Chapter 6: The Warlord and the Witch

  "With whispers of war, the ravens take flight."

  Scene 1: Echoes of the Past

  The wind carried the scent of damp earth and blood. The Stormborn camp was silent save for the occasional crackle of fire, the weary shuffle of warriors sharpening their blades, and the distant hoot of an unseen owl. It was the silence after a lost battle—one that settled into the bones like a sickness, unspoken yet understood.

  Ragnor sat apart from the others, crouched on a flat stone beneath the gnarled boughs of an ancient oak. His dagger rasped softly against a whetstone, the motion methodical, almost mindless. He should have been resting, but his wounds ached in ways he could not explain, and the weight in his chest was heavier than his armor.

  The gods had never led him astray. Not until now.

  A shape moved in the darkness beyond the firelight. Soft footsteps. A whisper of fabric. He did not need to look up to know who it was.

  “You do not sleep,” Eira murmured, stepping into the dim glow of the embers.

  He continued sharpening the dagger. “Neither do you.”

  She studied him in silence for a moment, her golden eyes gleaming like foxfire in the half-light. When she finally spoke, her voice was gentle, yet edged with something ancient.

  “You are not the first to come here.” She stepped closer, slow and deliberate, as though approaching a wounded beast. “And you will not be the last.”

  Ragnor stilled. The whetstone lay forgotten in his palm. He looked up at her.

  “What do you know?”

  Eira tilted her head. “Enough.”

  And before he could react, she reached out and placed her hands on his temples.

  A rush of cold, like the breath of winter through his veins.

  The world around him cracked.

  The flames of the fire bent and snapped, their glow swallowed by a deeper darkness. His breath came short, ragged, as his vision blurred—not from exhaustion, but from something older, something foreign clawing into his mind.

  Then, the past swallowed him whole.

  He stood upon this very land, but it was not the present. The forests were different, untouched, vast and sprawling. A warhost stretched before him—an army, its banners rippling in the wind, warriors clad in iron, their spears gleaming in the morning light. He recognized none of their faces, but he knew them. He had fought beside them, once. Had bled with them. Had led them.

  The scene shifted. Screams filled the air, war cries twisting into something else—something raw, agonized. The trees had eyes. The ground itself had swallowed the first ranks. Weapons rusted in the warriors’ hands, their flesh blackening before their eyes. Their corpses did not fall. They stood, their mouths gaping, their empty sockets turning toward him as if they remembered him.

  He tried to call out, to command, to fight—but he had no voice.

  And then, he saw it.

  At the heart of the battlefield, where men and gods clashed, a figure stood upon a shattered throne. Cloaked in shadow, its eyes burned like molten gold, its voice an echo of a thousand others.

  "You have been here before."

  The voice pierced through him like a blade.

  "And you will return."

  Ragnor woke with a ragged gasp, nearly toppling forward. The fire had returned. The wind was howling. His skin was slick with sweat.

  Eira knelt beside him, unmoved, watching.

  He struggled to breathe, his pulse thundering in his skull.

  “What… what was that?”

  She did not answer immediately. Instead, she reached out, tracing a finger along the edge of his dagger. The rune-etched steel hummed beneath her touch, a whisper of power rippling through the air.

  “Albion does not kill its invaders,” she murmured. “It consumes them.”

  Ragnor gritted his teeth. His mind was still raw, filled with echoes of the vision, the stench of rot, the sound of his warriors dying a death beyond death.

  “No,” he growled, his grip tightening around the dagger’s hilt. “It will not have me.”

  Eira tilted her head, as if considering his words. “We shall see.”

  She rose smoothly, stepping back into the shadows.

  “Sleep, Ragnor.” Her voice drifted back to him, barely more than a whisper. “You will dream again soon.”

  The fire crackled, throwing long shadows against the trees. Ragnor watched the embers pulse and fade, his knuckles white against his dagger.

  Sleep would not come.

  And in his heart, he knew it never would again.

  Scene 2: The Wolf in the Camp

  The night was thick with the scent of damp earth and dying embers. Smoke curled into the sky, mingling with the mist that clung to the trees like ghostly fingers. The Stormborn warriors lay in restless slumber, their bodies spent from battle, but the silence of their camp was deceptive.

  A different kind of war was brewing.

  Sigurd moved like a shadow between the tents, his steps soundless on the packed earth. He had always known how to move unseen, how to navigate the undercurrents of men’s desires, their fears. And now, those fears served him.

