Act 2: The Hammer of the Gods

  (Based on "Immigrant Song" by Led Zeppelin, transformed into an epic mythological fantasy novel)

  Chapter 5: The Shores of Albion

  "On we sweep with threshing oar, our only goal will be the western shore."

  Scene 1: Landfall Upon the Golden Shore

  The Stormborn moved like shadows through the dawn, their bodies stiff from cold and exhaustion. The cursed island had nearly claimed them, but the morning sun had revealed a break in the mist—a path leading away from the haunted ruins and toward the open shore.

  Ragnor did not question it. They left the island behind without looking back.

  The longships cut through the waves, the salt air thick in their lungs. The Isle of the Cursed shrank into the distance, swallowed by the mist once more. They did not speak of it. There was no need.

  When the shores of Albion rose in the distance—golden, untouched—the men let out a breath they had not realized they had been holding.

  Albion was waiting.

  The sea stretched endless behind them, its waves restless in their retreat, as if reluctant to release the Stormborn from their grasp. Morning light spilled across the western shore, bathing the land in hues of gold and amber. The wind carried the scent of earth and distant pines, so starkly different from the salt and frost of Skjoldheim that it felt almost unnatural.

  They had reached Albion.

  The longships, their sails tattered from the storm and their hulls scarred by battle, cut through the shallows. Oars scraped against the seabed as the warriors maneuvered them toward the shore, their movements steady, but their eyes—watchful. This was not a land that welcomed them.

  Ragnor stood at the prow of his ship, shoulders squared, fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword. His warriors cheered, their voices rising in an exultant war cry as they beheld the vast, untouched land before them. The soil was rich, the forests thick, the rivers gleaming like veins of silver.

  A paradise.

  And yet, Ragnor did not trust it.

  Selene stepped beside him, her silver-white hair damp with sea spray. She too gazed upon Albion’s beauty, but her expression was not one of awe—it was wary, measured. "This land is not ours to take," she murmured, her voice nearly lost beneath the cries of the warriors. "It will not surrender easily."

  Behind them, Sigurd scoffed. "It will if we burn it down."

  The first ship struck land, its keel grinding against the golden sands. Ragnor was the first to step forward, boots sinking into the soft earth. A strange sensation rippled through him. He exhaled sharply and dismissed it.

  The Stormborn poured from their ships, splashing through the shallows, raising weapons to the sky, beating fists against shields. They had come to Albion not as beggars, nor as traders. They had come as conquerors.

  And yet, it felt as though they had stepped into something older than themselves.

  Eira descended from the ship last, her crimson cloak trailing behind her, her golden eyes burning with an intensity that unsettled even hardened warriors. She did not speak. Instead, she knelt, pressing her hand to the soil. The air grew still.

  She whispered something—a language none of them knew.

  Ragnor turned, his voice sharp. "What did you say?"

  Eira rose slowly, brushing dirt from her fingertips. "This land is awake," she said. "It knows we are here."

  The warriors exchanged glances, their cheers faltering.

  Selene’s frown deepened. She felt it too.

  Further down the beach, Sigurd stood apart, fingers twitching near his belt, where the artifact he had taken from the Isle of the Cursed pulsed with a quiet, unseen power. He clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose as something cold slithered through his veins.

  Ragnor turned his attention to the horizon, where the dense forests of Albion stretched like a great wall, their darkened treetops shifting as if breathing. The warmth of the morning sun did not touch that place.

  The golden shore had been easy to claim.

  But the heart of Albion would be another matter entirely.

  Scene 2: The First Blood of Albion

  The golden shore behind them already seemed distant, swallowed by the vast, looming forests ahead. The Stormborn moved in disciplined ranks, their weapons gleaming beneath the pale sunlight as they pushed inland. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and unfamiliar greenery. Even the birds above moved in cautious silence, their cries distant, wary.

  They had been marching for hours when they spotted the village.

  Nestled at the edge of the treeline, it was small—wooden homes built low, thatched roofs sloping like the backs of beasts crouching in the tall grass. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, the scent of roasted meat drifting on the wind. The perfect first conquest.

  Ragnor raised his fist, signaling for silence. His warriors halted, their anticipation palpable.

  Sigurd smirked. "They won’t even hear us coming."

  Ragnor ignored him. "No unnecessary killing," he commanded. "We take their food, their weapons, their mounts—but we take prisoners, not corpses. We are not raiders here. We are kings in the making."

