Winter had swallowed Drakensfjord whole.

  The mountains sat beneath a thick layer of snow, their peaks lost to the storm-heavy sky.

  Northern winds screamed through the valley, rattling shutters and cutting through the trees like a rusted blade.

  The fjord below churned in places where the ice hadn't yet formed, dark waters slapping hungrily at the frozen edges.

  Starlake—the hub of activity—was dead still.

  A perfect sheet of ice stretched across it, smooth as polished glass, reflecting the cold light of the moon. It was thick now, thick enough to walk across, thick enough to hold the weight of men and beasts alike.

  At the edge of Drakensfjord, where the land rose like a great stone fist before plunging into the fjord was a house.

  Despite being so early in the morning, much like every other house in Drakensfjord, this one too was abuzz tonight. The light from torches lit in every room made it look like a beacon in a storm.

  Firelight flickered behind narrow windows.

  Inside one of the rooms, Hannah was on her knees. She moved back and forth, her hands tenderly doing their magic.

  Her hair was let in loose curtains, framing her face and her quixotic red eyes stayed anchored on the one in front of her—Ragnar. She fastened his belt around his waist and pulled at the string on his shoulders as it pulled his back into a straight—inflexible posture.

  "Do I really need to put all of this…garish attire? Is it even an attire at this point?" Ragnar complained. He stifled a breath as Hannah tugged at the other belt that cinched around his belly and forced it in.

  "It has been a tradition since time immemorial, my dearest, ever-grumpy, petulant child. You know as they say, when in…" she paused, as Ragnar's eyes went wide for the slightest of moments, "...Belfort, do as the Belfortians do."

  Ragnar let out a deep breath.

  'I would've shat my pants if she had said Rome. Some typical, cliche regress type shit is the last thing I want in my life right now.'

  "But the leather stinks, mom!" Ragnar commented, scrunching his nose.

  "Well, you would be…elated to know that this armour was used by your father, and his father before him and…" she paused, her lips curling into a mischievous grin, "...and it is never washed. So what you are smelling isn't the leather but your father and his father before him committing depravity."

  A chill ran down Ragnar's spine. "W-What…"

  'Nah this is crazy. I thought it would be well taken care of since it has such a vital importance??'

  Giggling, Hannah ran her fingers through Ragnar's hair and stood up. "I was merely a facetious remark. Stop being so stiff." Hannah slapped Ragnar's shoulder. "Go on, look at yourself in the mirror, you look like such a flirt already."

  Ragnar grumbled. "Hard to not be stiff when I feel like I am being crushed by a mouldy, smelly, centuries old leather armour made out of god-knows-what."

  "Did you say anything?"

  "Uh, none at all, mother." Ragnar rolled his eyes and walked towards the mirror feeling the uncomfortable grip of the armor cinching his waist and shoulders.

  The tight-fitting leather had been strapped down with multiple belts. There wasn't anything remarkable about it, however, what stood out the most were the ornaments embedded on it.

  On the right side of his chest—where medals would have been pinned in his old world—was a giant tooth strapped to the leather and right beside it was a patch of preserved flesh that had been half-hardened.

  'Worn by your father, and his father before him…is this related to those two?'

  He grimaced.

  'I know this is a totally different world and the circumstances are completely opposite too, but in my old world, this kind of medal of achievement would've been enough evidence to put someone on a watchlist or better, locked up.'

  Ragnar pulled at the belt across his waist, loosening it a bit while Hannah was picking Ragnar's stuff from the ground—most of it being books.

  He sighed and turned fully to the mirror.

  As his reflection stared back at him, he finally took a proper look.

  His bleached-orange hair was getting longer—nothing wild, but still enough to brush against his ears and forehead. However, that wasn't what made him pause.

  It was his eyes.

  Everyone knew he inherited his mother's red eyes, but now that he was growing, their full features were coming into focus. The long, delicate lashes, the dreamy half-lidded gaze, the way his irises seemed to glimmer under the light—it all gave his face a strangely soft and refined look.

  He frowned.

  Tilted his head.

  And blinked slowly.

  '…Why do I look like I should be the love interest in some tragic romance drama?'

  His lips parted slightly as a terrifying realization dawned on him.

  He looked… beautiful.

  Not in a rugged, roguish, handsome warrior way—no, no, no. This was ethereal.

  Delicate.

  The kind of beauty that made people write poetry about "tragically handsome men" who die too young.

