Act 3: Valhalla Awaits

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

  Act 3: Valhalla Awaits

  "Now you’d better stop and rebuild all your ruins, for peace and trust can win the day despite all your losing."

  Scene 1: The Black Throne (Sigurd Declares Himself High King)

  The sky above the desecrated war camp churned in unnatural shades of black and crimson, the last embers of twilight suffocated beneath the weight of something vast, something unseen. Shadows stretched where they should not, curling like grasping hands along the shattered remnants of the Stormborn banners.

  Sigurd stood atop a blackened altar, his silhouette framed by the eerie glow of the flickering pyres below. His warriors—no, his subjects—knelt in a jagged circle around him, their bodies marked with dark sigils, their eyes hollow and alight with unnatural hunger.

  The Black Wolf cult chanted, a guttural dirge that resonated through the bones of the Stormborn.

  "The gods abandoned us. Fate belongs to those who take it."

  Sigurd lifted his blade, once steel but now something else entirely, a living thing that pulsed in his grip like a second heartbeat. Runes once dormant now burned along the edge, whispering secrets older than Albion itself.

  "You followed a weak king," he said, his voice carrying through the storm-touched air. "You bled for a man who prayed to gods that turned their backs on you. Who whispered lies of honor and destiny while leading you into ruin."

  His gaze swept over them, sharp as a predator watching prey.

  "But I am no priest," he said. "I am no servant to absent gods."

  The air thrummed with an unseen power.

  "I am Sigurd Stormborn, the last true king of the North," he declared. "And I will not ask for your loyalty."

  His smirk widened.

  "I will take it."

  The Black Wolf cult howled, their voices splitting the night. The Stormborn warriors—some hesitant, others eager—bowed their heads in submission. Those who did not were dragged forward by the dark-cloaked priests, their screams swallowed by the wind.

  Sigurd closed his eyes, feeling the pulse of the land beneath him, the rippling of power bending to his will.

  And then he felt something more.

  A pull. A whisper in the dark.

  Beyond this battlefield, beyond the blood-soaked earth, something ancient called to him.

  The Stone of Aetheris.

  Sigurd opened his eyes, and a slow, knowing smile curled his lips.

  He would no longer just conquer Albion.

  He would reshape the world itself.

  The first steps of his ascension had begun.

  Scene 2: Shattered and Hunted (Ragnor’s Awakening in Albion’s Hidden Refuge)

  The first thing Ragnor felt was pain.

  A deep, burning ache crawled through his limbs, each muscle screaming as if it had been torn apart and hastily stitched back together. He drifted somewhere between wakefulness and the abyss, his mind sluggish, drowning in a sea of fragmented memories—bloodied steel, Albion’s banners rising in defiance, Sigurd’s unnatural eyes burning through the battlefield like twin suns.

  Then, voices.

  Low murmurs, cautious and sharp, speaking words he couldn’t yet grasp.

  A scent filled his senses—burning tallow and damp stone. The air was heavy, charged with the weight of something old, something sacred.

  Ragnor’s eyes flickered open.

  The ceiling above him was not sky, nor was it the tented canopy of a war camp. It was ancient stone, carved with forgotten runes, flickering torchlight throwing the markings into shifting, jagged patterns. A deep, throbbing ache settled in his ribs as he tried to move. His fingers curled into damp linen, and he realized he was lying upon a cot, his body stripped of armor, his wounds roughly bandaged.

  Footsteps.

  He turned his head just as Eira stepped forward, the dim torchlight catching in her golden eyes.

  "You should not be awake," she murmured, studying him like a scholar examining an old relic. "Most men do not come back from the brink you walked."

  His throat was dry as sand. "Then perhaps I am not most men."

  A shadow shifted near the entrance. Selene.

  Her arms were crossed, her face unreadable, but the tension in her jaw betrayed her thoughts.

  "You should be dead," she said bluntly. "And yet, here you are."

  Ragnor inhaled, feeling the stiffness in his ribs. "You sound disappointed."

  Selene did not answer immediately. Instead, she took a slow step forward, her boots echoing against the stone floor. "I fought beside you for years. I believed in what we were. But what are you now?"

  Before he could answer, another voice cut through the chamber.

  "You are an enemy to Albion. And yet, you still breathe."

  Ragnor turned his head, his body protesting the movement. Lady Astrid Ravenshield stood at the far end of the chamber, arms folded, her expression carved from ice.