  He found them where he knew they would be—the ones who had begun to doubt.

  A small fire burned in the hollow of the encampment, far from the main circle where Ragnor’s presence still loomed. Around it sat a handful of warriors, their expressions tight, their hands idly gripping their weapons. These were not mere soldiers. These were men who had begun to question their king.

  Sigurd stepped forward, into the flickering firelight.

  “We are dying for nothing,” he said.

  The words fell like stones into a still pond.

  One of the warriors, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek, exhaled sharply. “You speak as if you do not follow him,” he muttered, glancing toward the center of the camp.

  Sigurd smiled. “Do you?”

  A hush settled over them.

  The scarred warrior’s gaze wavered.

  “The gods led us here,” another man grumbled.

  Sigurd scoffed. “Did they? Or did they send my brother to feed Albion its next sacrifice?” He leaned in, his voice lowering. “Tell me, how many have we lost? How many more will die before Ragnor admits the truth?”

  A younger warrior swallowed hard. “And what is the truth?”

  Sigurd stepped closer, letting the silence stretch before answering.

  “That Albion is not meant to be conquered,” he murmured. “Not by him.”

  The men shifted uneasily, exchanging glances. Doubt was already festering in them—Sigurd had seen it in their faces during the march, in the way they gripped their weapons with hands that no longer believed in victory. He was merely giving voice to the whispers already in their heads.

  He let his words settle, then straightened. “I am not saying we should abandon the fight,” he continued, “but I will not follow a man who leads us into death blindfolded. And neither should you.”

  They said nothing, but they did not argue.

  That was enough.

  Sigurd turned, stepping away from the fire. He had planted the seed. It would grow.

  He moved deeper into the trees, where the air felt heavier, thick with something unseen. The wind shifted as he walked, curling through the branches in an unnatural stillness. It was waiting.

  The Black Wolf cult.

  They did not announce themselves. They did not need to.

  One moment, he was alone. The next, figures stepped from the shadows, their presence colder than the wind. Cloaked in black, their faces obscured, they carried no torches, no weapons that could be seen. But their power pulsed beneath the skin of the night.

  Sigurd did not hesitate. He dropped to one knee.

  “You have heard the voice,” one of them intoned, the words layered with something beyond mortal speech. “You know the truth.”

  Sigurd exhaled, the weight of the artifact at his side suddenly unbearable. He felt its presence in his blood, in his breath.

  “The truth,” he repeated.

  One of the figures stepped forward, extending a gloved hand.

  Sigurd knew what it meant. A pact. A mark.

  Without hesitation, he unsheathed his dagger and dragged it across his palm.

  The blood dripped into the earth, dark against the dead leaves. The air shifted, charged with unseen energy.

  The voice spoke, not from the cultists, but from the earth itself.

  "It has chosen you, Sigurd. You are the true heir. Now, take what is yours."

  The wound on his palm did not bleed as it should. The blood darkened, thickening, curling along his skin in unnatural patterns. The artifact at his side pulsed, and for the first time, he understood.

  He was not merely defying Ragnor.

  He was claiming something greater.

  Sigurd’s lips curled into a slow smile.

  “Ragnor will never leave Albion alive.”

  The Black Wolf figures said nothing, but the silence was a promise.

  Sigurd turned, stepping away, leaving the shadows behind.

  The battle ahead would not be fought with swords alone.

  And when the moment came, he would not hesitate.

  Scene 3: The Queen’s Gambit

  The sacred halls of Albion’s High Court were carved from the very bones of the land—stone shaped by hands long forgotten, walls adorned with runes that shimmered faintly in the dim candlelight. At its heart, beneath a great dome painted with constellations older than any kingdom, stood Lady Astrid Ravenshield, her armored frame rigid with restrained fury.

  She did not kneel.

  The High Priests of Albion, draped in silver and white, stood in a circle before her. Their faces, lined with age and wisdom, were unreadable as they regarded the warrior who had dared to march into their sanctum unbidden.

  "You fight a war that has already been written," one of the priests intoned, his voice weightless as drifting ash.

  Astrid’s fingers flexed at her sides.

  "I have no patience for riddles," she said, her voice a blade honed for war. "Tell me what you know."

  The priests exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable.

  One of the elder women stepped forward, her piercing gaze meeting Astrid’s. "You ask for answers, but do you understand the weight of what you seek?"

  Astrid’s jaw tightened. "Ragnor Frostborn is not a man who should be left to roam free. He is chaos given form, and if you know something—anything—that will aid Albion, you will tell me."