  A few warriors shifted uncomfortably. Some wanted slaughter. Others would follow Ragnor’s word as law.

  Eira stood at the edge of the warband, her golden eyes fixed on the village. "Something is wrong," she murmured.

  Selene’s hand tightened on her sword hilt. She felt it too.

  Before Ragnor could ask, the wind shifted.

  And then the trap was sprung.

  A horn blasted from the treeline, shattering the stillness. The village erupted with movement—not frightened farmers, but warriors, fully armored, weapons in hand.

  The Stormborn barely had time to react before arrows screamed from the tree line, slicing through the air in a deadly volley.

  "Shields!" Ragnor roared, raising his own. The warriors responded with trained precision, forming a defensive wall as arrows thudded into wood and flesh.

  Then the enemy charged.

  From behind the village, warriors on horseback burst forward, lances gleaming like fangs in the sunlight. Their leader rode at the front—a woman clad in blackened steel, her red cloak billowing behind her, a sword as long as a man’s arm raised high.

  She was a blur of speed and steel, a shadow against the golden field. Astrid Ravenshield.

  Ragnor met her head-on.

  Their blades clashed, steel against steel, as the battlefield exploded around them.

  Astrid was fast—faster than him. She wove between his strikes, her blade flashing dangerously close, forcing him onto the defensive.

  "Stormborn," she spat, voice like thunder. "You think Albion will bow to you?"

  Ragnor deflected her next blow, barely. "Albion is already ours!"

  She drove her knee into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. "Then come and claim it!"

  He staggered but did not fall. His grip tightened on his sword, and he pushed forward.

  The battlefield blurred into chaos. The Stormborn fought hard, but Albion’s warriors fought smarter. They did not meet them in brute force—they danced around them, striking where armor was weakest, using the terrain to their advantage.

  The first cries of the dying rose into the morning air.

  Sigurd watched from the back lines, his lips curled in amusement. Ragnor was struggling. Bleeding. His gods had not made him invincible after all.

  The battle raged on, the golden fields of Albion stained red.

  The village burned behind them, but there was no victory in the embers. The Stormborn ran, their formation broken, scattering into the thick of Albion’s endless forests. Ragnor led the retreat, his breath sharp, his mind racing. This was not how it was supposed to go.

  Astrid’s warriors had been waiting. Not desperate farmers or unprepared defenders—trained soldiers who fought as if they had already seen this battle before.

  Behind him, Sigurd kept pace, his sword red with the blood of those who had been too slow. “We’ve never run from a fight before, brother,” he taunted between heavy breaths. “Maybe this land doesn’t want you after all.”

  Ragnor ignored him, focusing on the thickening mist that slithered between the trees. The deeper they ran, the quieter the world became. No birds. No wind. The forest swallowed them whole.

  “Hold!” Ragnor raised a hand, slowing his warriors. They fanned out in the clearing, breaths ragged, blades still wet.

  Selene, gripping her shield, scanned the trees. “Where are they?”

  They had expected pursuit, but none came.

  Only silence.

  From behind, Eira spoke softly. “We should not be here.”

  Ragnor turned to her, frowning. “We had no choice.”

  She did not argue. But as she knelt, pressing a hand to the damp earth, her golden eyes darkened. "The land does not forgive trespassers.”

  Scene 3: The Land Fights Back

  The Stormborn warriors moved through the forest in uneasy silence. The trees had shifted.

  Ragnor felt it first—paths that should have led them south now curved, twisting unnaturally. He ran a gloved hand over the rough bark of a gnarled tree. The patterns in the wood looked wrong. Unfamiliar.

  “This is impossible,” one of his warriors muttered. “The road was here—we walked it hours ago.”

  No one spoke, but they all knew the truth. The road was gone.

  Sigurd exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. “It’s just fog and nerves.”

  But then the whispering began.

  Not loud. Not clear. But there.

  A low murmur, seeping between the trees, threading through the mist like unseen fingers.

  Selene tightened her grip on her sword. "We need to get out of here."

  Ragnor glanced at Eira. The witch had gone still, eyes half-lidded as if listening to something beyond their hearing.

  “This is not just a forest,” she murmured.

  Sigurd scoffed. “Oh, and what is it then?”

  Eira met his gaze, her voice calm. “A warning.”

  The moment the words left her lips, the ground trembled beneath their feet.