  Her silver-threaded cloak was still spattered with dried blood. Her sword rested at her hip, her gloved fingers curling near the pommel in quiet warning.

  Ragnor met her gaze, holding it.

  "And what will you do about it, Albion’s lioness?" he rasped.

  A sharp silence filled the chamber.

  Then, Astrid stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until she stood just within reach. "That depends," she said. "Tell me, Ragnor Stormborn—do you still fight for a throne that no longer exists?"

  The words landed heavier than they should have.

  Because for the first time, he did not know the answer.

  Everything he had fought for—his people, his gods, his kingdom—had crumbled beneath him. He had led the Stormborn to ruin. He had lost them to Sigurd. And the gods…

  The gods were silent.

  Astrid studied him, as if reading the hesitation in his silence. "Good," she said at last. "Because I am prepared to offer you a choice."

  Ragnor narrowed his eyes.

  "You can rot here," she continued, voice smooth as a whetted blade, "or you can help me stop your brother before he unravels the world itself."

  Selene stiffened. Eira remained impassive, watching without interference.

  Ragnor exhaled sharply.

  He should have laughed. He should have spat a curse at her feet, declared himself Stormborn until his last breath.

  But he had lost the right to call himself king.

  His fingers curled into the linen of the cot. His body ached, his mind raw and bruised.

  For the first time in his life, he was not sure if he deserved to live.

  The chamber waited.

  Astrid’s stare remained steady. Selene’s was wary.

  Ragnor swallowed the bitter taste of defeat.

  And then, quietly, he asked,

  "...Where do we start?"

  Astrid’s lips curled into something that was not quite a smile.

  "First," she said, turning on her heel, "you stand."

  Ragnor gritted his teeth, planting his palms against the cot. The pain was sharp and unyielding, his muscles protesting—but he pushed through it, the sheer force of will dragging him upright.

  Eira watched, her gaze unreadable.

  Selene said nothing, but her fingers twitched at her side.

  Ragnor clenched his fists.

  He was no longer a king. No longer a Stormborn conqueror.

  But he would not be Sigurd’s shadow.

  He had a new war to fight.

  And this time, he would not fall.

  Scene 3: The Curse of the Hollow King

  The chamber pulsed with ancient silence.

  Ragnor’s breath was still ragged from standing. His body had not yet forgiven him for surviving, and yet he forced himself to remain upright. He had always pushed forward, through blood, through agony, through the weight of a fate he could never quite grasp.

  But now, he wasn’t sure if he was walking toward glory or damnation.

  Across the chamber, Eira watched him. Not with pity. Not with concern. But with something far heavier.

  Expectation.

  The torches flickered in their sconces, the firelight casting shifting shadows along the stone-carved walls. Symbols, old as the bones of the world, glowed faintly in the dimness. Runes of fate. Of prophecy. Of kings long buried.

  Astrid stood to the side, arms crossed, her sharp eyes moving between Eira and Ragnor. Selene lingered near the entrance, fingers curled into tense fists.

  Ragnor exhaled, the breath rattling in his chest. "Say it."

  Eira tilted her head. "Say what?"

  His jaw clenched. "Whatever it is that’s lurking behind your lips."

  She stepped forward, slow and deliberate, her golden eyes catching the torchlight like a wolf watching its prey.

  "You have always felt it, haven’t you?" she murmured.

  Ragnor did not answer.

  "You have always known you were chasing something that was never truly yours."

  He swallowed. The words coiled around something buried deep in his chest.

  Eira reached out a single hand, her fingers ghosting over the runes carved into the stone walls. A pulse of magic stirred the air, not the bright, divine light of the gods, but something older.

  Something forgotten.

  "The gods did not choose you, Ragnor Stormborn," she whispered. "You are not their chosen conqueror. You never were."

  Selene inhaled sharply, shifting her weight.

  Astrid’s expression darkened, but she said nothing.

  Ragnor forced his voice through his teeth. "Then what am I?"

  Eira turned to face him fully now, stepping into the circle of flickering firelight.

  "You," she said, voice low, "are the Hollow King."

  The torches flickered violently.

  The air thickened, pressing against them like the weight of the sea. The walls of the chamber seemed to breathe, the runes flaring with an unseen force.

  And then, Ragnor’s mind fractured.

  Visions exploded behind his eyes.