  The old priestess studied her, then sighed.

  "There is only one thing that may shift the tide of fate," she admitted. "But be warned—it has never been wielded without consequence."

  The air in the chamber seemed to still.

  Astrid lifted her chin. "Then tell me where to find it."

  A silence stretched between them.

  Then, at last, the priestess spoke the name.

  "The Stone of Aetheris."

  The breath left Astrid’s lungs in a slow exhale.

  She had heard the name before—in half-whispered legends, in the war songs of old warriors who claimed the gods themselves had once feared it.

  "The Stone is not a weapon," one of the priests warned. "It does not kill. It does not conquer. It binds—or unbinds—what is already written."

  Astrid’s fingers curled into fists. "And if Ragnor reaches it first?"

  The priestess shook her head. "Then fate will be his to shape, and Albion’s gods will have no power over him."

  A chill laced through Astrid’s spine.

  She turned toward the grand table at the center of the chamber, where King Eldric of Albion had been listening in silence.

  He had not spoken once since she entered.

  Now, at last, he shifted, his weathered hands resting against the dark oak. His face, carved by years of rule, was unreadable.

  "Astrid," he said, his voice low. "There are forces at work beyond our understanding."

  Astrid stiffened. "That is why I must find the Stone before Ragnor does."

  The king’s sharp eyes studied her. "And if you do?"

  She hesitated. "Then I will decide Albion’s fate before he can."

  The weight of her words settled heavily upon the room.

  For a long moment, Eldric said nothing. Then, slowly, he leaned forward.

  "Find the Stone," he said. "But beware, Astrid. If you tamper with fate, fate will tamper with you."

  Astrid inclined her head, her decision already made.

  Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode from the chamber.

  Behind her, the High Priests murmured among themselves, their voices like the shifting winds before a storm.

  And far beyond the halls of Albion’s sacred court, the mountains of Aetheris waited, their peaks veiled in mist.

  Ancient. Silent. Watching.

  Scene 4: The Forsaken Oath

  The embers of the dying campfires flickered against the night, casting wavering shadows across the ruined village where the Stormborn had made their uneasy camp. The air smelled of damp earth and blood, remnants of the battle that had nearly broken them.

  Ragnor sat alone on a broken pillar, the jagged stone cold beneath his fingers. His rune-marked dagger rested in his lap, its blade gleaming dully in the firelight. He turned it slowly between his hands, watching the way the light licked along its edge, as though searching for meaning in the steel.

  His gods had always been with him. Hadn’t they?

  Then why had they abandoned him on the shores of Albion?

  A heavy silence pressed against his chest, the weight of the night thick with unspoken doubts.

  Footsteps approached. He did not look up.

  Selene hesitated before sitting beside him, her movements slow, deliberate. For a long moment, neither spoke.

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  Finally, she broke the silence.

  "You always said the gods had a plan for you," she murmured. "Do you still believe that?"

  Ragnor exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tightening around the dagger’s hilt.

  "I don’t know," he admitted. His voice was rough, laced with something bitter. "If they had a plan, why did they send us here to die?"

  Selene studied him. He had never spoken like this before.

  "You led us into battle believing we were favored," she said carefully. "Now you question if we were ever meant to win at all?"

  He let out a low, humorless chuckle. "Tell me, Selene—what kind of gods would watch their chosen warriors break against a land that fights like a living thing?"

  She did not answer.

  Ragnor turned the dagger over, watching how the runes carved into its blade pulsed faintly in the dim light. A heartbeat. A whisper.

  He felt nothing.

  "The priests always spoke of war as if it was something glorious," he continued. "Victory ordained by the divine. Strength granted to those who were worthy."

  His grip tightened.

  "But here we are. And where are the gods?"

  Selene swallowed hard.

  She had prayed on the battlefield, as she always had. She had whispered their names into the wind, into the bloodied earth.

  And they had not answered.

  Her fingers curled into her palm. "I don't know anymore," she admitted.

  For the first time, Ragnor met her gaze. And in her eyes, he saw the same uncertainty that gnawed at his soul.

  A shift in the air made them both look up.

  Eira stood at the edge of the fire’s light, her golden eyes gleaming like embers in the dark. She had been watching them.

  She stepped forward, the movement slow, measured, her crimson cloak trailing like spilled wine against the earth.

  "Your gods have lied to you," she said, her voice quiet but unshakable. "Albion does not need a king. It needs a sacrifice."