  The Stormborn retreated into the forest, their once-triumphant march now a haphazard scramble. They had never known defeat like this. Some warriors carried the wounded, others clutched at bloodied weapons, their faces pale with disbelief.

  Ragnor’s ribs burned from where Astrid had struck him. His pride burned worse.

  The deeper they pushed into the woods, the thicker the air became. The towering oaks and twisted vines wove together, blocking the light. Shadows slithered between the trees, unnatural in their stillness.

  The warriors whispered among themselves, casting uneasy glances at the shifting foliage.

  "We should burn it," one muttered, clutching his torch.

  Another snorted. "Aye, and smoke ourselves out?"

  Eira stepped forward, her golden eyes scanning the forest floor. She knelt, pressing her palm to the damp earth. The ground trembled beneath her touch.

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  Ragnor frowned. "What is it?"

  Eira exhaled slowly. "This land does not want us here."

  At her words, the wind shifted. Leaves rustled. And then the whispers began.

  They rose from the depths of the forest, slithering through the undergrowth in an ancient tongue none of them understood. Some warriors tightened their grips on their swords. Others muttered prayers, voices tinged with unease.

  Selene pressed closer to Ragnor, her face pale. "It’s like the island."

  "No." Eira stood, brushing dirt from her hands. "It’s worse."

  Then came the first sign of Albion’s defiance.

  The fires they had set to burn the village—the flames refused to spread.

  The warriors who had tried to light torches found them snuffed out the moment they caught flame.

  Armor rusted in the span of minutes, blades growing dull without reason.

  Ragnor gritted his teeth. He had no patience for ghost stories and tricks of the wind.

  "This is no sorcery," he growled, turning to his men. "We are tired. We are wounded. Albion has warriors, nothing more."

  A branch snapped behind them.

  Every warrior spun, weapons raised.

  But there was no enemy.

  Only the trees. Moving.

  Roots shifted in the dirt, unseen hands pushing them forward. The path they had entered through—it was gone.

  Selene inhaled sharply. "This isn’t a battlefield, Ragnor. It’s a trap."

  For the first time, he said nothing.

  Because he felt it too.

  Albion was watching them. And it was closing in.

  Scene 4: The Wrath of the Old Gods

  Night had fallen over the Stormborn camp, but there was no comfort in the darkness. The forest loomed high, pressing against them like the closing jaws of some unseen beast. The air was thick—too thick. It settled on their skin like damp wool, suffocating, unnatural.

  The warriors sat in uneasy silence around the dwindling fires, sharpening blades that refused to hold an edge. Weapons rusted in their hands. Food spoiled in the time it took to pass a wineskin.

  Something hated them here.

  Ragnor stood at the edge of the camp, watching the trees. He had ordered sentries posted, but he could already tell it would do little good. How do you guard against something you cannot see?

  Selene sat nearby, her sword resting across her lap. The flickering firelight danced across her face, making her look hollowed, older than her years. "This isn’t war," she muttered, almost to herself. "This is punishment."

  Eira knelt near the flames, feeding them with strange powders from her satchel. Blue sparks flared, but the fire did not grow. She watched the embers like they held an answer no one else could see.

  "You cannot conquer a land that refuses to be conquered," she said softly.

  Ragnor exhaled, frustrated. He had no patience for riddles. "The gods do not fight our battles for us. Men do. And I’ve yet to see a man I cannot kill."

  Eira lifted her gaze to meet his, and for a moment, something ancient stirred behind her eyes. A knowing.

  "You are fighting more than men now, Ragnor."

  Before he could answer, the earth trembled beneath them.

  A low groan, like the deep breath of something enormous waking from slumber. Warriors leapt to their feet, hands on hilts, eyes darting wildly.

  Then came the whispers.

  But this time, they were everywhere.

  Not just on the wind—in the soil, in the roots, in the air itself.

  Ragnor turned sharply, but there was no enemy. Just the shifting forest, the flickering torches, the uneasy faces of his warriors.

  Then, the first man was taken.

  A warrior stood, his face twisted in alarm—and the ground swallowed him whole.

  One moment he was there. The next, his scream was cut short as he vanished into the dirt.

  Cries erupted around the camp as men scrambled backward, some drawing weapons, others clawing at the ground where their brother had disappeared.

  "Where is he?!" someone shouted.

  "The gods," another whispered, terror-stricken. "They’re watching us."

  Ragnor stepped forward, fists clenched, his mind racing. This was no battle he could win with steel.

