. "The gods do not seek worship, Ragnor. They seek obedience. And those who defy them…" Her voice lowered, nearly a whisper. "…are broken."

  Silence.

  Eira’s gaze flickered toward the ruins, something unreadable in her expression.

  "This place was not only a battlefield," she murmured, barely above a whisper. "The Black Wolf walked here once."

  Ragnor frowned. "The Black Wolf?"

  Selene stiffened, shifting uncomfortably, but Eira continued, her voice distant—as if recalling something long before her time.

  "The gods did not create this place. They buried it. The Black Wolf and his followers sought something older than the gods, something they were never meant to hold. And they failed."

  The wind picked up, howling through the ruins.

  "Beneath this island, something still waits," she warned, "and if you wake it, you will not like what you find."

  A branch cracked somewhere in the distance.

  Selene’s hand moved to the hilt of her sword.

  Ragnor met Eira’s gaze, searching for the trick, the deception. But there was none. Only truth—cold and bitter, woven into the very air of this cursed place.

  And then, the wind shifted.

  A distant sound—low, guttural—rolled through the ruins, reverberating against the stone like the growl of something stirring from slumber.

  Eira turned toward the darkness beyond the firelight.

  "They are already awake."

  Scene 4: The Curse Awakens (The Dead Will Not Rest)

  The fire flickered, its flames shuddering as though gasping for breath. The wind carried whispers—too soft to be words, yet heavy with meaning, pressing against the skin like unseen fingers tracing along the flesh.

  The warriors stirred, hands gripping weapons, eyes darting toward the mist-laden darkness beyond the ruins. Ragnor stood, his dagger heavy in his grasp, his pulse a steady drumbeat in his ears.

  Then, the first sound came.

  A crack.

  Like ice splintering beneath a heavy foot.

  Then another.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Stone scraping against stone, shifting, moving.

  Selene turned sharply, her breath caught in her throat. "Gods…"

  From the fog-covered valley where the statues stood in silent vigil, something shifted. One by one, they began to tremble, dust falling from their frozen forms, fractures spreading across their weathered surfaces like veins of lightning.

  Then, a deep, unholy groan echoed across the ruins.

  The statues began to move.

  A hand—fingers curled into an eternal grasp—twitched. A warrior clad in ancient, rusted armor tilted his head unnaturally, his hollow eyes glowing with sickly light. Weapons, frozen in time, trembled in their grasp. Their mouths, once locked in expressions of agony, now opened.

  And the voice that came forth was not singular, but a chorus.

  "Turn back. Albion is not for you."

  The Stormborn warriors reeled, stepping back, shields rising, swords drawn. Fear rippled through them, primal and cold. These were no men. No ghosts. No mere echoes of the past.

  These were warriors who had been claimed by something far worse than death.

  Sigurd’s hand shot to his axe, but his smirk wavered. "By the gods…"

  The first of the cursed warriors stepped forward, his stone skin cracking and crumbling, revealing something beneath—flesh blackened, veins thick with unnatural life.

  Ragnor raised his rune-marked dagger. The moment he did, the air pulsed around him, the mist recoiling as if struck by an unseen force. And then, the voice returned.

  "You have been here before."

  Pain lanced through Ragnor’s skull, a vision flashing before his eyes—a battlefield not unlike this one, warriors locked in eternal combat, screaming, dying, rising again.

  A war that never ended.

  A war he had once fought.

  The dead lunged forward.

  The Stormborn roared.

  And the battle began.

  Scene 5: The Hollow Voices (The Past Bleeds Into the Present)

  The battle unfolded in chaos, a savage clash of steel and horror beneath a sky thick with unnatural mist. The Stormborn warriors fought with the fury of men who refused to fall, yet their enemies—those cursed warriors of stone and death—fought with something else. Something endless.

  A cursed warrior swung a rusted blade at Ragnor, its movement stiff yet impossibly fast. He ducked low, rolling across the broken earth, his dagger flashing as he slashed at its legs. The blade struck stone, but then—crack—the petrified flesh broke, revealing sinew, pulsing as if it still lived.

  The thing did not falter.

  It turned, soulless eyes locking onto him.

  Then, as Ragnor raised his weapon again, the world shifted.

  The battlefield blurred—the air thickened, heavy with the weight of something unseen. His breath turned to mist, not from cold, but from something else, something reaching beyond time.

  And suddenly—he was not there.

  He was somewhere else.

  A vision engulfed him.