  Not of battle. Not of conquest.

  But of himself.

  In another time. Another life.

  A warrior king standing atop a burning citadel, sword raised, his enemies bowing before his might.

  A warlord carving his name into stone with blood, his men chanting it in reverence.

  A ruler seated upon a throne of shattered steel, a crown of bone upon his brow.

  The faces blurred, but they were all him.

  Not just echoes. Not just dreams.

  They were his past lives.

  Ragnor gasped, staggering forward, clutching at his chest. The weight of centuries crashed into him, burning through his veins.

  Selene rushed toward him, but Eira lifted a hand. "Do not touch him," she ordered.

  Selene stopped in her tracks, eyes wide. "What did you do to him?"

  Eira did not answer.

  Ragnor fell to one knee. The visions would not stop.

  His breath rasped.

  His own voice whispered to him from across the lifetimes.

  "We have always reached for the throne."

  "We have always fallen before we could grasp it."

  "This is the cycle. We rise, we fall. Again and again."

  "But this time…"

  "This time, we will break it."

  The voices vanished.

  Ragnor gasped, sucking in air like a drowning man. His body trembled, sweat cold against his skin.

  He lifted his head.

  And Eira was still watching him.

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  "You have been here before," she said softly. "You have been Ragnor, and before that, another. And before that, another still. Always the same, always reaching, always falling."

  Ragnor’s fists curled against the stone.

  Astrid, her face pale but unreadable, finally broke the silence. "Then tell me," she said, voice steady, "how do we stop it?"

  Eira’s lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile.

  "You break the cycle."

  Ragnor forced himself to stand. His muscles screamed, his lungs burned, but he ignored them.

  His past selves had been conquered by fate.

  He would not be.

  His chest heaved.

  Then, in a voice hoarse but unyielding, he whispered:

  "Then I will break it."

  The torches flared.

  Eira tilted her head, just slightly. "Good," she murmured. "Then let us begin."

  Scene 4: The Path of Shadows

  The descent into the underworld of Albion had begun.

  The tunnels beneath the fortress stretched endlessly before them, the air growing colder with every step. The weight of centuries pressed down upon them, the scent of damp earth and time-worn stone thick in the air.

  Ragnor moved ahead, his footfalls steady, but his thoughts unsettled. His hands still trembled slightly from what he had seen, what he had learned. He clenched them into fists, forcing the memories away.

  He was not the Hollow King. He was not the past.

  He would carve his own path.

  Behind him, Eira walked in silence. She moved as though she belonged in this place, as if the darkness here recognized her. Selene was more hesitant, her blade still drawn, though there was no sound of pursuit. Lady Astrid remained at his side, her gaze fixed forward, her shoulders squared.

  She did not trust these tunnels. Neither did he.

  "The last time these halls saw light," Astrid murmured, "the gods still walked among men."

  Eira tilted her head slightly, her golden eyes catching in the dim torchlight. "And now they are silent."

  No one responded.

  The path twisted, the walls narrowing as the tunnels sloped deeper beneath the fortress. Faint carvings lined the walls, their edges worn smooth by time. Symbols of the old world, remnants of forgotten battles.

  The past was buried here.

  But so was the future.

  Selene ran her fingers along the markings. "I’ve seen these before," she muttered. "In the ruined sanctuaries along the coast. These are prayers to the gods of the first kings."

  Astrid gave a short, sharp laugh. "It seems the gods weren’t listening even then."

  Ragnor exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "No. They weren’t."

  The corridor ahead narrowed further, leading into a vast cavernous space. The ceiling arched overhead, lined with ancient pillars that had long since begun to crumble.

  And at the center of the chamber, bathed in the dim glow of torches, stood a doorway of stone.

  Eira came to a halt, her expression unreadable.

  "The Gate of Aetheris," she whispered.

  Ragnor studied the towering structure. It was no mere doorway—it was carved into the very bones of the earth, its edges lined with runes that pulsed faintly, as if caught between waking and sleep.

  Beyond it, the path to the Stone of Aetheris awaited.

  Astrid stepped forward, running a gloved hand over the ancient runes. "What’s on the other side?"

  Eira’s voice was quiet. "Judgment."

  A shiver traced down Ragnor’s spine.

  Selene inhaled sharply. "And if we turn back?"

  Eira glanced at her, then past her—to Ragnor. "Then the world dies."