  Selene turned to him, her voice shaking. "Do you still think the gods are silent?"

  He did not answer.

  Because for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure.

  Scene 5: Sigurd’s Awakening (The Ancient King’s Whisper)

  By the time they escaped the cursed forest, dawn was creeping over the horizon. The land opened before them—a valley of golden fields and rolling hills. At the heart of it, a village lay untouched.

  Ragnor exhaled. Another chance.

  The Stormborn had been humiliated. They had barely escaped the first ambush, barely survived whatever magic had tried to consume them in the forest. His warriors needed a victory.

  “We take the village,” Ragnor ordered, voice like iron. “No mercy. We reclaim our strength.”

  His men answered with a roar, renewed hunger in their eyes.

  But as they charged, blades drawn, the land itself seemed to resist them. The sky darkened. Their torches sputtered. And the village doors—unlocked, unguarded—creaked open on their own.

  Ragnor hesitated mid-stride. Something was wrong.

  The wind howled through the trees, but it was not the wind that called to him.

  Sigurd moved through the mist, deeper into the heart of the forest, where the roots twisted into unnatural shapes and the earth pulsed beneath his feet like a living thing. He should not have wandered so far from camp. He knew that.

  And yet, he was meant to be here.

  The artifact in his grip throbbed, a heartbeat not his own. Its jagged surface glowed faintly, the light pulsating in time with the whispers in his skull.

  "You are not meant to kneel in your brother’s shadow."

  Sigurd’s breath came quick, his pulse hammering. He glanced over his shoulder, but the trees behind him had changed—had moved. He was alone now.

  Or rather, he was with something else.

  "There is another way."

  The voice was not his, but it lived inside him now, threading through his thoughts like a serpent coiling around prey. He should be afraid. But he wasn’t.

  The visions came suddenly.

  A battlefield, drowning in blood.

  A king, standing atop a mountain of bodies, a black crown gleaming in the firelight. His face was blurred, lost to time—but Sigurd knew him.

  "A forgotten king. A conqueror who held Albion in his grasp."

  The knowledge surged into him, forceful, undeniable.

  This land was not new. It had been taken before.

  And that king—that king had been betrayed.

  Sigurd staggered, his hand clutching the artifact tighter as a heat spread through his veins. It wanted him to remember.

  The whispers turned to words, growing louder, more urgent.

  "Ragnor is not the Hollow King. He never was."

  Sigurd’s breath caught in his throat.

  "You are."

  A sharp pain struck his palm. He looked down and found the blackened blade had cut into his skin. His own blood now stained its edge.

  The pulsing glow of the artifact flared.

  Sigurd stood there, chest heaving, as the realization settled in his bones.

  Ragnor was not destined for Albion’s throne.

  He was.

  And if fate would not give it to him, he would take it.

  Scene 6: The Price of Doubt (Ragnor Faces His First Crisis of Faith)

  The embers of the dying fire cast flickering shadows across the warriors’ faces. They sat in silence, shoulders heavy with exhaustion, weapons resting idly at their sides. Their armor, once gleaming with the pride of conquest, was now dulled by the salt of the sea and the grime of battles that had given them no glory.

  Ragnor sat apart from them, his back to the fire, his gaze locked onto the rune-marked dagger in his hands. The steel felt heavier tonight.

  For the first time since they had set sail from Skjoldheim, he did not know what came next.

  The gods were silent.

  The whispers of the land had grown louder.

  And somewhere beyond the veil of mist and trees, Albion watched him.

  A presence approached—Selene.

  She knelt beside him, watching him with quiet intensity. He had known her since childhood, yet tonight, he did not know what she saw when she looked at him.

  "Have the gods abandoned us?" she asked.

  Her voice held no fear, only weariness.

  Ragnor exhaled slowly. The truth sat at the edge of his tongue like a blade he could not yet wield.

  "Or have we been fighting the wrong war?"

  Selene tensed, her brows furrowing as she searched his face. The silence between them stretched, filled with unspoken thoughts.

  A few feet away, just beyond the firelight, Eira watched.

  She had been waiting.

  Ragnor turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze. The firelight turned her golden eyes into molten embers, unreadable and vast. She tilted her head, as if she already knew what he was thinking.

  "You were not meant to serve them." Her voice was low, certain. "You were meant to break them."

  The words coiled around his mind, tightening like a snare.

  He did not answer.

  But doubt—doubt had finally taken root.

