"The thunder rolls, and the sky turns black."
Scene 1: The Sundering of the Stormborn
The Stormborn had fled through the jagged hills and mist-choked forests for three days, their once-mighty army fractured and leaderless. The betrayal at the fortress had shattered them, and now, even the land seemed to turn against them.
Every path twisted unnaturally, leading them in circles. Fires refused to catch, even with dry kindling. The howling wind carried whispers, their names spoken in tongues long forgotten. It was as if Albion itself had passed judgment upon them.
Ragnor barely spoke. He marched at the front, jaw clenched, his grip like iron on the hilt of his axe. Every so often, he glanced over his shoulder, expecting another dagger in his back. Sigurd had vanished into the dark, but his presence lingered—like a shadow that refused to fade. The sky itself seemed heavier since his brother’s betrayal, the air thick with something unseen, something unnatural.
On the morning of the third day, the Stormborn remnants reached high ground. From their vantage, they saw the battlefield below—smoke rising from charred earth, the banners of Albion rippling in the cold wind. Their enemy had already formed ranks, prepared to finish what had begun at the fortress.
Albion had not just survived. It had risen.
Ragnor exhaled slowly, the breath leaving his lungs like the last warmth of dying embers. He had seen many battlefields. But never had he looked upon one with the weight of defeat already pressing upon his chest.
Stormborn warriors, once the fiercest of the north, moved like ghosts. Some clutched their weapons with the determination of cornered wolves. Others turned their blades upon their own, the sickness of doubt and desperation taking root. And far too many had chosen the most dishonorable fate of all.
They ran.
Ragnor’s axe cleaved through the chest of an Albion knight, steel shrieking against bone. He turned—blood running down his arm—only to see another of his warriors fall beneath Albion’s relentless charge. The Stormborn were faltering. Not because of fear. Not even because of numbers.
Because Albion refused to break.
Selene fought beside him, her blade carving a silver arc through the chaos. But there was something in her movements that had never been there before—hesitation.
She had always been a force of divine will, her faith guiding her blade as surely as the stars guided the sea. But now, Ragnor saw doubt flicker in her eyes.
Another warrior collapsed beside them, impaled upon a spear of Albion’s silver-clad infantry. Selene turned to Ragnor, her breath ragged.
"They fight as if something more than steel guides them," she said. "As if something ancient burns in their veins."
Ragnor clenched his jaw. This war should have been swift. Take the shore, drive into Albion’s heart, shatter them before they could resist.
Instead, Albion was winning.
The moment Sigurd turned against him, the tide had shifted. The Stormborn no longer fought one war, but two—one against Albion, and one against itself.
From the corner of his vision, Eira moved toward him, untouched by sweat or blood. Her golden eyes, sharp and knowing, studied the chaos with eerie calm.
"This is no longer a war," she said. "This is a slaughter."
Ragnor spat onto the bloodied earth, his defiance still burning. "Then let it be a slaughter," he growled.
He would not retreat. Not now. Not ever.
He raised his axe, his voice booming over the battlefield.
"STORMBORN! HOLD YOUR LINES!"
The warriors closest to him, those not yet broken by fear or betrayal, locked shields and braced for the next charge. Their weapons gleamed under the gray sky, their breaths forming clouds of defiance against the cold.
Across the field, Albion’s banners advanced.
Ragnor’s gaze found Lady Astrid Ravenshield, mounted upon a black stallion, her silver armor gleaming. Their eyes locked across the battlefield.
And he knew.
This was her war now. And he was losing it.
A horn blew from Albion’s ranks. Another charge. The final push.
Ragnor fought with the last of his strength, but the ground beneath him felt heavier. His strikes slowed. His breath turned to fire in his lungs. Then—he stumbled.
A moment of vulnerability.
A sword slashed toward him—
But another blade intercepted it.
Ragnor barely registered the figure that stepped in front of him, deflecting the fatal blow with effortless precision. He turned his head sharply—
And saw King Eldric.
The Albion king rode through the field of bodies like a figure from the sagas of old, his dark cloak billowing, his armor gleaming with untouched steel. His warhorse stepped over the fallen without hesitation.
Eldric pulled to a stop before Ragnor, towering over him like a specter of judgment.
“I sent you to break the Stormborn,” he said, his voice as cold as the wind. “Instead, you have broken yourself.”
Ragnor forced himself to stand, his breath ragged. “This war is not over.”
Eldric’s expression remained unreadable. “No, it is not. But neither are you the man who will end it.”
A long silence stretched between them. The battlefield howled around them, but in that moment, it was as if only the two of them existed.
Eldric exhaled sharply. “Sigurd has taken what you would not. He has abandoned weakness. He is no longer my son. But tell me, Ragnor—are you?”
Ragnor’s fingers tightened around his axe. He did not answer.
Eldric studied him for a moment longer, then turned his horse toward the Albion banners.
“Then prove it.”