  The silence was heavy.

  Ragnor exhaled, stepping toward the gate.

  "If this is what must be done," he said, his voice steady now, "then let’s finish it."

  He lifted his hand, pressing it against the cold stone.

  The runes flared to life.

  And the gate opened.

  The path to the Stone of Aetheris had begun.

  Scene 5: Sigurd’s Dark Covenant

  The ruined temple stood at the edge of the world.

  It had once been a place of worship, a sacred site where the first kings of Albion had made their oaths. Now, it was a wound upon the land—its pillars cracked, its walls scarred by time and war. And at its heart, Sigurd stood, wreathed in shadow, his warriors kneeling before him.

  A storm gathered above. Not the kind forged by nature, but by something older, something darker.

  Sigurd raised his hand, and the artifact pulsed in response, its runes burning like dying stars. The air around him shuddered. Reality itself seemed to twist, bending toward him.

  The Black Wolf cult stood in a circle around him, their hoods drawn low, their hands slick with blood. They had been waiting for this.

  One of them stepped forward, his voice like gravel ground against steel.

  "The time has come."

  Sigurd did not answer. His eyes remained on the sky, watching the storm churn overhead.

  They thought he would rule. That he would forge the Stormborn into something greater.

  They did not understand.

  This was no longer about power.

  This was about dominion.

  His fingers curled tighter around the artifact’s hilt, and something shifted within him. The whispers he had heard for days—shadows at the edge of his thoughts—had grown louder. They no longer whispered.

  They spoke.

  "You are the vessel. Let us in."

  Sigurd’s breath hitched.

  The runes beneath him flared, and the Black Wolf cult fell to their knees.

  The high priest stepped forward, his robes slick with the blood of a fresh sacrifice.

  "The gods have abandoned us," the priest murmured, bowing his head. "But the old ones remain. You are their chosen. The one who will break the chains of fate itself."

  Sigurd finally lowered his gaze.

  The old ones.

  Not gods. Something older than gods.

  Something watching.

  Waiting.

  "And what will they give me?" Sigurd asked, his voice low.

  The priest smiled.

  "Not give."

  He lifted his hands, and the storm above descended, its winds screaming, its darkness coiling around them like a living thing.

  "They will make you whole."

  Sigurd closed his eyes as the power tore through him.

  He had never felt pain like this before.

  But he welcomed it.

  The temple shook, its foundations groaning. The air turned heavy, thick with something unseen. The artifact in his grip burned, the veins in his arm turning black as the void.

  He felt his flesh twist, his bones shift, his body no longer entirely his own.

  But he did not resist.

  He embraced it.

  And when he opened his eyes, they were no longer his own.

  The first of the Forsaken Kings had risen.

  And Albion would kneel.

  Scene 6: The Gods’ Silence

  The halls of Albion’s High Court had never felt so vast. The great stone pillars, carved with the deeds of kings long past, loomed over the war council like silent sentinels. The torches burned lower than usual, their golden flames flickering as if struggling against an unseen wind.

  King Eldric sat unmoving at the long war table, fingers drumming idly against the scarred wood. Around him, his most trusted generals, scholars, and the High Priestess stood in uneasy silence, their faces lined with something more than fatigue—something deeper.

  Fear.

  Astrid Ravenshield strode into the chamber, her crimson cloak tattered from the battlefield, her armor still stained with blood that was not hers. She pulled off her gauntlets and set them on the table with a dull thud.

  “You have seen it.” Her voice did not waver. “Sigurd is no longer a man.”

  The war council remained silent, though the flickering candlelight betrayed the tension in their expressions.

  Eldric finally spoke, his voice like the weight of iron on stone. “We have.”

  The High Priestess, clad in silver robes, turned toward Astrid, her face unreadable. The sacred staff in her hands trembled slightly—a thing that had not happened in all her years of servitude to the gods.

  Astrid’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then tell me what you know.”

  The Priestess hesitated. “The prophecies have long warned us of a storm that no blade could turn, no kingdom could withstand. A reckoning that would not end with war—but with erasure.”

  Eldric exhaled sharply through his nose. “Speak plainly, Priestess. What is happening?”

  The woman’s grip tightened around her staff. “The cycle is breaking.”

  The war room went still.

  Astrid felt something cold slither down her spine. “What cycle?”

  The High Priestess lifted her gaze, and for the first time in her life, Astrid saw not wisdom in her eyes, but dread.