  The sky was burning. Warriors clad in armor not his own fought against an unseen force, their screams swallowed by the roar of a storm. The ground beneath them cracked apart, blackened and cursed. At the center of it all stood a figure—a warrior, tall and crowned in lightning.

  Himself.

  But not as he was now.

  This was a past life, a forgotten self. A man who had stood in this war before. A man who had failed.

  "You swore an oath," a voice whispered through the vision, curling around his mind like chains.

  "You broke it."

  Ragnor staggered, the past clashing violently with the present. His grip on his dagger faltered for a fraction of a second.

  The cursed warrior lunged.

  At the last moment, Selene slammed into it, knocking it aside with her shield. Her sword cleaved downward, striking at the hollow horror’s neck. "Ragnor!" she shouted, snapping him back into the now. "Focus!"

  The vision shattered.

  The battlefield returned—the screams, the mist, the clash of steel.

  Eira stood watching, golden eyes knowing, unshaken. "Now do you see?" she murmured.

  Ragnor’s chest rose and fell with ragged breaths.

  For the first time, he felt something deeper than battle-lust.

  He felt fear.

  The past was not just speaking to him.

  It was waiting for him.

  The dead did not bleed. That was the worst part.

  Ragnor stood outside the ruined temple, his grip tight around the rune-marked dagger, staring at the shattered remnants of the cursed warriors they had fought. The stone bodies lay in unnatural stillness, their forms broken like discarded statues. But he had seen them move. Had seen them fight.

  Ulfric approached from the darkness, his heavy footfalls the only sound in the silence. The old jarl stopped beside him, arms crossed over his broad chest. For a long moment, he said nothing, only gazing at the wreckage of battle.

  Then, in a voice low and measured, he muttered, “This isn’t a war.”

  Ragnor exhaled sharply, running a hand over his sweat-drenched face. “I know.”

  Ulfric studied him. “You fought men before. Seen warriors die screaming, seen their blood stain the ground. Did this feel the same?”

  Ragnor shook his head.

  Ulfric grunted. “Then you already know what you’re facing.”

  Ragnor turned to him. “And what is that?”

  His father did not answer at first. Instead, he knelt, pressing his fingers against the cold, blackened earth. He clenched his jaw. “You know what it felt like? Like the gods have already fought this war.”

  Ragnor frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Ulfric rose to his full height, staring at the ruins ahead. “It felt like we weren’t supposed to win.”

  Ragnor inhaled deeply, his stomach twisting.

  Ulfric glanced at his son, and for the first time since they had landed, his voice held something close to caution. “If the gods already fought this war, ask yourself: what side were we on?”

  He clapped Ragnor once on the shoulder and walked away, leaving him alone among the dead.

  Scene 6: Sigurd’s Secret Pact (A Relic of the Past, a Betrayal in the Making)

  While the Stormborn waged war against the cursed dead, Sigurd slipped into the shadows.

  No one saw him go.

  No one noticed his absence.

  He moved swiftly through the ruins, past crumbling walls etched with runes older than any language he knew. The battle behind him was distant now, the cries of the dying muffled as if swallowed by unseen forces. The deeper he ventured, the heavier the air became—thick with something ancient, something that watched.

  Then he found it.

  A hidden chamber beneath the island, its entrance half-buried beneath jagged stones. The air was colder here, the darkness more complete. And in the center of it all—an altar of blackened stone, veined with cracks that pulsed faintly, like the dying embers of a long-dead fire.

  Sigurd stepped forward, his breath visible in the unnatural chill.

  Deep beneath the ruins, Sigurd’s breath was shallow, his fingers tracing the walls of the forgotten chamber. The air was thick with dust and something else—something old, something waiting.

  A voice spoke from the dark, neither fully human nor entirely otherworldly.

  "You seek to surpass your brother."

  Sigurd stilled. The words did not startle him. He had been waiting to hear them.

  The figure before him did not move, its shape barely visible against the cold stone. An altar lay between them, and atop it, a blackened blade, its surface jagged as if it had been broken and reforged a thousand times. It hummed with an unnatural weight.

  "Take it," the figure whispered. "With this, his fate is undone. His name erased."

  Sigurd stepped closer, staring at the weapon. His pulse pounded, his hands twitching at his sides.

  It would be so easy.

  But something held him back.

  "Not yet." His own voice surprised him. His fingers curled into fists. He turned from the altar, forcing himself to step away.

  The voice in the dark did not sound angry. It only murmured:

  "You will return. When you are ready."