Without another word, the king rode away, disappearing into the storm of battle, leaving Ragnor standing amidst the ruin of his own making.
Scene 2: Sigurd’s Ascension
The forest swallowed them whole.
Sigurd led his followers through the blackened remains of the battlefield, where the air was thick with the stench of burned flesh and churned mud. They did not flee. They did not look back. They moved with purpose, their path guided not by instinct, but by something older than war.
Those who followed him spoke no words of regret. They had seen what Sigurd had become. And they had knelt.
The artifact pulsed in his grasp like a second heartbeat, its whispers threading through his mind with every step. It had chosen him. He could feel it now, coiling deeper into his veins, binding itself to his very existence. His thoughts were no longer entirely his own.
And he welcomed it.
By nightfall, they reached the hidden clearing, a place where the air felt unnaturally still. Ancient stones jutted from the earth like the ribs of a buried god, forming a sacred circle beneath the pale glow of the moon. Here, power had been wielded before. Here, power would be wielded again.
A ring of black-cloaked figures awaited them—the Order of the Black Wolf.
One of them stepped forward, his hood low, his voice as coarse as shattered stone.
“You have come.”
Sigurd did not answer. He unsheathed the artifact blade, its darkened edge catching the moonlight, the runes along its surface pulsing as if drinking in the night itself.
The hooded figure extended his arms.
“Kneel, Sigurd Frostborn, and take your rightful place.”
Sigurd did not kneel.
Instead, he drove the blade into the earth.
The ground trembled beneath them. The sky darkened. A low rumble echoed through the forest, not of thunder, but of something deeper.
The storm that had haunted him since childhood was no longer distant.
It was inside him now.
“I am already king.”
The battlefield still burned when Sigurd stood atop the ruins of a broken Stormborn war banner, his eyes fixed on the warriors gathered before him.
He was no longer Ragnor’s shadow.
No longer the forgotten son.
He was something greater.
The artifact burned against his palm, black veins creeping up his forearm like roots burrowing into flesh. It pulsed, feeding him something beyond strength—knowledge, hunger, dominion. He could feel the power shifting inside him, as if the very fabric of his being was unraveling, only to be remade anew.
The men before him knelt.
Not out of loyalty.
Not out of faith.
But out of fear.
They had seen what he had done.
Ragnor had led them into ruin, blindly following the will of absent gods. But Sigurd had seen the truth.
The gods did not rule men. They enslaved them.
He turned to his followers, his hands tightening over the hilt of his blackened blade.
"My brother has led you into ruin," he said, his voice steady, unwavering.
"You have fought, bled, and died for his failures. But no more."
His presence felt heavier now, something unnatural, something beyond mortal limits.
"Stand with me now, and I will give you more than Ragnor ever could. I will give you a world where the strong take what is theirs, where the gods hold no chains upon us."
No one spoke. No one moved.
Then, one by one, they did the only thing left for them to do.
They bowed.
The wind howled around him, a storm without rain, a whisper without words. He could feel the weight of the moment, as if the land itself acknowledged him.
He was no longer Sigurd Frostborn.
He was something else.
"You are more than flesh now," the voice coiled around his thoughts, its presence slithering through his bones.
"You are the storm."
Sigurd lifted his blade, and as the wind roared, his people roared with him.
The true king of the Stormborn had risen.
Far from the clearing, upon a high ridge overlooking the valley, King Eldric watched.
His warhorse shifted beneath him, uneasy, its nostrils flaring at the unnatural energy in the air. The very night itself seemed wrong—shadows stretched where they should not, and the wind carried voices that did not belong to the living.
His son stood below, crowned not in gold, but in something far worse.
Eldric’s fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.
“You were never meant to rule, Sigurd,” he muttered under his breath. “And yet, here you are.”
Beside him, one of his trusted generals shifted uncomfortably.
“Shall we strike while he is vulnerable, my king?”
Eldric did not answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the ritual below, watching as Sigurd lifted the artifact blade, and the figures around him knelt in reverence. He had seen warlords. He had seen tyrants.
But this—this was something else.
A monster was being born.
“No.” Eldric exhaled slowly. “Not yet.”
He turned his horse toward the distant campfires of Albion’s army.
“Let him grow drunk on his own power.”
“And when the time is right… we will remind him what it means to be mortal.”
With that, he rode away, leaving the night to Sigurd and his shadows.
Scene 3: Albion’s Counterstrike
The halls of the High Court echoed with murmurs and hurried footsteps, the scent of burning incense heavy in the air. It did little to mask the iron tang of blood and sweat that still clung to the returning warriors. Albion was victorious, but the war had not yet ended.
Astrid Ravenshield strode through the chamber, her armor still marred with dried blood, her blade resting against her hip. She had barely rested since the battle at the fortress. There was no time. The gods had not granted them mercy, only a moment to breathe before the next storm.