  Ragnor’s jaw tightened, but he did not look away.

  Selene’s breath caught in her throat.

  Eira knelt before him, her gaze unwavering. "You are not here to rule, Ragnor. You are here because the gods fear what you might become."

  The words struck like a blade to the chest.

  Ragnor’s fingers flexed around the dagger, his mind racing.

  Eira held his gaze, her expression unreadable. "The land does not reject you because you are unworthy. It rejects you because you are not meant to be tamed."

  The fire cracked. The air pressed down upon them.

  Ragnor exhaled slowly.

  He did not know if he still believed in his gods.

  But for the first time, he wondered if they had sent him here not to conquer—but to fall.

  And for the first time, he feared what would happen if he refused to kneel.

  Scene 5: The Blood Oath

  The night was black and restless. The mist that clung to the trees of the cursed forest whispered with voices only the mad could understand. It slithered low across the damp earth, curling around boots, seeping into the breath of those who dared to listen.

  Sigurd listened.

  In the shadows beyond the Stormborn camp, away from the embers of their dying fires, he stood among men who no longer called Ragnor their king. Warriors with hardened faces, scarred hands, and eyes that held the weight of too many battles. They were tired of following a leader who bled for nothing.

  The glow of torches flickered over their forms, casting jagged shadows across the trees.

  Sigurd stepped forward, his face carved from stone. He spoke low, but his voice carried.

  "My brother has led us to ruin," he said. "If we do not act, we will die for nothing."

  A murmur rippled through the gathered warriors. Some glanced toward the camp, toward where Ragnor sat in quiet conversation, blind to the knife at his back.

  "He speaks of gods who have forsaken us," Sigurd continued, his voice steady. "He speaks of fate as though it is something that cannot be broken." His lips curled, contempt flashing in his darkening eyes. "But I do not kneel to fate."

  A warrior—Erik the Red-Handed—spat onto the earth. "And what would you have us do, Sigurd? Turn on our own? Spill Stormborn blood?"

  Sigurd let the silence stretch before answering.

  "Ragnor is lost," he said. "He clings to ghosts. To gods who no longer listen. He would have us die as sacrifices to a war we cannot win."

  He drew his dagger and held it up, the blade catching the flickering light.

  "I offer another path."

  A rustling in the shadows made the warriors tense. The mist thickened. A presence settled over them, unseen but felt in the marrow of their bones.

  A voice, low and serpentine, slithered into their ears.

  "It has chosen you, Sigurd."

  Sigurd’s fingers tightened around the dagger.

  He turned his palm upward and dragged the blade across his skin. A crimson line bloomed, blood welling before dripping to the earth. The moment his blood touched the ground, the air trembled—like the very land was bearing witness.

  "Swear your loyalty to me," Sigurd said, his voice laced with something dark, something ancient. "And I will lead us to true power."

  One by one, the warriors stepped forward.

  They took their daggers. They cut their palms.

  Blood dripped onto the cold earth.

  The mist shifted. The trees groaned. The very air thickened with something unseen, something waiting.

  Sigurd felt it.

  It was watching.

  It was listening.

  And it was pleased.

  The last warrior made his oath, and the silence that followed was deafening.

  Sigurd exhaled slowly, his breath curling in the cold. His palm still bled, but the pain was nothing.

  He lifted his gaze to the sky, to the stars that had long since abandoned him.

  Ragnor had always been the favored son.

  But fate was not written in the heavens.

  It was written in blood.

  Scene 6: The Path of the Raven

  The road to the Aetheris Mountains was old—older than the war, older than the kingdom of Albion itself. It was a path carved by something greater than men, a road meant not for armies, but for those who sought power beyond mortal grasp.

  Lady Astrid Ravenshield rode in silence, her fingers curled tight around the reins of her black mare. The wind was sharp, laced with the scent of damp earth and the distant promise of snow. Her cloak billowed behind her, the silver embroidery catching the dim light of the moon.

  She was not alone.

  A dozen warriors rode beside her, each handpicked for this journey. They carried no banners, no sigils of Albion—only steel and silence. To the unknowing eye, they were nothing more than shadows slipping through the trees.

  At the head of the column, the High Priestess of Albion rode beside Astrid. Clad in robes of midnight blue, her face was veiled, but her voice was clear as frost.

  "You seek the Stone of Aetheris," the priestess murmured. "But do you know what it will demand of you?"