  Instinctively, he grabbed two strands of his longish hair and pulled them in front of his face, draping them like bangs.

  He batted his lashes.

  'Damn…' he whispered, tilting his head at a slightly seductive angle.

  'I look more beautiful than most girls on Earth.'

  The moment the words left his mouth, his stomach dropped.

  His brain short-circuited.

  'WAIT. HOLD ON. IF I'M THINKING LIKE THAT…'

  His eyes widened, pupils dilating in horror.

  'DOES THAT MAKES ME GAY!?'

  His hands flew up to his face, as if touching it would somehow confirm or deny his yet another existential crisis.

  Hannah, who had been watching this entire ordeal with increasing amusement, finally let out a small snort. "Oh dear, you have started to admire yourself a lot lately. Should I start calling you my beautiful son now?"

  Ragnar's soul nearly left his body.

  "Mother, we are NOT discussing this."

  "Oh, relax. I think it's cute that my son is prettier than half the girls in town."

  Ragnar let out a long, suffering sigh, rubbing his face aggressively as if trying to scrub the prettiness off.

  'No. No, I am a man. A warrior. A future beast on the battlefield. The devourer of souls. The one who sees it all, I am the final boss! The GOD! Not a damn pretty boy.'

  Still, as he glanced back at the mirror, the unsettling truth remained.

  His lashes fluttered slightly.

  '...Damn it.'

  *****************

  The synchronised crunch of snow under leather boots was not the only source of noise in the heart of the darkness that had settled over Drakensfjord.

  Ragnar walked in the center, flanked by his mother and father. Hannah's face was unreadable, her red eyes half-lidded as always, lost in some distant thought, while Robert walked with his hands stuffed into his heavy cloak, gaze straight and mouth set in a firm line.

  The cold gnawed at him, and the fur didn't feel as warm as it usually did. Twelve years in this world, and he still wasn't used to these winters. Northern Europe had been brutal, sure, but not like this.

  There, the cold had been something you could beat back with proper insulation, with full-house heating that kept every corner warm. Here? There was no such mercy. Hearths warmed only what rooms they were present in.

  Even going to the loo in the middle of the night was a battle against the elements itself. Even the kitchen used to become a frozen tomb during early mornings.

  This world, for all its grandeur, had no place for comfort.

  As they neared the designated place for Rune Praxis—The Church of Eingana—Ragnar spotted a lone person moving through the snow.

  Small, wrapped in thick furs, golden hair set in a thick, tight braid.

  As they gain pace, they arrive side by side with the figure.

  Green eyes like the lake in summer. Full cheeks, pink lips, that single damn mole beneath her left eye.

  Sofia.

  His stomach twisted. He hated looking at her.

  Hannah broke formation first, stepping ahead with an unhurried stride, snow crunching softly beneath her leather boots. She reached out and gently patted Sofia's back.

  "Where are your parents, little one?"

  Sofia glanced up, her breath frosty and visible in the freezing air. "They're already at the church. Helping with the preparations." Her voice was steady, almost unaffected by the cold, unlike Ragnar who avoided even talking due to how prickly his throat got.

  However, he couldn't help but notice…there was a certain loneliness in how she stood there, waiting, without a single family member beside her.

  Hannah hummed, brushing a bit of snow off the girl's shoulder. Then, without looking back, she started to walk ahead, wrapping one arm around her shoulder.

  Ragnar exhaled, already knowing what was coming. Sure enough, when Hannah glanced back over her shoulder, she winked at him, red eyes sparkling with mischief.

  Ragnar sighed, shaking his head.

  As they walked, Robert suddenly nudged Ragnar's side with an elbow. "You and Sofia break up or something?"

  Ragnar scowled. "We were never dating."

  Robert let out a thoughtful hum, nodding slightly. "You sure? You two spend a lot of time together."

  Ragnar clicked his tongue. "Because I don't have a choice. You and mother are always busy with…work, I guess."

  He let out an embarrassed cough.

  Silence stretched for a minute between them.

  Robert raised a brow, glancing at him, but let it drop. Once again, the usual awkward silence stretched between them. Ragnar knew what was coming next. His father would try again, try to pull a conversation out of him like yanking an arrow from flesh.

  "You're nervous?" Robert asked after a moment, voice lighter, attempting something close to warmth.

  Ragnar shrugged. "No."