At the long war table, King Eldric stood, his hands braced against the ancient oak surface. Maps of Albion lay unfurled before him, scarred with red strokes where the kingdom had held and marked in black where the Stormborn had advanced. Yet those lines were already meaningless.
One of the commanders spoke first, voice sharp with urgency. “We should strike now. Their forces are divided—Ragnor’s men fight one war, Sigurd fights another.”
Eldric’s expression was unreadable, his piercing gaze fixed upon the battlefield markers. He was a man who had seen too many wars, and yet even he could sense the unnatural shift in this one.
“And yet,” the king said slowly, “we do not know which is the greater threat.”
The war room fell silent. None dared to answer.
Then Astrid stepped forward, her fingers pressing into the war table, the firelight casting sharp shadows across her face.
“Sigurd.”
The High Priestess, standing near the chamber’s stone pillars, lifted her gaze. The flickering candlelight made her face unreadable beneath the hood of her ceremonial robes. “You are certain?”
Astrid exhaled sharply. She could still feel it—the moment the battlefield itself had twisted when Sigurd had raised that cursed blade, the way the air recoiled as if something inhuman had taken its first breath.
“I saw it with my own eyes,” she said. “This is no longer a war of conquest. It is becoming something worse.”
The weight of her words hung over the chamber.
King Eldric straightened. His gaze flickered toward the map once more before settling back on Astrid.
“Then we move before it festers,” he declared.
His voice carried across the hall, final and absolute.
The commanders exchanged glances—uncertain, hesitant, yet obedient. Eldric was not a man who sought needless war, but neither did he stand idle when the enemy crossed a line that should not have been crossed.
He turned to his war council.
“We rally every able-bodied warrior. Albion does not wait for its enemies to become gods.”
Astrid nodded once, her expression as unyielding as steel. “Then I ride with them.”
The battlefield still smoldered beneath a sky darkening with storm clouds. Albion’s banners fluttered in the chilling wind, stained with the dust and blood of the fallen.
From the fortress walls, Lady Astrid Ravenshield surveyed the wreckage below. The Stormborn had broken. Their warbands were shattered into desperate pockets of resistance, some fleeing into the cursed forests, others turning on their own in the madness of battle.
But this war was not over.
Astrid’s gaze moved past the dying embers of the siege, beyond the ruins of shattered shields and burning siege weapons.
Her fingers clenched around her sword hilt as she saw him.
Sigurd.
He stood among the corpses of his brother’s army, his warriors kneeling before him as if before a god. The very air around him seemed wrong—shadows curling unnaturally at his feet, the wind itself silent in his presence. The artifact burned against his palm, and from this distance, she swore she could hear it pulse.
He was not merely a warlord. He was becoming something else.
Astrid’s breath came slow and measured.
“This war is no longer about Albion.”
Beside her, King Eldric stood silent, his face like carved stone as he followed her gaze. The battle was all but won, yet his stance remained tense, his hand resting lightly upon his sword hilt.
Astrid turned her head slightly, her voice low.
“If we do not end it now, it will consume the world.”
Eldric exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air. His silence lasted only a moment longer before he spoke.
“Then we end it.”
The decision was made. Albion would not wait for Sigurd to bring his war to their gates. They would take the fight to him.
Astrid turned to the commanders gathered behind her, Albion’s most seasoned warriors standing at attention.
“Form ranks.”
She slid her blade free, the edge gleaming in the dim light.
“Prepare the cavalry.”
Her eyes burned as she stared toward the ridge where Sigurd stood, a storm gathering at his back.
“We ride before nightfall.”
Far from the fortress, high upon a ridge overlooking the battlefield, King Eldric watched.
The sky overhead churned, the storm clouds thick with something unnatural. Lightning flickered in the distance, but no rain fell.
Eldric’s warhorse shifted beneath him, its nostrils flaring in distress. The beast was restless—it could feel what he felt.
His son stood below, a crownless king surrounded by kneeling warriors.
A king not chosen by the gods, but by something far older.
Eldric’s fingers curled around his sword hilt.
“You were never meant to rule, Sigurd,” he muttered under his breath. “And yet, here you are.”
Beside him, the High Priestess stood cloaked in white, her face shadowed by the flickering torchlight.
“This was always meant to happen,” she said softly.
Eldric did not look at her. His grip tightened.
“Then we will break what was meant to be.”
The wind howled over the ridge.
He lifted his hand, voice carrying like a hammer striking steel.
“Archers. Loose.”
A volley of arrows darkened the sky.
Albion’s response had begun.
Scene 4: The Forbidden Power
The retreat had been grueling.
Ragnor and his remaining warriors moved like wraiths through the dense forests, their torches barely cutting through the thick mist that clung to the trees like grasping hands. Their banners, once symbols of conquest, dragged in the dirt—torn, stained, and meaningless. The silence was heavier than the weight of their losses.