  Astrid did not turn her gaze from the road. "It will demand what all things of power demand—a price."

  The priestess studied her for a moment, her expression unreadable beneath the veil. "And you are willing to pay it?"

  A branch snapped somewhere in the undergrowth, the sound swallowed by the night.

  Astrid exhaled. "I have seen what awaits us if I do not."

  The priestess nodded, as if expecting the answer.

  "Then you must listen," she said. "The Stone is not like the relics of men. It is not a crown to be worn, nor a sword to be wielded. It is knowledge, bound in stone. It will not give you power. It will show you the cost of it."

  Astrid’s jaw tightened. "Then I will decide if the cost is worth paying."

  Ahead, the mountains loomed.

  The trees thinned as the road climbed higher, the land growing wilder with each passing mile. The wind howled through jagged peaks, carrying whispers from a time when gods still walked among men.

  A flicker of movement caught Astrid’s eye. She slowed her horse, raising a hand to halt the column.

  The warriors behind her stiffened.

  The path ahead was lined with stone monoliths, each carved with runes long since worn by time. The air was thick here—heavy with something unseen, something waiting.

  One of the warriors, a grizzled veteran named Halvar, muttered, "This place is cursed."

  The priestess dismounted first. She walked forward, her hands raised in silent reverence.

  "The veil is thin here," she murmured. "This is sacred ground."

  Astrid swung down from her horse, boots crunching against the frostbitten earth. She stepped closer to the nearest monolith, running her fingers over the deep-cut runes.

  The stone was cold. Too cold.

  A whisper brushed against her ear, though no one had spoken.

  "You cannot change fate. You can only delay it."

  Astrid’s breath caught. She turned sharply, scanning the trees. The wind shrieked through the pass, but there was no one there.

  She knew better than to trust her eyes.

  The High Priestess stepped beside her. "The Stone of Aetheris is close," she said. "But it will not reveal itself unless it deems you worthy."

  Astrid lifted her chin, her resolve steel. "Then I will prove myself."

  She took the first step beyond the monoliths, toward the waiting darkness of the mountain.

  And the path behind her vanished.

  Scene 7: The Battle at Dawn

  The mist clung to the ground like the breath of sleeping gods, thick and unmoving. The world was still in the gray hour before dawn, save for the steady rhythm of boots upon the earth. The Stormborn warriors marched in silence, their faces hardened by days of hunger, exhaustion, and the gnawing unease of Albion’s cursed land.

  Ragnor walked at their head, his rune-marked dagger resting against his hip. His grip on the hilt was firm, though his mind was clouded with thoughts of Sigurd’s whispers, of Eira’s warnings, of the unseen hands that had twisted every battle since they had landed on these shores.

  This is not war. This is punishment.

  Selene moved beside him, her sword drawn, her brow furrowed with something close to doubt. She had not prayed before this battle.

  Eira walked a few steps behind them, her crimson cloak blending into the mist. She was quiet, her gaze fixed on something beyond the battlefield, as if she saw not the fortress ahead but something deeper—something unseen.

  The fortress loomed in the distance, its stone walls wrapped in shadow, its gates standing firm against the coming dawn. No banners flew. No torches burned.

  It was waiting.

  The warriors around Ragnor shifted, uneasy. The silence was unnatural.

  “They should be preparing,” one muttered. “Sounding their horns, readying their arrows.”

  “They are,” Eira said softly.

  Ragnor cast her a glance, his jaw tightening. He had stopped asking her to explain her riddles. She never did.

  A soft wind stirred the mist. And in the space between breaths, the fortress came alive.

  A horn blast shattered the stillness, followed by a hundred voices rising in war cries.

  Albion’s warriors surged forward from the fortress gates, not waiting for the Stormborn to reach them. They charged like wolves, their weapons gleaming in the pale light, their armor marked with the sigils of old kings.

  The Stormborn met them with steel and fury.

  The clash was deafening, the ring of metal on metal, the cries of men both living and dying. Shields splintered. Blood darkened the earth.

  Ragnor drove forward, cutting through the first line of Albion’s warriors. His blade found flesh, but as he struck, the ground beneath his feet trembled.

  Albion was fighting back.

  The fortress walls groaned, stones shifting as if the land itself resisted them. Roots twisted from the earth, tangling the feet of warriors, dragging them down into the mud.

  A Stormborn warrior beside Ragnor screamed as his axe shattered in his hands, the metal rusting to dust in a heartbeat.