  After two days of bloodshed and confusion, the Stormborn regrouped on the outskirts of the ruined village. Fires burned low. Men whispered among themselves. Fear crept through the ranks.

  Ragnor sat at the center of camp, staring into the flames, his mind a storm of questions.

  Ulfric loomed beside him, silent. Then, after a long pause, his father spoke. “You’re leading ghosts into a graveyard, boy.”

  Ragnor clenched his fists. “I didn’t ask for your counsel.”

  Ulfric exhaled, watching his son carefully. “And yet here you sit. Looking for something you won’t find in the fire.”

  Ragnor did not answer.

  Selene, standing nearby, frowned. "We need a new strategy. This isn't a war of strength—this is something else.”

  Eira, still kneeling by the edge of the fire, stirred. “It is a war of belief.”

  Ragnor turned to her, eyes narrowing. “And what do you believe?”

  She smiled faintly. “That Albion is testing you. And you are failing.”

  Ragnor inhaled sharply but said nothing.

  Ulfric, watching his son, only shook his head. “The gods are watching, boy. And I don’t think they like what they see.”

  The fires burned low. The warriors spoke in hushed voices, their faces drawn and weary.

  Ragnor sat among them, his thoughts heavy.

  Ulfric stirred the embers with the tip of his blade, watching the flames. "You can feel it, can’t you?" he muttered.

  Ragnor exhaled. "The land doesn’t want us here."

  One of the older warriors grunted. "We’ve raided for decades. We’ve seen battlefields stained with blood, cities turned to ash. But never have I seen a land fight back."

  The silence was thick.

  Ulfric leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "This isn’t about war. This is about history. We are stepping into something older than us."

  Ragnor clenched his jaw. "Then we rewrite it."

  Ulfric studied him. "And if history doesn’t want to be rewritten?"

  Ragnor did not answer.

  Scene 7: The Hollow Victory (A War That Cannot Be Won)

  The warriors were hungry, tired, and growing restless.

  Their first battle in Albion had been a disaster—the enemy had been waiting. They had lost warriors, had gained nothing but wounds, and the land itself resisted them.

  But they could not remain hidden in the forests, licking their wounds.

  Ragnor had given the command. They would strike again.

  The second village was smaller, more isolated. It did not have the defenses of the first. The warriors were fewer, the walls weaker. They would not make the same mistake twice.

  There could be no hesitation. If they did not take food and supplies now, they would not last the week.

  They moved in silence, shadows against the trees, determined not to let Albion claim them so easily.

  The Stormborn had expected their blades to carve through Albion like a hot knife through frozen flesh. They had expected fire to spread through the village like the breath of a vengeful god, consuming everything in its path. They had expected cries of the weak, the triumphant roar of warriors claiming their rightful prize.

  Instead, they found only silence.

  The village was taken. The warriors of Albion had fallen or fled into the mist. The Stormborn stood in the ruins, torches in hand, waiting for the rush of victory to fill them.

  It never came.

  The land refused to burn.

  Ragnor watched as one of his men tossed a torch onto a thatched roof, expecting it to catch. The flames kissed the dry straw—and then flickered out, as though swallowed by an unseen hand.

  The warriors shifted uneasily. The gods did not favor them here.

  Sigurd stood at the center of the village, his axe resting against his shoulder, his expression unreadable. He looked around at their men, at the way their shoulders sagged with unease, at the way even the most hardened warriors hesitated to loot the dead.

  He smirked. "What’s wrong? Afraid the ghosts will take their silver back?"

  No one laughed.

  Selene knelt beside a fallen villager, her gloved fingers pressing lightly against the cold flesh. The man had died with his eyes open, but there was no terror in them—only the grim resolve of one who had known death was coming and had accepted it.

  She turned her gaze to Ragnor. "They did not fight to win," she murmured. "They fought to delay."

  Ragnor’s fingers curled into fists.

  Albion had never been a conquest. It had been a trap from the start.

  In the distance, beyond the village, the mist thickened, swirling like a living thing. Something watched them.

  And for the first time since the journey began, Ragnor wondered if they had already lost.

  Scene 8: The Shadow of the Black Wolf (Sigurd’s Treachery Grows)

  The fires refused to burn, but Sigurd felt no cold.

  He walked alone, deeper into the mist-laden forest, his footsteps silent upon the damp earth. The sounds of the Stormborn celebrating their hollow victory faded behind him. They were fools, clinging to a conquest that was already slipping through their fingers.