Ragnor’s hand was slick with blood—his or another’s, he no longer knew. He had fought for every inch of ground since Sigurd’s betrayal, since the battle had crumbled around him. Since the gods had turned their backs.
He knew his warriors felt it, too.
Men who had followed him through storm and steel now carried a different weight in their gazes—doubt.
Selene rode beside him, her posture stiff, her face unreadable. Yet the tension in her jaw told him what she would not say.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“We have lost too many.” Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the night like a blade.
Ragnor did not respond. Not yet.
From behind, one of the younger warriors spoke, his voice tight with uncertainty.
“The gods have abandoned us.”
The words sent a ripple through the ranks, more dangerous than any sword. A warrior could fight without food, without rest, even without hope—but not without faith.
A murmur ran through the Stormborn, the first cracks in the last of their resolve.
Ragnor pulled his horse to a halt.
Torchlight flickered in the night, illuminating the gaunt faces of those who had followed him through hell. They had survived the storm. Survived the battle. Survived Sigurd’s betrayal.
But something within them was breaking.
Then, from the darkness, Eira stepped forward.
Her crimson cloak billowed in the cold wind, her golden eyes gleaming like the edge of a blade in moonlight.
“Then it is time to turn away from them,” she said.
The words slithered through the air like a curse.
The warriors stiffened.
Selene turned sharply, her knuckles white around the hilt of her sword.
“You go too far.”
Eira smiled, but it was not kind.
“Have I? Or have the gods?”
Ragnor exhaled, his breath fogging in the cold. He had known what she meant.
He had known for some time.
And now, he had no other choice.
The earth trembled beneath Ragnor’s boots.
Not from the tread of Albion’s warriors. Not from the dying cries of his men.
But from something deeper—something ancient awakening beneath the battlefield.
His warriors were faltering, their once-unbreakable ranks thinning, scattered, or dead. The banners of the Stormborn lay trampled in the mud.
Albion was winning.
Ragnor clenched his teeth, blood dripping from a gash across his brow. His breath came ragged, his vision blurred from exhaustion.
His warriors looked to him for a command, for a miracle.
But the gods were silent.
Eira stood beside him, calm in the face of ruin. She had known. She had always known.
The way a seer watches the final piece of a prophecy fall into place.
“This is no longer a war,” she murmured. “It is a reckoning.”
Selene, standing on Ragnor’s other side, her sword slick with Albion’s blood, turned toward Eira, her voice sharp with fury.
“Enough riddles!” she snapped. “What are you hiding?”
Eira ignored her.
She stepped closer to Ragnor, tilting her head slightly, watching him. Waiting.
“There is one way,” she said softly. “But you must let go of your past.”
Ragnor’s breath came sharp.
“What are you saying?”
Eira’s golden gaze pierced into him.
“The gods will not save you,” she whispered. “But I can.”
Selene stiffened, her fingers tightening on her sword.
“If you use her magic, the gods will turn away from you forever.”
Ragnor’s jaw tightened.
He had already felt their absence.
The gods had abandoned him the moment he stepped onto Albion’s shores.
His fate had never been to conquer this land under their banner.
It had always been to destroy it.
His hand wrapped around the hilt of his dagger, the runes along the blade flickering with a dim light—a light that was fading.
He met Eira’s gaze.
“Show me.”
Eira exhaled slowly, as if she had been waiting for this moment since the beginning.
She raised her hands.
The air cracked.
The battlefield grew eerily still.
The storm clouds thickened, turning black, roiling with something unnatural.
And then—the world shifted.
The ground beneath them split with a deep, echoing groan, and a cold wind rushed across the battlefield, carrying whispers that had not been spoken in a thousand years.
The Stormborn warriors gasped, some falling back, others staring at Ragnor as if he had just stepped beyond mortality.
Even Albion’s warriors paused, their spears raised but unmoving, watching as the very land recoiled.
For the first time, Albion itself hesitated.
A kingdom that had stood for centuries, unbroken by war, seemed to shrink back from the storm that had just awakened in its midst.
Ragnor felt it.
Power.
Not divine.
Something older.
Something that had been waiting for him.
Selene stared at him, her lips parted slightly, her knuckles white around the grip of her sword.
“What have you done?” she whispered.
But Ragnor was no longer listening.
The war had changed.
He had changed.
And Albion had just realized it was afraid.
Far from the battlefield, in the grand hall of Albion’s capital, the wind howled against the ancient stone.
King Eldric sat at the long table, his war council gathered, yet no words were spoken.
Only silence.
The flickering light of the torches cast strange shadows on the walls, as if even the fire itself recoiled from what was unfolding beyond the city’s gates.
A messenger had arrived moments before, breathless and shaken, speaking of unnatural storms and warriors wreathed in darkness.
Eldric exhaled through his nose, his fingers tightening against the armrests of his chair.
“Ragnor has forsaken his gods,” the High Priestess murmured.
Eldric closed his eyes. He had seen many wars.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
The High Priestess lowered her gaze.