  “The gods have always intervened,” the Priestess murmured, “because they feared what would come if they did not. They have shaped every war, every empire, every fall. Until now.” She stepped closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “Now, they step aside.”

  Astrid shook her head. “You’re saying they abandoned us?”

  “No,” the Priestess said. “They have accepted that this must happen.”

  Eldric’s fists clenched. “Why?”

  The flames of the torches flickered, and the shadows of Albion’s ancient banners stretched unnaturally across the walls.

  The Priestess inhaled sharply. “Because this war is older than Albion. It is older than kingdoms, older than thrones. It has been fought before, again and again, through different names, different banners. The gods have tried to correct it. They have tried to guide it.”

  She turned to the gathered war council. “And they have failed.”

  Astrid’s breath came slow and steady, though her mind whirled. “Then what are we fighting?”

  The High Priestess closed her eyes for a long moment. Then, softly:

  “The end of all things.”

  Silence hung over the chamber like a sword waiting to fall.

  Astrid stepped forward, her voice sharp. “You mean Sigurd.”

  The High Priestess shook her head. “I mean the thing that has taken him.”

  Eldric’s jaw tightened. “The artifact.”

  The Priestess nodded, her gaze solemn. “We thought it was a weapon of power. It is not. It is a gate.”

  Astrid exhaled through her nose, her heart hammering against her ribs.

  Eldric’s knuckles went white as he pressed his hands against the war table. “And if this gate opens?”

  The Priestess did not answer. She did not need to.

  Astrid stepped back, her mind racing. She had always fought for Albion, for the sanctity of her home, for the honor of the gods who had watched over them.

  But now?

  Now, she saw the truth.

  Albion was not the prize of this war.

  Albion was merely the final battlefield.

  Astrid’s voice hardened. “Then we stop it.”

  The Priestess met her gaze, something akin to sorrow in her eyes.

  “No one ever has.”

  Astrid’s fingers curled into fists at her sides.

  “Then I will be the first.”

  Scene 7: The Gods Turn Away

  The battlefield had gone silent.

  Not the silence of waiting. Not the eerie hush before a charge.

  This was something deeper. Something wrong.

  Ragnor stood alone amidst the carnage, the breath of battle still thick in the air—bloodied bodies, shattered steel, the acrid scent of smoldering war banners. His fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword, but his grip was unsteady, his arms shaking beneath the weight of something unseen.

  Something missing.

  The gods had always been there. Always. He had felt them in every battle, guiding his blade, whispering through the wind, filling him with purpose. They had marked him since birth. He was their chosen son, their vessel of war, the storm that would wash clean the world of the weak.

  But now?

  There was nothing.

  No voice in the wind. No unseen hands steadying his blade. No divine fury burning in his chest.

  Only the cold, hollow vastness of absence.

  His breath came ragged, his chest rising and falling like a man drowning in air.

  Selene stood a few feet away, watching him, her sword still slick with blood. But there was no victory in her stance. No relief.

  Only fear.

  She knew.

  The others—his remaining warriors—lingered at the edges of the battlefield, waiting, watching. The Stormborn had followed him through war, through ruin, through betrayal. But now, they saw what he felt.

  That Ragnor Frostborn was no longer chosen.

  Selene took a step forward. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “They have abandoned you.”

  The words slammed into him like a blade driven deep between his ribs.

  He gritted his teeth. “No.”

  Selene’s grip tightened on her sword. “Ragnor—”

  “I abandoned them.”

  The fury in his voice echoed across the battlefield, a defiant roar against the gods who had turned their backs on him. He took a step forward, blood dripping from his gauntlets, his muscles trembling with exhaustion—but he did not waver.

  “I was never their pawn,” he snarled. “I was never their tool.”

  Selene’s eyes burned into him, wide, filled with something that made his stomach twist.

  Not anger.

  Not sorrow.

  Doubt.

  For the first time, she did not believe in him.

  He felt the weight of that realization settle over him, heavier than any blade.

  Selene had always been at his side, always stood as his shield, his blade, his faith when his own wavered.

  And now she looked at him as if he were already lost.

  Ragnor forced himself to breathe, to move, to push forward. The gods had abandoned him? So be it.

  He would carve his own fate.

  A sharp gust of wind cut through the battlefield, scattering embers and lifting the tattered remains of fallen banners.