  Robert exhaled through his nose, a sharp breath, then nodded again. "Alright."

  And just like that, the conversation died.

  Ragnar could feel the weight of it. The way Robert hesitated, the way his steps slowed just for a fraction of a second, as if he was holding something back. Ragnar didn't need to look at him to know what he was thinking.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  'He hates me…' Robert thought with a melancholic smile on his face.

  Robert had done nothing wrong. If anything, he had been a father in every way that mattered. But he wasn't his father. Despite the fact that he was. But Ragnar refused to acknowledge that, despite being well aware of it.

  The silhouette of the church swallowed the sky, and as they crossed the last stretch of land, the snowstorm suddenly thickened.

  The wind roared violently. Parents and children alike struggled through the white chaos, pressing forward, their bodies barely visible in the whirling snow.

  Then, in the blink of an eye, a path opened.

  No one saw it happen. No one noticed the way the wind broke just enough for a narrow space to form.

  "I began to think you'd let me steal the spotlight for a moment." Robert spoke with a grin.

  "Not when my son and his friends are here." Hannah smiled wickedly as she patted Sofia's back and jumped inside the thin path she had opened before anyone could catch up.

  Without a word, Robert and Ragnar also slipped through the cleared path, following Hannah and Sofia. The path closed once again and the storm subsided as they reached the other end.

  The wind had ceased. The air was warmer, almost unnaturally so. Ragnar's breath no longer came in clouds.

  The Church of Eingana stood vast and silent before them. The structure was made of blackened wood and stone, walls carved with endless depictions of battles and rituals, sagas etched into its bones, its marrow.

  Great iron braziers lined the entrance, flames licking at the cold air as it casted shadows across the heavy wooden doors that were reinforced with bands of dark metal.

  The pillars at the entrance had massive engravings of the long lasting symbolism of Mother Eingana.

  "Don't be afraid," Robert encouraged, patting his shoulder.

  Ragnar scoffed before he could stop himself. "I'm not."

  The words left his mouth too fast, too sharp. He regretted them instantly.

  Robert let out a slow breath, his shoulders shifting beneath his thick cloak. There was something heavy in that silence—something Ragnar didn't have the stomach to dissect. His father hesitated for just a moment, as if weighing whether to say something more, then exhaled through his nose and turned away.

  Without another glance, he walked off toward a cluster of men who had also made it through the storm as they greeted him with hard grips and nods.

  Ragnar clenched his jaw, staring at his father's back as he moved further away.

  His jaw clenched. He knew he was being an ass, but the words just came out anyway. Too late to take them back now.

  But before he could wallow in the gnawing feeling in his chest, a voice called out over the crackle of fire.

  "Oi, Ragnar!"

  Ragnar turned, his red eyes locking onto a familiar figure standing just off to the side, away from the main group.

  The boy was much taller and broad-shouldered than him, his features cut sharp like ice. His hair was stark white, falling just past his ears, and his eyes were cold, frigid blue in color as they glimmered under the firelight.

  Leif Ulfrik.

  The closest thing Ragnar had to a friend. If that was even the right word.

  Leif's grin was lopsided, full of his usual reckless energy. He was leaning against one of the stone pillars, arms crossed.

  Beside him stood two girls, both wrapped in thick cloaks.

  One had golden hair, bright as honey, spilling over her back in loose waves.

  The other—Runa, if Ragnar remembered correctly—had hair that sat somewhere between red and gold, a wild mix that caught the firelight just right. Her grey eyes were palpably judgemental, as if she was always moments away from some clever remark.

  Sofia had found her way to them as well, standing just a little apart, brushing snow from her furs.

  She hadn't spoken, but she didn't need to—Ragnar could already feel her looking at him.

  Leif pushed off from the pillar, stepping closer. "Thought you were gonna freeze to death before you got here."

  Ragnar rolled his eyes. "If only you were that lucky."

  Leif barked out a laugh, shoving Ragnar's shoulder. "Still a prick, I see. Good. Means you're still breathing."

  "I am sure warrior mama helped the little, sickly, sheltered boy to get through the storm." Runa remarked, her eyes sharp.

  "Sure, whatever you say." Ragnar pushed through her, his shoulder grazing through her.

  Something whipped through the air. Ragnar's senses flared but his body failed to react in time, and the following moment, a heavy voice of something hitting something else resounded in the whole church.