  But Sigurd did not fight for Skjoldheim. He did not fight for the Stormborn.

  He fought for himself.

  The whisper of the artifact at his side had become a constant presence—a low murmur just beneath the edge of his thoughts, a voice that slithered through his mind like smoke through a broken hall. It called him here, deeper into the heart of Albion, where the old powers still lingered.

  "You are not meant to kneel in your brother’s shadow."

  Sigurd exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the unnatural chill of the forest. His fingers traced the edge of the artifact—the blackened blade he had stolen from the Isle of the Cursed. It pulsed with power, humming in time with the blood in his veins.

  He stepped into a clearing, where the trees bowed toward the earth as if in reverence to some unseen force. The air was thick, heavy with something ancient, something watching.

  And then he saw them.

  Figures stood in the clearing—hooded, robed in shadow, their faces hidden beneath masks of bone. They did not move, did not speak. But they were waiting.

  Sigurd took another step forward. He did not need them to speak to know who they were.

  The Black Wolf had been watching.

  A figure in the center of the clearing stepped forward, the glow of unseen fire reflecting in his hollow eyes. His voice was barely more than a rasp.

  "He is weak."

  Sigurd smirked, tilting his head. "You think I don’t already know that?"

  The figure raised a hand, pointing toward the blade at Sigurd’s side.

  "You are ready."

  A chill coiled in Sigurd’s stomach. He knew this was the moment. The moment he had been waiting for.

  Slowly, deliberately, he lifted the blade and pressed it to his palm.

  The metal burned, scorching his flesh—but he did not flinch. He did not cry out. He did not falter.

  He let the pain consume him.

  The figures around him raised their hands, whispering in a language older than the gods, older than the world. The Black Wolf accepted him.

  The shadows of the clearing twisted, wrapping around Sigurd like an embrace, sinking into his skin. His vision blurred, and for the briefest moment, he saw the throne.

  The Hollow King’s throne.

  Not Ragnor’s.

  His.

  Sigurd grinned, the pain in his hand forgotten.

  "When the time comes," the hooded figure murmured, "you will strike. And history will remember only you."

  Sigurd clenched his fist, feeling the raw power now coursing through his blood.

  He was ready.

  Scene 9: The Gods’ Forgotten War (Astrid’s Revelation)

  The High Court of Albion stood in silent judgment, its towering stone walls lined with ancient banners, each one bearing the sigil of a house that had long since turned to dust. Flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the great hall, illuminating the wary faces of Albion’s elders.

  Lady Astrid Ravenshield knelt before King Eldric, her armor still streaked with the blood of the Stormborn. She had ridden hard, her warriors battered but victorious. But there was no celebration. No feast. Only silence.

  The elders, clad in ceremonial robes, whispered among themselves. She could feel their unease. It was not the Stormborn that troubled them. It was something older.

  King Eldric stood, his piercing gaze locked onto hers. "You were victorious," he said, his voice unreadable. "Yet you do not seem at ease."

  Astrid lifted her chin. "Because this war is not as it seems."

  The murmurs grew louder. One of the elders—a man whose skin was lined with the weight of years—stepped forward. "You have seen it, then," he said. It was not a question.

  Astrid’s fists tightened. "The land rejects them. The earth fights against them. And yet, still they come. Still, they press forward, as if they belong here."

  The elder exchanged glances with the others, nodding as if confirming something unspoken.

  Then King Eldric spoke again.

  "They are not the first to come here, Astrid. And they will not be the last."

  The air in the great hall grew heavier.

  Astrid’s brow furrowed. "Then how were they stopped before?"

  The elders hesitated. Their silence was answer enough.

  Finally, the eldest among them stepped forward. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

  "The Hollow King rose."

  The words sent a chill through Astrid’s blood.

  "And the gods struck him down."

  A cold weight settled in her chest. "What are you saying?"

  The elder met her gaze, his eyes dark with something close to fear. "The Hollow King does not come once, Astrid. He comes again. And again. And again. His name changes, but the war remains the same."

  Astrid exhaled, her mind racing. "Then Ragnor—"

  The elder nodded. "He is walking a path already tread. And he does not even know it."

  Astrid turned to King Eldric, her voice sharpening. "Then what must be done?"

  The king’s jaw tightened. His fingers curled around the hilt of his blade.

  "The gods have already decided."

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. A storm was coming.

  And this time, even Astrid was not sure if Albion would survive it.