  Selene caught his arm, dragging him back. “This is sorcery,” she spat.

  Eira did not lift her blade. She merely watched.

  “This is Albion,” she murmured.

  Ragnor roared and pressed on, carving his way toward the heart of the battle. The warriors of Albion did not falter, did not break rank. They fought as if something more than steel guided them, as if something ancient burned in their veins.

  Ragnor moved like a tempest, his blade carving through the defenders of Albion with brutal precision. The air rang with the clash of steel, the guttural roars of dying men, and the cries of the wounded. His warriors surged forward behind him, shields raised, axes crashing against Albion’s armored ranks. For every man they cut down, two more seemed to rise, but the Stormborn did not falter.

  Blood painted the stones beneath his feet as Ragnor pressed forward, his rune-marked dagger flashing in the dim morning light. He parried a downward strike from an Albion swordsman, twisted his body, and plunged his blade into the man’s ribs. The warrior choked, blood spilling from his lips as he crumpled.

  To his left, Selene fought with ruthless efficiency, her curved blade slicing through armor and flesh alike. To his right, Eira moved like a wraith, weaving through the chaos, her golden eyes fixed on something unseen.

  Ragnor gritted his teeth as he shoved another opponent aside, his muscles burning from exertion. He could feel the momentum shifting.

  They were winning.

  The once-relentless Albion defenders began to waver, their formations breaking apart. The Stormborn drove forward like a tide, relentless, unyielding.

  A captain in Albion’s colors—a woman with braided silver hair—charged at him, her longsword swinging in a deadly arc. Ragnor met her head-on, deflecting the first strike and stepping inside her guard. Their blades locked for a moment, and he saw the fire in her eyes.

  She snarled. “You think you can take Albion?”

  Ragnor twisted his wrist, forcing her sword wide. “I know it.”

  With a sharp movement, he rammed his dagger beneath her ribs. She gasped, eyes wide with disbelief as she staggered back.

  The last of the defenders fell around him, their cries drowned in the roar of the Stormborn. The battle was theirs.

  Ragnor turned, scanning the battlefield, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His warriors stood victorious, bodies bloodied but unbowed.

  And then—, a familiar voice rang out.

  “Stormborn!”

  Ragnor turned, his breath sharp in his throat.

  Sigurd stood atop the ruined steps of the fortress, his blackened blade resting against his shoulder. His warriors flanked him, their expressions unreadable.

  For a moment, time stretched.

  Sigurd’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

  And then he raised his sword.

  “Kill them all.”

  The Stormborn turned on their own.

  Ragnor barely had time to react before a blade slashed toward him. He parried, stepping back, eyes darting between the battle and his brother’s traitorous grin.

  Sigurd had waited for this moment. The battle had never been about Albion. It had been about breaking Ragnor when he least expected it.

  And now the war was no longer against Albion alone.

  It was against blood.

  Scene 8: Brother Against Brother

  Ragnor’s mind raced, the weight of betrayal crashing down upon him like a tidal wave. His brother’s warriors turned on their own kin, cutting them down with ruthless efficiency.

  The clang of steel filled the air, but the sound was different now—discordant, unnatural. Not the clash of warriors seeking victory, but the death knell of those who had never expected their own kin to strike them down.

  Sigurd stepped forward, the blackened blade in his grip humming with dark energy. His eyes burned with something unholy.

  "You were never meant to lead, brother," Sigurd said, his voice both his own and something else entirely.

  Ragnor’s grip tightened around his dagger. He felt the weight of fate shifting—not in his favor.

  Then, with a roar that shook the walls of the fortress, he charged.

  Ragnor’s heart pounded, his breath short as he cut down one of his own warriors, a man who had sworn loyalty to him under the banner of the Stormborn. Another came at him from the side—someone he had fought beside for years. The blade arced toward his ribs, but he was faster, twisting out of the way and driving his dagger beneath the traitor’s ribs.

  He wrenched the blade free, his eyes already locking onto Sigurd.

  His brother stood at the top of the fortress steps, his blade resting lightly against his shoulder, his golden hair damp with sweat. But there was something else. His eyes—once sharp with cold calculation—had changed. They gleamed with something unnatural, something wrong.

  Ragnor moved toward him, shoving past clashing warriors. “Sigurd!” he roared.

  Sigurd smiled, slow and knowing. “Brother.”

  His voice carried over the chaos like the whisper of a blade in the dark. He took a single step forward, lowering his sword, as if inviting Ragnor to approach.