“The land is screaming.”
Eldric stood, his cloak sweeping the stone behind him.
“Then it is time Albion screamed back.”
Scene 5: Sigurd Unchained
Sigurd rode at the head of his chosen warriors, their faces unreadable beneath their darkened hoods.
The wind cut through the valley, cold enough to gnaw at the flesh, but none of them shivered.
They had no right to.
Not anymore.
The Stormborn had shattered, splintering like brittle bone. Some had fled into the forests, others had knelt at his feet. The weak always knelt.
Sigurd did not slow as he led his warriors past the ruins of the battlefield. The place where his brother had once stood, defiant, clutching at the remnants of his broken army.
Now?
Ragnor was nothing but a whisper in the storm.
Sigurd exhaled slowly, tightening his grip around the hilt of his cursed blade. The artifact had whispered to him for days, calling, waiting, watching.
Now, it did not whisper.
Now, it sang.
The Order of the Black Wolf awaited them beyond the broken hills.
Torches flickered in the distance, lining the mouth of a cavern that yawned like the gaping maw of something ancient.
Sigurd dismounted, his boots sinking into the damp earth. The warriors flanking him did not move, did not breathe.
They were waiting.
He stepped forward, into the darkness. Into the place where fate had led him.
A voice echoed from the depths of the cavern, cold and knowing.
"Kneel."
Sigurd did not hesitate.
He dropped to one knee.
The ground trembled.
The air thickened.
The artifact in his grasp turned black as the void.
And Sigurd ceased to be a man.
The artifact in his hand burned, its dark metal pulsing with an eerie, rhythmic glow—
As if it had a heartbeat.
Or as if it were replacing his own.
A slow exhale left his lips, steam curling into the frigid air.
The atmosphere here was different. The ground beneath him felt like stone, but it did not belong to Albion.
It felt older.
Hungrier.
His veins had blackened, twisting up his arms like creeping roots, pulsing with something unnatural.
And yet—
He did not fear it.
He welcomed it.
A whisper coiled through his mind.
"You are more than flesh now. You are the storm."
Sigurd’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.
"I am ready."
The shadows thickened around him, coiling like living things.
The warriors before him—his warriors—knelt in reverence, their armor blackened by the power he had shared with them.
They had waited for him in secret.
And now, the time had come.
Sigurd raised the artifact blade, and the air rippled with unseen force.
The voice in the artifact whispered once more, deeper now, almost reverent.
"You are no longer a man."
The winds howled.
The torches dimmed.
"You are a storm. You are a god."
The world seemed to bend around him, warping at the edges of sight.
He could feel Albion resisting.
But it was too late.
The artifact had chosen him.
He turned his burning gaze toward the battlefield, where Ragnor and the last of his warriors fought in vain.
"It is time," he murmured.
He stepped forward.
And the earth shattered beneath his feet.
Albion had known war before.
But not this war.
King Eldric stood upon the castle ramparts, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable as he stared into the darkened horizon.
The air was thick.
Wrong.
He could feel it in his bones.
The High Priestess stood beside him, pale as the moon.
"He has opened the gate."
Eldric did not turn.
"Then close it."
The High Priestess hesitated.
"We cannot."
Eldric’s fingers twitched, the only sign of his growing unease.
In all his years, he had never feared war.
He had never feared men.
But this?
This was no longer the war of mortals.
A new storm had been born.
And its name was Sigurd.
Scene 6: The Gods’ Silence
The halls of the High Court had never been this quiet.
King Eldric sat at the head of the long war table, fingers tapping slowly against the wood.
The council of war was gathered—his generals, his priests, his advisors—but no one spoke.
No one dared.
Because none of them knew what to say.
A storm howled outside the windows, but no rain came. No thunder.
Just wind.
Wind that curled like unseen hands, clawing against the stone walls.
The gods had always spoken before.
They had whispered through the flames.
They had guided the swords of Albion’s chosen.
They had struck down those who defied their will.
But tonight, the gods were silent.
Eldric turned to the High Priestess, his voice level.
“Speak.”
The Priestess swallowed hard.
“The prophecies warned of this.”
Eldric narrowed his eyes. “Warned of what?”
The woman hesitated, her knuckles whitening against her sacred staff.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:
“Of the moment when the gods would step aside and let the world break itself.”
The silence that followed was heavier than steel.
The grand halls of Albion’s High Court, once filled with the measured voices of kings and priests, now stood heavy with silence.
Lady Astrid Ravenshield strode through the towering marble columns, her armor bloodied, her breath ragged from battle.
Her sword still dripped with the remnants of war, but she had not come here to fight.
She had come for answers.
The doors to the sacred chamber swung open before her as if they had been expecting her.
Inside, King Eldric stood at the far end, his gaze fixed upon the ancient carvings lining the walls.
Symbols of Albion’s past—
Kings crowned,
Kingdoms fallen,
Wars won and lost,
And the ever-present hand of the gods guiding them.