  Scene 7: The Cost of Survival (Barely Escaping the Cursed Ones)

  The battlefield was drenched in ruin and blood.

  Ragnor’s warriors fought with the desperation of men who knew that the gods themselves had turned against them. The cursed ones did not tire, did not waver, did not die.

  Or so they thought.

  Ragnor raised his rune-marked dagger.

  For the second time that night, the mist recoiled. The very air trembled, as though some unseen force had been stirred awake by the weapon’s presence.

  A sudden pulse erupted from the blade—an invisible force rolling outward like a storm-front.

  And the cursed warriors froze.

  Not of their own will.

  Not out of fear.

  They simply stopped.

  Their hollow eyes flickered. Their bodies trembled, as though caught between two realms. And then, one by one, their forms shattered—stone and flesh crumbling into the wind like the remnants of a forgotten age.

  The battlefield fell into silence.

  A silence deeper than any before.

  The Stormborn warriors staggered backward, gasping, staring at their now-vanished enemies.

  Some still gripped their weapons with white-knuckled fists. Others simply sank to their knees, trembling. They had won—but at what cost?

  The ground was littered with the bodies of their own fallen.

  Men they had sailed with. Fought beside. Drank with beneath the stars.

  Gone.

  And Ragnor…

  They were staring at him differently now.

  Their leader had not simply fought. He had wielded something unnatural, something beyond the realm of gods and mortals.

  It was Selene who spoke first, her voice quiet, but edged with uncertainty.

  "That was not mortal strength."

  Ragnor did not answer.

  He could still feel it—the dagger’s pulse, the way it had resonated with the island itself, the whisper of something he should not have heard.

  Eira was watching him, golden eyes knowing.

  She had expected this.

  Had waited for this.

  And for the first time since stepping onto this cursed land, Ragnor felt something stir inside him.

  Not rage.

  Not pride.

  Something deeper.

  Something older.

  And though his men cheered, though they shouted his name in ragged, victorious cries—he knew.

  The battle had only just begun.

  Night had fallen, but no one slept.

  The Stormborn warriors sat in silence around dying fires, their faces drawn, their hands still trembling from the battle. Victory had never felt so hollow. They had survived. But they had not won.

  Ragnor stood at the edge of the camp, looking out over the shattered remnants of their warband. He felt his father’s presence before he spoke.

  “You fought well,” Ulfric muttered, stepping beside him.

  Ragnor did not look at him. “I fought something that should not have existed.”

  Ulfric nodded, exhaling through his nose. “Aye.”

  Silence stretched between them. The mist drifted lazily through the trees, whispering across the ground like a thing alive.

  Finally, Ragnor clenched his fists. “Do you still believe in them?”

  Ulfric tilted his head slightly. “In who?”

  Ragnor turned, eyes dark. “The gods.”

  His father regarded him carefully, then let out a low chuckle. “Boy, I stopped believing in the gods a long time ago.” He gestured at the warriors huddled by the fire. “But they do. And they’ll follow you until they don’t.”

  Ragnor’s jaw tightened. “What happens when they stop?”

  Ulfric sighed, running a hand over his grizzled beard. “Then you’ll see who’s still standing.” He gave his son a sharp look. “And you’d better make sure it’s you.”

  Ragnor met his gaze, something cold settling in his chest.

  Ulfric patted him once on the shoulder before turning away, heading toward the fires. “Sleep while you can, boy,” he muttered. “Tomorrow, we figure out what kind of war we’re actually fighting.”

  Ragnor did not sleep.

  Scene 8: A Ghost in the Mirror (Visions of the Past Life)

  The ruins were silent now—but not empty.

  Ragnor collapsed against a shattered pillar, breath ragged, his fingers tightening around the rune-marked dagger. His warriors still moved behind him, gathering the wounded, whispering amongst themselves. But to him, their voices were a distant thing, as faint as the wind through dead trees.

  Something else was calling to him.

  The earth beneath him felt wrong—not cold, not warm, but humming, as though a pulse beat beneath the surface. He pressed his hand against the stone. It was smooth, worn by time, but as his fingers traced the carvings…

  A shiver crawled up his spine.

  He had touched this stone before.

  But that was impossible.

  A whisper curled through his mind, light as breath yet weighted with something ancient.

  "This is not your first war, Ragnor."

  His vision fractured.

  He was standing somewhere else—not in the ruins, not on this island, but in a city of towering obsidian spires. The sky above churned, red and black, as though set ablaze by gods unseen.