  Selene, blood spattered across her armor, cut down a traitor at Ragnor’s side and grabbed his arm. “This isn’t the time,” she snapped.

  But Ragnor shook her off, his pulse hammering against his skull. “This ends now.”

  The distance between them vanished. Ragnor lunged, his dagger flashing toward Sigurd’s throat.

  Sigurd met him in an instant, their swords colliding with a force that sent a shockwave up Ragnor’s arms. The clash rang out like the tolling of a death knell.

  For a moment, there was no battle around them—only the two of them, locked in a dance of steel and blood.

  Ragnor drove forward, his attacks precise and unrelenting. Sigurd parried every strike with ease, his movements fluid, almost… unnatural.

  Something was wrong.

  Sigurd shifted, twisting away from a strike that should have cut into his ribs. He moved faster than he should have, reacting before Ragnor had even fully committed to the attack.

  Ragnor’s stomach turned. His brother had always been a skilled warrior, but this—this was something else.

  Sigurd’s lips curled. “Do you feel it, brother?” he whispered, stepping into Ragnor’s space, forcing him back. “The weight of it? The truth?”

  Ragnor gritted his teeth, his muscles burning as he pushed forward. “You’re no king.”

  Sigurd laughed, his voice low and edged with something… warped. “Neither are you.”

  Their swords clashed again, but this time, Ragnor felt it—the pulse of something unseen, something lurking just beyond the edge of reality. The air crackled between them, thick with power.

  Sigurd ducked under Ragnor’s next strike, his free hand snapping forward. He seized Ragnor by the throat, fingers tightening with inhuman strength.

  Ragnor’s vision darkened at the edges. He struggled, driving his knee into Sigurd’s side, but his brother didn’t flinch. His grip tightened.

  And for the first time, Ragnor saw it—the flickering darkness coiling around Sigurd’s form, clinging to him like a living thing. His brother’s eyes glowed with something ancient, something cursed.

  Sigurd leaned in close, his breath warm against Ragnor’s ear. “You were never meant to win.”

  Then he flung Ragnor back, sending him crashing into the blood-soaked dirt.

  Ragnor gasped, the breath knocked from his lungs. He rolled to his knees, his hand digging into the mud. His vision swam, but his mind sharpened with a single thought.

  Sigurd wasn’t just stronger.

  He was something else entirely.

  A shadow loomed over him. He barely had time to raise his blade before Sigurd’s sword came down, forcing him onto the defensive. Every strike pushed Ragnor back. His arms shook with the force of the blows.

  The traitors around them fought fiercely, cutting through what remained of the loyal Stormborn. Their numbers were thinning. Ragnor had no illusions—if he fell, this battle would be lost.

  Selene’s voice rang out over the din. “Ragnor!”

  He caught the flicker of movement a second before Selene threw something toward him. His hand snapped out, catching the hilt of a second blade—a short sword, its edge wet with Albion blood.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  He shifted his weight, ducking under Sigurd’s next blow, and drove the sword forward.

  Sigurd twisted at the last second, but the blade still bit into his side, tearing through flesh.

  For the first time, Sigurd’s expression flickered—not with pain, but with something close to surprise. He stumbled back, pressing a hand to his wound. Dark, unnatural veins pulsed beneath his skin, writhing like living shadows.

  Ragnor rose to his feet, his breaths ragged, his fingers tight around his weapons. “You bleed,” he spat.

  Sigurd’s lips parted. Then, slowly, he smiled.

  “Do I?”

  The wound in his side pulsed—then, before Ragnor’s eyes, the flesh knit itself back together. The bleeding stopped. The skin sealed.

  Sigurd exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the last remnants of pain. “I told you, brother,” he murmured. “You were never meant to win.”

  Ragnor’s grip tightened. The battle still raged around them, but in this moment, nothing else mattered.

  Sigurd had already been lost.

  But Ragnor would not let him win.

  He took a step forward, ready to finish it.

  Then the fortress trembled.

  A deep, resounding crack split the air, and the ground beneath them shuddered. The warriors around them stumbled, cries of alarm breaking through the chaos.

  Something was happening.

  Something was waking.

  Sigurd’s grin widened. “Ah,” he murmured, stepping back. “It begins.”

  Ragnor barely had time to process the words before the very earth beneath his feet split open, and the battlefield was swallowed by darkness.