He did not turn as she approached.
Neither did the High Priests, cloaked in white and silver, their faces unreadable as they stood before the sacred altar.
Astrid did not bow.
She did not waste time on pleasantries.
“The gods have always intervened before,” she said, her voice cutting through the heavy air. “Why do they remain silent now?”
The High Priestess lowered her gaze, her fingers tightening around her staff.
"Because this was always how it was meant to be," she whispered.
Astrid felt her chest tighten.
“What do you mean?”
Eldric finally turned.
His expression was grim, but there was something else beneath it—
Something Astrid had never seen in his eyes before.
Resignation.
“The cycle must run its course,” he said. “It always does.”
The priests murmured their agreement, their voices like distant echoes of something older than words.
Astrid’s fingers curled around the hilt of her sword.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You knew. You all knew this war was never about Albion, was it?”
The High Priestess did not answer.
The silence was all the confirmation Astrid needed.
Her breath hitched, rage boiling beneath her skin.
“You let us fight, let us die, knowing that the gods would never come to save us?”
Eldric exhaled slowly. "They are not here to save us, Astrid."
His voice was calm. Unyielding.
"They are here to let the storm rise—"
"And then to wash it all away."
Astrid took a step back.
The weight of it all crushed down upon her, heavy as iron chains.
This war was not about victory or defeat.
It was about destruction.
It was about allowing the cycle to reach its inevitable conclusion.
Albion would stand.
But only if it survived what was coming.
And the gods would not intervene.
“Then we will stop it ourselves,” she whispered, the promise more to herself than to them.
No more waiting.
No more blind faith in the gods.
If fate demanded this war end in fire, then she would break fate itself.
She turned, storming from the sacred chamber.
Behind her, the priests resumed their prayers—
Not for victory.
But for survival.
Astrid Ravenshield had always believed in fate.
She had believed in steel and prophecy.
She had believed that strength and devotion were enough.
That so long as she fought for Albion, the gods would stand beside her.
But now?
Now, she saw the truth.
The gods had never planned to save Albion.
The war was never about mortals or thrones.
It was about watching what would happen when the cycle reached its breaking point.
Astrid’s breath came slow and steady.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
“Then to hell with them.”
The High Priestess gasped. “Lady Astrid—”
Astrid turned sharply, her crimson cloak swirling behind her as she strode from the chamber.
If the gods would not stop Sigurd, then she would.
And she would not ask for their permission.
Scene 7: The Gods Turn Away
The High Court’s war room smelled of old parchment and burning tallow.
King Eldric stood before the great map of Albion, his fingers tracing the edges of the battle lines.
Outside the castle walls, the city whispered in fear—
- Soldiers murmured.
- Priests huddled in silent prayer.
- Families clutched their children as the winds howled without mercy.
Across the table, Astrid leaned over the map, her expression grim.
"We have to move now."
Eldric exhaled slowly. "If we move too soon, we risk being caught between two storms."
His gaze swept across the gathered commanders.
"We are no longer fighting a war. We are fighting a reckoning."
A heavy pause settled in the chamber.
Astrid clenched her jaw. "And if we wait too long, there won’t be an Albion left to defend."
One of the older generals hesitated. "There is still a chance the gods will intervene—"
"No."
The word fell like a hammer.
Eldric straightened, his voice cold. "The gods have turned their backs on us. On all of us."
His gaze burned like iron in the forge.
"If we stand here waiting for a miracle, we may as well throw open the gates and let the wolves feast on our bones."
Astrid met his gaze.
For the first time, they both truly understood.
There were no gods coming to save them.
And that meant they had to save themselves.
The battlefield was a graveyard of shattered steel and broken bodies.
Smoke curled from dying fires, and the scent of blood thickened the air.
But Ragnor saw none of it.
He stood at the heart of the chaos, his sword dripping with the lifeblood of Albion’s warriors.
He had felt invincible.
The forbidden power Eira had unleashed had made the earth tremble beneath his feet.
His enemies had fallen in droves, their weapons breaking, their bodies collapsing as if the land itself had betrayed them.
But now…
Now, the world had gone still.
A terrible, suffocating silence swept across the battlefield.
Ragnor’s chest tightened as a presence withdrew from him—
No, was ripped away.
The whispering voices that had always lurked at the edges of his mind—
The gods who had guided him,
Who had promised him glory,
Who had shaped him into their chosen conqueror—
Were gone.
His breath came short and sharp.
For the first time in his life, he felt cold.
Selene staggered toward him, her face pale, her sword trembling in her grip.
"What have you done?" she whispered.
Ragnor’s jaw clenched.
He knew what she meant.
He had turned to Eira’s magic.
He had called upon something older than the gods.
Something more primal.
And now, the gods had forsaken him.
The weight of it crashed over him like a tidal wave.
He had always felt them—
- In every battle.
- In every victory.
- In every wound that should have ended him but didn’t.