  As Ragnar looked back, he saw Leif blocking Runa's heel kick aimed at Ragnar's head. "Let's not get feisty here, dear sister."

  'Sometimes I feel happy that I socialised a little instead of just reading books about fairy tales. Or else, my head would've been on the ground.'

  "I am not your sister." She frowned and pulled her leg back and took a step back. Ragnar still had his hands tucked inside his pockets, his expression that of mock annoyance.

  "Yeah, yeah, well, dear cousin. Let's not get feisty, yeah?"

  These kinds of situations frustrated Runa Bjornhild, but it had been a part of his personality. That aloof look which screamed 'you are beneath me' or 'I won't waste time taking you on.'

  After all, he was untouchable, either due to his stature as the son of Hannah and Robert, or because he was "best friend" with Leif, who was the son of one of the strongest man in Hannah's platoon—the only one who was on equal footing with her.

  Leveraging that, it was always easy for him to get under everyone's skin.

  A place where most children played by swinging wooden swords and physically demanding games, he was the only one who never participated. And not even once she felt he was weak. On the contrary, there was this air of indifference and superiority leaking from every pore of Ragnar that made her feel he was looking down on her, and everyone else.

  Even now, Ragnar knew there was no way for him to dodge that attack. He was weak, physically, after all. There was a reason Robert and Hannah sheltered him and did not allow him to go out so much.

  Sofia was still looking at Ragnar. He stopped for a moment to look at her as she looked at him with a sombre look before waving her hand.

  'What's with her and waving her hand at me all the time?'

  Not wanting to incite more drama, he waved back at her. She nodded her head and moved away. Even now when she walked, Ragnar could feel how well trained she was.

  "Come on," Leif said, jerking his chin toward the church doors as he shook his head, watching his cousin—Runa—and her friend walk away, cursing Ragnar and Leif. "Let's get this over with."

  **********************

  The air was pungent with the scent of burning tallow and frosted pines.

  Ever since the break of dawn, excitement was palpable in everyone, but now that the real deal was a few moments away, a heavy tension wracked every parent's heart, weighing heavier than the furs draped over their shoulders.

  They stood in uneasy silence, boots sinking slightly into the churned mud as they herded their children to the altar where they had once gotten their own runes. Some kept kissing their children's heads, some kept pressing their shoulders in an unrestrained anxiety.

  Inside, the monolithic structure of dark stone looked slick from countless splatters of blood and only the gods knew what else, and runes were etched in forgotten tongues.

  At its heart stood the statue of Eingana—half-serpent, half-woman—her coiled lower body winding around the foundation.

  'The fuck…'

  Ragnar looked at the statue in horror. Even as he moved, he felt the statue's eyes follow him.

  "Close your mouth, sheltered boy. Mother Eingana's statue does that. Honestly, even after all that reading, did you learn nothing?"

  "Thanks for the information. Now put the fries in the bag."

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  'It is hard to read about statues of Gods that God knows they existed, when you have more interesting things to read about. But what would you expect from a musclehead like this bi—girl.'

  The statue's upper torso were unnerving, arms stretched outward as if cradling something so dear that even her features looked tanginly soft, despite it being a centuries old statue that had pretty much worn out.

  'Props to the artisan. There is some insane attention to detail.'

  At the center of the statue—where her womb was present—was a great, gaping wound—a cut that extended and stopped right above her vagina. The whole cut in her abdomen area and vagina were both glowing in a bright light, despite the lid that was placed on it.

  "Be strong, ok my baby?" Hannah lowered and kissed Ragnar on his cheeks.

  Wiping it, he narrowed his eyes on her. "I am not a baby, you know!"

  "Well, get a rune and I will consider you an adult. Until then…" she hugged even tighter, drawing the attention of every age-fellow, "...I will treat you like my little, fluffy, petulant bear."

  Ragnar's face flushed as Leif shook his head and grinned while the others chuckled, while some outright barked at him.

  'God damn it! My Ayanokoji like aloof aura is gooooonnnneee!!! NOOOO!!! Unhand me, beautiful woman!'

  After a while of caressing her cheek with Ragnar's, she let him go. Still flushed, Ragnar kept looking down as Robert glanced in his direction. His lips moved, quivered, but he restrained from getting too close.

  "Good luck, Ragnar. I…" He stopped midway as Ragnar looked up at him. However, his eyes went wide. Ragnar's eyes were swollen as a thin layer of tears bubbled in them. "...I do wish the best for you." He looked up, and quickly wiped his tears. "I am proud of you. May the Gods be with you."