  And then, a new presence arrived.

  Sigurd.

  He came not like a warrior, but like a storm given flesh.

  The unnatural mist coiled around him, thick as living shadow, flickering with embers of violet fire. His warband followed—no longer men, no longer Stormborn, but something other. Their eyes burned with hollow light, their movements unnaturally smooth, as if they no longer belonged entirely to this world.

  Ragnor lifted his sword, turning to face his brother.

  Sigurd smiled.

  A slow, knowing, wrong smile.

  "You feel it, don’t you?" His voice was like steel on ice. "The silence."

  Ragnor did not answer.

  Sigurd’s smirk widened. "The gods have left you, brother. They see no victor here." He took another step forward, his burning gaze locking onto Ragnor’s. “Because for the first time, there is no chosen one. No divine plan.”

  He spread his arms.

  "Only us."

  Ragnor clenched his jaw. He would not listen to this.

  He could not.

  He raised his blade. “I will see you burn before I bow to you.”

  Sigurd exhaled in amusement, tilting his head.

  "Then let us begin."

  And the shadows came alive.

  Scene 8: The New Stormborn King

  The battlefield was a graveyard of broken steel and shattered oaths.

  Smoke curled in the cold air, twisting like ghosts above the fallen. The blood of Albion’s warriors soaked the earth, mingling with the dead of the Stormborn. And at the center of it all, where the last embers of the battle still smoldered—he stood.

  Sigurd.

  No longer a man.

  No longer a brother.

  No longer bound by anything but will.

  A storm without wind roiled around him—not from the heavens, but from the earth itself. The shadows beneath his feet did not follow the light. They flickered, stretched, grew like living tendrils curling up his legs. The ground trembled in his presence, as if Albion itself recoiled from what he had become.

  And kneeling before him were the Stormborn.

  Not all. But enough.

  Ragnor watched in horror as his warriors—his blood, his kin—lowered their weapons, one by one, and knelt.

  Not out of fear.

  Not because they had been defeated.

  But because they recognized something in Sigurd that they had never seen in Ragnor.

  Power.

  Ragnor’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, his breath ragged.

  “They kneel to a monster,” he growled.

  Sigurd tilted his head, eyes alight with something unnatural, something no longer human.

  “They kneel to a king.”

  He took a slow step forward, his blackened blade pulsing in his hand. The artifact’s veins ran through him now, visible along his arms, across his throat—glowing with dark fire.

  Ragnor did not retreat.

  “I will see you burn before I bow to you.”

  Sigurd exhaled a laugh, low and sharp. “Good.”

  And then 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.

  The shadows twisted. Moved.

  And the kneeling warriors—the Stormborn who had bowed before Sigurd—began to change.

  Ragnor took an instinctive step back as the men before him convulsed. Some clutched at their faces, others fell forward onto their hands, their bodies shuddering as if something inside them was breaking.

  And then, slowly, the screaming stopped.

  They stood.

  Not as men.

  But as something else.

  Their eyes, once sharp with the fire of warriors, had gone hollow—empty, flickering with the same dark light that burned in Sigurd’s. Their forms twisted, their movements unnatural. Their very presence was wrong, as if the world itself was rejecting them.

  Sigurd smiled.

  “This is the new Stormborn,” he said, his voice like thunder over the broken land. “And you, brother—you are nothing but a relic of a dying age.”

  The words dug into Ragnor deeper than any blade.

  His warriors had knelt. And now they belonged to Sigurd.

  The gods were gone.

  His army was gone.

  And for the first time in his life, Ragnor Frostborn felt truly alone.

  The wind howled around them, the storm closing in.

  Sigurd lifted his blade, and the shadows came alive.

  Scene 9: The End War Begins

  Albion stood in silence.

  Not the silence of peace, nor the solemn hush of mourning.

  But the silence before the end.

  Astrid Ravenshield rode hard through the streets, past stone archways and towering battlements, past the faces of her people—hollow-eyed, tight-lipped, waiting. There were no cheers of victory. No songs for the fallen. No fires burning in celebration.

  Only the whisper of the wind, curling through the city like a dying breath.

  The sky had turned wrong.

  It was neither dark nor light, neither night nor day. The clouds swirled like a great unseen hand had stirred the heavens, and the air hung heavy, pregnant with something unseen.

  Something waiting.