  Scene 9: The Voice in the Stone

  The air was thin at the summit of the Aetheris Mountains, the wind howling like a chorus of wailing spirits. The path had been steep, treacherous, winding through jagged cliffs and half-forgotten ruins swallowed by time. But Astrid Ravenshield did not falter.

  Her warriors stood behind her, their breaths heavy, their bodies bruised from the arduous climb. They had lost three men along the way—one to the crumbling edges of the cliffs, another to something unseen in the mist, the last simply… vanished.

  But none of that mattered now.

  The entrance to the chamber stood before her, carved into the mountain itself, its doorway a perfect arch of obsidian-black stone. Ancient runes flickered along its surface, pulsing like dying embers. The ground trembled beneath her feet—not violently, but with a subtle, rhythmic pulse, as though the mountain itself was breathing.

  The Stone of Aetheris was close.

  Astrid turned to the High Priestess who had guided her this far. The elder woman’s robes fluttered in the wind, her silver hair unbound, her blind eyes staring into something beyond this world.

  “The stone will not give you what you seek,” the High Priestess murmured. “It does not grant power freely. It demands something in return.”

  Astrid exhaled slowly. She had known this would not be simple. But she had not come all this way to turn back now.

  She stepped forward, crossing the threshold.

  The chamber within was vast, hollowed out from the very bones of the mountain. The ceiling stretched so high that it was lost to darkness. Stalactites jutted from above like the fangs of some great beast, and the air shimmered with an eerie golden light.

  And at the center of it all—

  The Stone.

  It was unlike anything Astrid had ever seen. It stood upon a raised dais, a monolithic shard of translucent crystal, thrumming with an inner radiance. It was neither warm nor cold, neither welcoming nor forbidding. It simply was.

  And it was watching her.

  Astrid took a step forward, the weight of history pressing upon her chest. The air thickened, charged with something ancient, something beyond mortal comprehension.

  The High Priestess remained at the entrance, whispering a prayer in a language Astrid did not recognize.

  The High Priestess’ voice carried through the stillness. "The Stone of Aetheris does not answer to kings or warriors. It speaks only to those it deems worthy. And the price it demands…" She paused, her gaze unreadable. "You must be ready to pay it."

  Astrid inhaled sharply. She had not come this far to hesitate.

  She reached out, fingers grazing the smooth, cold surface of the stone—

  She placed her hands against the stone.

  A rush of air spiraled outward, lifting her hair, sending her cloak billowing behind her. Her fingers tingled against the surface of the crystal, and then—

  And the world around her shattered.

  Light consumed her vision, swallowing time and space itself.

  She was no longer in the mountain.

  She was nowhere.

  Yet she was everywhere.

  A flood of visions consumed her.

  She saw Albion, its forests stretching endless and untouched. She saw the Stormborn, their ships cutting through the waves, their banners raised high.

  She saw war.

  Endless war.

  Flashes of steel and fire, of blood staining the golden fields. A thousand battles fought over the same land, the same rivers, the same cities that rose and fell like the tide.

  And she saw them—

  The Hollow Kings.

  Men who had come before Ragnor. Men who had marched upon Albion with the same dreams of conquest. And each of them had been swallowed.

  Not by men.

  Not by armies.

  By something older.

  The stone pulsed beneath her hands, and a voice, ancient and terrible, whispered into her mind.

  "You seek to change fate."

  Astrid’s breath caught in her throat.

  "But fate does not change."

  The visions shifted. She saw herself standing where she was now, in the chamber of the Aetheris Stone. But it was not her. It was another. A woman long dead.

  The past was repeating.

  No—not repeating. It had never ended.

  "Fate does not change," the voice repeated. "It devours."

  Astrid tore her hands away from the stone, stumbling backward. The golden light dimmed. The chamber fell silent.

  She gasped for air, her heart pounding.

  The High Priestess stood motionless at the entrance, waiting.

  Astrid clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She had come seeking a way to break the cycle. To stop Ragnor before he could claim Albion.

  But now she knew the truth.

  There was no cycle to break.

  The war was not a test. It was not a prophecy waiting to be rewritten.

  It was the very nature of Albion itself.

  It had always been.

  It would always be.

  Astrid straightened, her expression hardening. She turned back to the High Priestess.

  “There is no stopping this war, is there?”

  The priestess lowered her head. “There never was.”

  Astrid exhaled slowly, steadying her mind. Then she turned on her heel and walked out of the chamber.

  She had not come to Albion to let history control her.

  If fate devoured all who challenged it—

  Then she would make sure Ragnor choked on it.