  Ragnar looked at him with his mouth agape.

  A familiar—very familiar smile overlapped Robert's. A bearded smile that mirrored his earth father's.

  He stared blankly at him before snapping back to reality. A warm feeling spread through his chest and he felt fuzzy…but most of all, guilty.

  'God…how much of an ass have I been to this good man…?'

  Clenching and unclenching his fist, Ragnar let out a long breath.

  'Phew…I am not a child. Not mentally, at least. I can love both of my dads. Even if it's not as intense for Robert as it was for dad, I can not let his empathy go to waste like this.'

  "Thanks d…." He paused and then let out another long breath. However, despite looking at Robert in a new light, he couldn't sincerely call him 'dad.'

  Instead, Ragnar smiled at Robert, turned around and ran inside.

  "Hey, wait for me!" Leif called out and ran after him as well.

  "Hahhh…children." A gruff voice suddenly said.

  As Hannah saw Ragnar and Leif go in, she turned her head towards the figure.

  "Parenting has never been your thing, Harald. You should not complain." She said as Robert turned to look at Harald as well.

  He was a man who looked to be past his prime with pure white hair with a face like that of a ferocious wolf. He had a huge prominent scar below his left eye that reached to his left ear and another scar at the tip of his right eye. His pale blue eyes were sharp, like that of a predator.

  Harald Ulfrik. The strongest man in Hannah's platoon, and the second in command. Despite being friendly to each other, the other people started to turn around and look at them talking as their auras sent shivers down their spine.

  After all, Rune Praxis changed family standings. While there was no violence treaty amongst each other in Drakensfjord's boundary, much couldn't be said about affairs that occur once someone crosses Starlake.

  Harald scratched his neck. "Well, what can I say, the brat is too free spirited to be held under control. Even after all the beatings he received."

  Robert scoffed. "Who are you deceiving? Both of us know you won't lift a finger on that child."

  Harald spat as he looked away.

  "For someone so tough and strict, you sure have a lot of soft spots."

  "Oh, piss of—oh, it's going to start."

  Hannah and Robert casted nervous glances at Ragnar as well. Hannah's pale fingers twitched before she took an uneasy step backward.

  Ragnar casted a look at his parents. He felt their unease but said nothing, standing rigid beside Leif, who–on the contrary—carried himself with the ease of a man who feared nothing.

  Leif barely flinched as the doors locked behind them, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows over the gathered children.

  From his place beside the altar, Jorund Dainsvard—the village chief of Drakensfjord and grandfather of Sofia—raised a gnarled hand.

  His once-mighty frame had been softened by the pull of time—loose skin that sagged over his sun-weathered bones, and what little hair remained clung stubbornly to his skull in strands of storm-gray.

  His dark green eyes scanned the gathered children from the nearby villages, towns and Drakensfjord, flicking over each with the indifference of a man who had seen this ceremony too many times to count.

  As he was taking in everyone's forms, his eyes landed on Sofia, standing just behind Ragnar's left shoulder. His lips curled, eyes narrowing slightly before he turned away, the annoyance in his gaze barely concealed beneath the mask of ritualistic duty.

  'Many recognisable faces.' He thought as he looked at the first girl who stood in the front row.

  She had ash-blonde hair with a few silvery undertones and dark sapphire eyes. 'Astrid Vekkersdottir, the daughter of Eirik Vekker From Grimstad.'

  On her right was another girl with wavy brown hair and green eyes like pine forests.

  'Eira Torhildsdottir From Vallund.'

  And to Astrid's left was a boy who was almost as tall as Leif. He had deep auburn hair and a pair of dark blue eyes.

  'Hakon Eldrsson from Branholdt. Son of Ulfar Eldrsson…Good, good. Some big names this time…naturally.'

  The old man was lost in his musings as a sigh from Astrid brought him back to reality. A lot of people had started to chatter, filling the altar with faint murmurs.

  The village chief clapped his hands and suddenly, the chatter died instantly.

  For a moment, the only sounds were the distant howl of the wind and the crackling of the flames licking at the torches.

  Then Jorund spoke, his voice rough as bark.