They had always been watching.
Guiding.
Now?
Nothing.
No whispers.
No presence.
No unseen hands shaping his fate.
Selene stared at him, eyes wide with something that looked dangerously close to fear.
"They have abandoned you," she said, her voice barely audible over the distant clashing of swords.
Ragnor gritted his teeth.
"No."
His hands tightened around the hilt of his sword, his knuckles going white.
"They did not abandon me. I abandoned them."
Selene flinched.
"Ragnor—"
"I was never their pawn," he snarled.
His voice was raw, shaking with something deeper than rage.
"I was never their chosen. I was their tool."
He took a step forward, looming over her, the embers of battle still burning in his eyes.
"And I will never be their tool again."
Selene said nothing.
She only watched him, her grip tightening on her sword—
Not as an ally,
But as someone who no longer recognized the man before her.
Ragnor felt it.
The distance between them.
But he did not care.
If the gods had turned away from him, then let them.
He would carve his own path.
He would take Albion with his own hands.
He would forge a new destiny—one where the gods had no say.
And if they dared to stand against him?
Then he would show them why they should have never let him go.
The battlefield was silent.
Not in the way battlefields should be.
Not the eerie calm before a charge, or the stillness of an enemy waiting in the trees.
This silence was unnatural.
As if something had been severed.
Ragnor had spent his life hearing them—
The gods, whispering at the edge of his mind,
Guiding his blade,
Calling him forward.
They had always been there.
But now?
Nothing.
His breath came ragged, his hands trembling at his sides.
He stood amidst the dead, amidst the ruin of his own making, and for the first time in his life, he felt—
Small.
The sky stretched above him, vast and cold, utterly indifferent.
The storm had ceased.
The winds no longer carried voices.
The world no longer sang to him.
The gods were gone.
Not angry.
Not vengeful.
Just absent.
And in that moment, something inside him snapped.
He was not a pawn.
He was not a sacrifice.
If the gods would not claim him, then he would claim himself.
His grip on his sword tightened, and slowly, Ragnor lifted his head.
He would not be their chosen warrior.
He would be something else.
Something greater.
Scene 8: The New Stormborn King
The ride toward the battlefield was deathly silent.
Astrid had ridden into war a hundred times. She had heard the clash of steel, the cries of the dying, the roars of men who still believed they could change the course of fate.
But this?
This was different.
The world itself seemed to have turned away. The wind carried no scent, no sound, only the weight of something wrong.
King Eldric rode beside her, his face carved from stone, his knuckles white upon the reins. Behind them, the warriors of Albion followed in grim silence, their banners fluttering in the breathless air. No songs of battle. No prayers to the gods. Only the steady, measured tread of horses upon dirt that had seen too much blood.
And then they saw it.
The battlefield lay in ruins, bodies strewn like broken offerings to a god who had long since stopped listening. But the war had not ended. Not truly.
The sky churned overhead, thick with clouds that did not move with the wind. The ground itself breathed, shifting in slow, unnatural pulses. Shadows stretched in places where there should be none.
And at the center of it all, he stood.
Sigurd.
Or what remained of him.
The air thickened with the scent of blood, steel, and something far worse. A storm without wind rolled across the battlefield—not from the sky, but from the earth itself. The bones of the dead lay half-buried, shifting uneasily in the dirt. The land did not want him. But it had accepted him.
Through the wreckage of war, he came.
He walked with slow, measured steps, untouched by the carnage around him. His warriors followed, their forms half-shrouded in flickering black mist, their eyes hollow and gleaming with something more than human.
Ragnor turned, his body coiled with rage, his grip white-knuckled on his sword. He had faced death before. Had embraced it, fought through it, laughed in its face. But this?
This was different.
His brother’s lips curled into a smirk—but it was wrong. His face was still his own, but his eyes…
They burned with something unholy.
"You were always meant to fail, brother," Sigurd murmured, his voice carrying across the battlefield like a death knell. "You are a relic of a dying order. A man who thought he could break free of fate."
Ragnor lifted his blade. "You are no king."
Sigurd let out a low chuckle.
"Oh?" He spread his arms wide, and the mist around him coiled like a living thing. "Look around you, Ragnor. Who among the Stormborn still kneels for you?"
Ragnor’s stomach twisted.
Because it was true.
The Stormborn warriors—his warriors, his people—had turned. Some knelt. Others stood behind Sigurd, their gazes empty, their weapons lowered in silent acknowledgment.
Not out of fear.
Not out of surrender.
But because they saw something in him.
Something greater.
Ragnor’s grip tightened around his sword.
"They kneel to a monster."
Sigurd’s smirk deepened. "They kneel to a king."
He lifted his blade, and the blackened steel pulsed, shadows bleeding from its edges like dripping ink.
"And it is time for you to kneel as well, brother."
The moment stretched—hanging between what was and what would be.
The Stormborn knelt.