  She dismounted the moment her horse skidded to a halt in the palace courtyard, her boots slamming against the stone. The guards barely had time to move as she stormed through the great doors, taking the steps two at a time, her armor still slick with battle.

  Through the halls of the High Court.

  Through the corridors of power and prayer.

  Until she reached the war chamber.

  The doors slammed open before her.

  And inside, they already knew.

  King Eldric stood at the head of the great stone table, staring at the unfurled map of Albion, though Astrid knew he was not truly looking at it. His weathered hands gripped the table’s edge, his knuckles white. The High Priests stood along the walls, their faces pale, their lips moving in prayers that had no audience.

  The gods had turned away.

  She tore off her crimson cloak and threw it aside.

  “You saw it.”

  Eldric did not look up immediately. His fingers traced the borders of Albion, as if he could hold the land together through will alone.

  Finally, he exhaled.

  “I saw.”

  Silence.

  The council was gathered—generals, scholars, priests—but none of them spoke. None of them dared.

  Astrid slammed her fists against the table.

  “Sigurd is not a man anymore.”

  “No,” Eldric murmured. “He is not.”

  Astrid straightened, her breath still ragged from the ride.

  “Then tell me how to kill him.”

  Eldric did not answer.

  Instead, he lifted his gaze to the far side of the chamber, where the High Priestess stood cloaked in silver. She had not spoken a word since Astrid entered, her hands folded before her, her expression unreadable.

  Now, she took a slow step forward.

  “You do not kill him, Lady Astrid.”

  Astrid turned to her, her fists still clenched. “Then what do I do?”

  The Priestess' face was grim.

  “You end the war before it consumes everything.”

  Astrid felt the weight of the words settle into her bones.

  “What does that mean?”

  The Priestess did not answer immediately.

  She lifted her gaze to the ancient banners lining the chamber walls, each one embroidered with the symbols of Albion’s gods. They had always been there—looming, silent, ever-watchful. Symbols of divine favor. Of order. Of fate.

  But fate was breaking.

  "This war was never about Albion," the Priestess murmured.

  Astrid’s stomach turned. “Then what is it about?”

  The Priestess hesitated. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:

  “The cycle is breaking.”

  A shiver crawled down Astrid’s spine.

  Eldric exhaled, finally turning to face her fully.

  “We believed the gods would intervene,” he said. “As they always have. But they have abandoned this war.”

  Astrid’s throat was dry.

  “Why?”

  The Priestess' lips barely moved.

  “Because this was always meant to happen.”

  Silence.

  A silence heavier than steel.

  Astrid stepped forward, her voice now a low, steady thing.

  “Then we will stop it.”

  The chamber remained still.

  No one had ever stopped it before. No one.

  The End War had come before, written into the bones of Albion’s history, in the fall of forgotten kingdoms, in the wars that had turned to myths.

  It had come. And it had always won.

  But Astrid had never been one to accept fate.

  King Eldric’s hands curled into fists. The candlelight cast deep shadows across his face, making him look every bit the tired, aging king that he was.

  The High Priestess watched him, waiting.

  “You have always known, haven’t you?” she said softly.

  Eldric did not answer immediately.

  Astrid looked between them.

  “Known what?”

  The Priestess turned her gaze to her.

  “The End War was never about a king.”

  Astrid felt something cold settle in her chest.

  “Then what was it about?”

  The Priestess stepped closer, lowering her voice as if the walls themselves might hear.

  “It was about what comes after.”

  The torches in the room flickered unnaturally.

  Eldric’s voice was hoarse when he finally spoke.

  “If we fail here, the gods will not save Albion.”

  His gaze met Astrid’s.

  “They will burn it.”

  The words settled over the chamber like a funeral shroud.

  The High Priestess turned to Astrid, sorrow in her eyes.

  “No one has ever stopped it.”

  Astrid inhaled slowly.

  Then she clenched her fists.

  “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 the moment pressing against her like iron chains. But she did not falter.

  She strode toward the chamber doors, her armor gleaming in the dim firelight, her footsteps steady, unyielding.

  At the threshold, she looked back over her shoulder.

  "I am done fighting wars that were written before I was born."

  She pulled her sword from its scabbard, the steel gleaming.

  "If the gods will not fight, then we will."

  She raised the blade high.

  "Albion will not fall. And we will not be forgotten."

  The fire in her voice burned away the fear in the chamber. 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.