  "Children of the North, Before you stand the last remnant of Eingana, the Great Serpent, the Mother of Cycles." His tone was slow, his old age making his words drawl more than intended. "She who was formed in the void, where the first gods bled. She who swallowed the Sun and Moon and spit them out anew, birthing time itself. The ancients say that the heart of a dying star lies in her sacred place"—his weathered hand gestured toward the luminous wound at the statue's core—"and it is from that fire that the gods mark their chosen."

  Silence. The words settled like stones in the children's chests.

  Their astonishment was kind of justified. Since parents talk about their Rune Praxis, or their pathways, even with their children. Not even with the intent to help—or in some nut cases, harm—them.

  Jorund reached beneath his heavy cloak, brandishing Valdring—the Weapon of the Gods—a long, gnarled branding rod, its tip already sizzling. The metal shimmered in scarlet light, veins of molten light tracing jagged paths along its length.

  "Today," Jorund continued as he shoved it deep into Eingana's wound on her torso, "you will be branded by that very fire. The gods will choose you. Some will find favor. Some will not. Some will endure their trials. Some will be reduced to naught but mindless husks. But this is the way of the North. To do as the gods command."

  A murmur rippled through the group. Ragnar scoffed internally. These people and their blind faith. They did not question, did not doubt—only obeyed. And yet, despite his disdain, he could not suppress the gnawing anticipation that clawed at his ribs.

  He had waited for this moment since his reincarnation.

  "Strip," Jorund commanded.

  There was a brief pause. Then Leif ripped his shirt off without hesitation, baring his broad chest to the cold air.

  The collective facepalm from the others was nearly audible.

  Leif blinked, looking around. "What?"

  Ragnar sighed, rubbing his temple. "You didn't need to fully strip. Just the back, the arm, the shoulder—something."

  Leif merely shrugged. "Cold doesn't scare me."

  "I know. But it's considered rude."

  "Wait, actually? Uhh–sorry, gramps."

  Jorund sighed and looked at the crowd. "Who shall go first?"

  The first to step forward was a girl with honey-colored hair—the one who had been standing beside Runa. Jorund pressed the brand against her shoulder. The moment metal touched flesh, the air was shattered by a scream so raw it sent a wave of panic through everyone.

  The following moment, her eyes rolled back and she fell down…no, she landed in a perfect lotus, meditative position.

  Everyone looked at her for a brief moment in sheer astonishment. Runa suddenly stepped forward and Jorund did the same thing to her.

  Another scream.

  Despite the obvious dread, more and more of them started to go forward and brand themselves.

  One by one, the branding continued. The smell of burnt flesh mixed with the smoke and cold air.

  Ragnar watched, his earlier bravado thinning with each new cry.

  Perhaps he did not want this after all.

  He thought of going away

  But then—

  He heard it.

  A voice. Low. Whispering. Endless.

  A pair of gray eyes burned into his mind.

  "Valknaarrrrrr…"

  Again. And again. The sound coiled around his brain, stretching his name into something otherworldly.

  "Valknaarrrrrr…"

  Ragnar's breath hitched.

  "Valknaarrrrrr…"

  His vision darkened at the edges. His body trembled as sweat beaded down his spine.

  Leif turned, noticing Ragnar's expression shift—but before he could speak, the brand was seared into his back and then into Ragnar's exposed back.

  "Valknaarrrrrr…"

  Ragnar's world exploded.

  His body went rigid as his soul was ripped free, flung violently into the divine abyss.

  The physical world faded into static—his consciousness ascending to the realm of trials, where the god who had chosen him awaited.

  Jorund barely glanced at him before turning to Sofia.

  His lips moved as he talked to her. "Do not disappoint us again."

  She lowered her head, and her lips quivered but said nothing. Slowly, she raised her shirt just enough to expose the skin beneath her ribs.

  The brand pressed into her flesh.

  White-hot pain. Her knees buckled.

  Just as she fell into a meditative state, the three children from outside Drakensfjord turned to Jorund.

  He moved towards them, his staff hot.

  The girls lifted their shirts, just like Sofia—enough to show their belly—while the boy lifted his sleeve, extending his arm.

  After a few seconds, they had fallen into deep meditation as well. Every participant's eyes were rolled back.

  Jorund turned away, his face grim as he approached the altar one last time.

  With the same care as a priest handling sacred relics, Jorund returned Valdring to its resting place—deep within the wound of Eingana.

  As the glow pulsed faintly, he let out a slow breath.

  "And so," he muttered to himself, voice barely above a whisper, "the long winters begin."