Not all. But enough.
Ragnor stood alone, his blade slick with blood, his breath heavy, his body refusing to yield.
Sigurd tilted his head, watching him. "You do not kneel."
A slow smile crept across his lips. Not a smirk now, but something deeper. Something knowing.
The artifact pulsed in his grip. The ground beneath him shuddered.
And the first unnatural howl rang across the battlefield.
A sound that did not belong to man, nor beast, nor god.
A sound that belonged to something new.
Something Sigurd had become.
Ragnor’s jaw tightened.
"I will see you burn before I bow to you."
Sigurd exhaled in amusement.
"Then let us begin."
And the shadows came alive.
Scene 9: The End War Begins
The city of Albion stood in unnatural silence.
No horns of victory.
No cheers for the fallen.
Only the whisper of the wind and the distant echo of a battle that had already been lost.
Astrid Ravenshield rode hard through the streets, her armor heavy with the blood of the fallen. The people—once defiant, once certain of their gods—stood in silent clusters, their eyes filled with the knowledge of something too vast to comprehend.
They could feel it.
Something had changed.
The sky was wrong.
Not storm-dark, not the roiling fury of the heavens that had once accompanied the wrath of the gods. No rain fell. No thunder cracked.
Only emptiness.
The gods had turned away.
Astrid dismounted in the palace courtyard, her boots striking the stone with a sharp, decisive sound. Guards and courtiers moved aside as she strode through them, cutting through their whispers like a blade.
The war council was already gathered. King Eldric stood at the head of the great stone table, his hands pressed against the surface, his gaze fixed upon the war map as if sheer force of will might hold Albion together. The High Priests stood at the edges of the chamber, their white robes stark against the dim candlelight, their faces unreadable.
The moment she entered, all eyes turned to her.
She tore off her bloodstained cloak and cast it aside. “You saw it.”
Eldric’s jaw tightened. Slowly, he lifted his gaze. “I saw.”
Silence.
Not the silence of contemplation. The silence of a man who had just realized his kingdom was already lost.
Astrid exhaled sharply, raking a hand through her sweat-dampened hair. “Sigurd is not a man anymore.”
“No,” Eldric said. “He is not.”
She braced her hands against the table, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Then what is he?”
Eldric’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He had been a warrior once. Had stood upon countless battlefields, had buried friends and foes alike.
But he had never seen this.
The torchlight flickered, casting deep hollows across his face. “Something that should not exist.”
Astrid felt the words settle like iron in her chest.
They had prepared for war. Not for this.
She straightened, voice quiet but firm. “Then tell me how to kill him.”
Eldric’s lips pressed into a thin line. He looked past her, toward the chamber doors, where two figures now stood.
The High Priests.
They had been silent until now.
One of them, an aged woman draped in silver, took a slow step forward. “You do not kill him, Lady Astrid.”
Astrid turned to face them fully. “Then what do I do?”
The High Priestess’ face remained unreadable. “You end the war before it consumes everything.”
A tremor crawled up Astrid’s spine. “What do you mean?”
The priestess stepped forward, the silver embroidery of her robes catching the dim light. She had always been composed, always a pillar of unwavering faith.
But now, her eyes were filled with something she had never shown before.
Dread.
“This war is not what we believed,” she murmured. “We thought we fought to protect Albion. We thought this was a war of men, of swords and honor.”
She gestured to the ancient banners that lined the walls, each woven with the symbols of Albion’s gods.
“But it was never about Albion at all.”
Astrid’s fingers curled into fists.
“Then what is it about?”
The priestess hesitated, as if the very words might doom them all.
“The cycle is breaking.”
The chamber fell into deathly silence.
King Eldric exhaled slowly, his tired eyes meeting Astrid’s. “We believed the gods would intervene, as they always have. But they have abandoned this war.”
Astrid’s pulse thundered in her ears. “Why?”
The priestess whispered, her voice barely audible.
“Because this was always meant to happen.”
Murmurs rippled through the war council, the weight of those words cracking the air like brittle glass.
Astrid stepped closer, her voice like tempered steel. “Then we will stop it.”
The priestess turned to her, sorrow in her gaze. “No one has ever stopped it.”
Astrid squared her shoulders, the fire in her veins burning away the cold.
“Then I will be the first.”
Eldric exhaled, long and slow. “You would defy the will of fate itself?”
Astrid lifted her chin. “Yes.”
She turned, the weight of her purpose settling over her shoulders like armor.
At the chamber’s threshold, she paused, glancing back.
“I am done fighting wars that were written before I was born.” She drew her sword, the steel glinting in the dim light. “If the gods will not fight, then we will.”
She lifted her blade high.
“Albion will not fall. And we will not be forgotten.”
The fire in her voice burned away the fear in the room. The murmurs died. The war council stood taller.
King Eldric let out a slow breath and nodded.
“Then we prepare for the end.”
And beyond the city walls, the storm of war raged on.