  Men knelt before him, warriors clad in armor unfamiliar yet achingly known. They spoke words he did not understand—yet somehow, he did.

  They called him king.

  The vision twisted.

  Now he was standing upon a field of corpses, a blade clutched in his bloodstained hand. The bodies of his enemies stretched into the horizon, an ocean of the fallen.

  And in the distance, beyond the wreckage of war, stood a shadowed figure.

  It watched him.

  It waited.

  It had always been waiting.

  "You have walked this path before," the whisper came again, curling around his mind like unseen chains. "And you will walk it again."

  The ground gave way beneath him.

  Ragnor gasped, snapping back into the present, his body jerking upright.

  Eira was kneeling beside him.

  She had been watching.

  Waiting.

  Her golden eyes held no surprise.

  Only certainty.

  "Now do you see?" she whispered.

  His breath was ragged, his skin cold despite the humid air.

  But he knew.

  She had always known.

  And deep inside him, something ancient stirred.

  Something that was not yet awake.

  But soon.

  Very soon.

  Scene 9: The Hidden Blade (Sigurd’s Betrayal Begins in Earnest)

  The Stormborn were preparing to leave the island, but Sigurd had one last task to complete.

  The ruins called to him—or perhaps, it was just the whisper in his mind, soft as a dying ember.

  He moved like a shadow through the crumbling ruins, his steps silent upon the moss-covered stones. The battle had given him the perfect opportunity—while the warriors licked their wounds and whispered of omens, no one noticed him slipping away one final time.

  The hidden chamber awaited him.

  The crypt’s entrance was a wound in the earth, jagged and forgotten. He slipped through, torchlight flickering against the damp stone. The air here was heavy, thick with the weight of ages past, as if the very bones of the island remembered.

  And at the heart of it all, the blade called to him.

  The chamber below had not changed. The altar still waited. The blade still hummed.

  The blackened weapon, still resting upon the ancient altar, pulsed faintly—like an ember struggling for breath. But as Sigurd approached, as his fingers hovered just above the hilt, the darkness deepened.

  From the shadows, the voice returned.

  "You have chosen your path."

  Sigurd did not flinch.

  The shadowed figure emerged, a presence half-there, flickering between shape and void. The form was neither mortal nor god—something in between, something older.

  Sigurd’s lips curled into a smirk.

  "Give me the power to take what is mine."

  The figure’s voice was like a blade against stone, cutting through the chamber’s silence.

  "You will not only kill him, Sigurd. You will erase him."

  The words sent a thrill through his veins.

  This time, he did not hesitate.

  His fingers closed around the hilt, and the world shuddered. A sharp, biting cold tore through his arm, black tendrils of energy searing into his flesh. He gasped, but did not let go.

  He would never let go.

  Pain seared through his palm, the mark of the Black Wolf burning deeper into his flesh. His breath caught, but he did not pull away. The agony was fleeting. The power was eternal.

  The blade felt alive, humming against his grip, as if eager to taste blood.

  Sigurd exhaled, his mind sharpening to a single, undeniable truth—Ragnor would never leave this island alive.

  The shadow in the chamber watched. It spoke a single word, the sound curling like smoke in the air:

  "Now."

  Sigurd smiled, his lips curling over his teeth. He was ready.

  The shadowed figure watched, unreadable, as Sigurd hid the weapon beneath his cloak.

  As he stepped from the ruins, his footsteps light as a wolf on the hunt, the blackened blade rested against his hip, hidden beneath his cloak.

  His hand closed around the blade.

  Then, without another word, he turned and stepped back into the world of men.

  As he emerged from the ruins, the first light of dawn bled across the horizon. The Stormborn ships bobbed in the distance, warriors preparing for departure. Ragnor stood at the shore, his silhouette framed against the dark waters, his shoulders squared with unyielding strength.

  He had no idea.

  Behind him, Sigurd’s presence was sudden, a quiet shadow beside him.

  "You look tired, brother," Sigurd mused, his voice even.

  Ragnor exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if to shrug off the weight of unseen hands. "I feel nothing."

  A pause. Then, a chuckle.

  "Perhaps that’s the problem," Sigurd said lightly.

  Ragnor turned slightly, narrowing his gaze—but Sigurd had already stepped away, disappearing into the mist of the ruins.

  Ragnor watched him go, uneasy. But the thought faded, overtaken by the weight of the coming war.

  He did not see the blackened blade hidden beneath Sigurd’s cloak.

  His doom walked among him now.

  "The war for Albion would begin soon. But Sigurd's war would begin first."