Thor touched the bandage again, feeling the truth in her words.The gash, which had been a gaping, infected mess, was now closed, the swelling reduced.“Why save me?”he asked.“I’m an outsider.A warm-lander, you call me.”
Grimolf exchanged a glance with Lirna, then spoke.“You are… marked.”He pointed to Thor’s chest, where a faint scar—a rune from his druidic trials—glowed faintly under his skin.“Spirit-touched.We see it.Vyrka speaks to you, yes?You feel the earth’s pulse.”
Thor’s breath caught.The druidic power, the connection to the earth’s energy—he’d thought it unique to his training, to the Ring.But these people, these so-called barbarians, seemed to understand it, perhaps even wield it.“You know of this?”he asked, his voice low.
Lirna nodded.“Our clans have old knowledge.Fire, ice, stone—they speak.We listen.You, warm-lander, carry their voice.We honor it.”
Thor sat up slowly, wincing as his muscles protested.The longhouse felt less like a prison now and more like a sanctuary, though he remained wary.“If you meant to heal me, why bind me?Why the coals, the dagger?”
Grimolf sighed, his shoulders slumping.“Kragthar’s way.He believes pain wakes the spirit.Ties hold body, let soul rise.His clan… they follow old rites, but not all agree.”He gestured to himself and the others.“We seek balance.Heal, not harm.”
Thor considered this, his mind clearing as the herbs and rest worked their magic.He’d judged these people as savages, their rituals as barbaric, but now he saw layers he’d missed—wisdom in their ways, a connection to the world that mirrored his own.The runes on their walls, the herbs, the chants—they weren’t mere superstition but a science of their own, honed over generations, centuries, perhaps even millennia, in this harsh land.
“What now?”Thor asked, meeting Grimolf’s gaze.“You’ve saved me.What do you want?”
Grimolf’s eyes gleamed with something like hope.“You are strong.Spirit-touched.The earth cracks, warm-lander.Breaches, like in your lands.”He gestured southward, toward the Ring.“We feel it, too.Beasts come, ice breaks.We need… ally.You.”
Thor’s heart quickened.The breaches in the Shield—he’d thought them confined to the Ring, a failing of his kingdom’s magic.But if these tribes felt them too, then the threat was greater than he’d imagined, a wound in the world itself.“You know of the breaches?”he asked.
Lirna set her bowl aside, her expression grave.“The spirits scream.The ice weeps blood.Something old wakes, something dark.We fight it, but alone, we falter.You, warm-lander—you carry fire in your soul.Help us.”
Thor leaned back, his mind racing.He was far from the Ring, wounded and alone, yet these people saw him as more than a fugitive.They saw a warrior, a druid, a king.The weight of his duty pressed down, but with it came a spark of purpose.Gwendolyn, Guwayne, the Ring—they were out there, waiting.But here, in this frozen wasteland, he might find answers to the breaches, to the darkness threatening them all.
“I’ll help,” he said finally, his voice steady.“But I need to understand your ways.Your magic.And I need to return to my people.”
Grimolf nodded, a faint smile breaking through his weathered face.“Rest first.Heal.Then we teach.You are clan now, warm-lander.Thorgrin.”
The name, spoken with respect, stirred something in Thor.He was no longer just a king in exile, but a man bound to a new purpose, in a land he’d misunderstood.As the fire crackled and the tribespeople resumed their tasks, Thor closed his eyes, letting the warmth seep into him.The road ahead was uncertain, but for the first time in days, he felt a flicker of hope.
CHAPTER FIVE
The icy waters of the northern seas gripped Guwayne like a hungry beast, their cold claws sinking into his flesh, numbing his limbs, and squeezing the breath from his lungs.The Sorcerer’s Ring on his finger burned against his skin—a faint, defiant pulse of warmth in the freezing abyss.He thrashed against the churning waves, his body a fragile thing tossed in the storm’s relentless fury.The fog that had swallowed theDawnbreakerwas a living shroud, thick and disorienting, muffling the world until it was just him and the endless, roiling dark.His fur-lined cloak had been essential to keep out the biting cold onboard, but in the sea, sodden and heavy, it had been like carrying the beast it had come from on his back.It had dragged him downward, threatening to drown him.He had struggled out of it, and watched as it had floated down, disappearing into the dark depths beneath him.
That had seemed like an age ago.
How long had he been adrift?Hours?Days?Time dissolved in the icy haze, each moment stretching into eternity as he fought to keep his head above water.His arms, once strong from years of training with sword and shield, felt like lead, each stroke weaker than the last.Hypothermia gnawed at him, dulling his senses, whispering for him to surrender, to let the sea claim him, so that the pain, the cold, everything would be over.But Guwayne was no stranger to struggle.He was the son of Thorgrin, King of the Ring, and Gwendolyn, the queen who had continually defied the odds to rebuild her family's kingdom from ashes and dust.Their blood ran in his veins, and with it, a stubborn fire that refused to die.
He gasped, swallowing a mouthful of saltwater, and coughed violently, his chest heaving.The waves tossed him again, spinning him in a dizzying whirl until sky and sea were one.His mind flickered, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, and in that liminal space, visions began to unfold—vivid, unbidden, as if the sea itself were peeling back the veil of time.
First came a warrior, tall and broad, clad in armor that gleamed like polished obsidian under a sky torn by lightning.His face was obscured, but his presence was commanding, a king from an age long forgotten.He stood atop a cliff, a greatsword raised, its blade etched with runes that pulsed with the same energy Guwayne felt in his ring.The warrior’s voice echoed, not in words but in a surge of emotion—pride, resolve, sacrifice.Behind him, an army roared, their banners snapping in the wind, bearing sigils Guwayne didn’t recognize yet felt he should.The vision shifted, and the warrior was gone, replaced by a woman with silver hair, her eyes fierce and wise, standing in a circle of standing stones.She chanted in a tongue older than the Ring, her hands weaving light that danced like fireflies.The earth trembled beneath her, answering her call.
“Ancestors,” Guwayne whispered, his voice lost in the waves.Were these the kings and queens of his bloodline, the druids and warriors who had shaped the Ring’s destiny?The ring on his finger flared hotter, a beacon in the cold, and he clung to it, a lifeline to his heritage.Another vision: a man with Thorgrin’s face, younger, unscarred, wielding a staff that fizzed with lightning.He fought alone against a tide of shadowed beasts, their forms twisting like smoke.“Hold fast, boy,” the man said, his voice a mirror of Thor’s, though it came from across centuries.“The blood endures.”
Guwayne’s heart pounded, the visions fueling a spark of defiance.He kicked harder, forcing his limbs to move despite the cold’s paralyzing grip.The sea fought back, a wave crashing over him, dragging him under.Darkness closed in, the pressure of the deep pressing against his chest.But the ring burned brighter, and in that moment, he saw his father—Thorgrin, not as a mythic ancestor, but as he was now, wounded and staggering through a blizzard, his eyes blazing with determination.“Come north,” Thor’s voice echoed, the same words from the vision that had set Guwayne on this doomed course.“Save the world… save me.”
The warmth from the ring spread, a faint pulse that kept his heart beating, his lungs gasping.He broke the surface, choking, his vision blurred by salt and exhaustion.The fog was thicker now, a wall of mist that seemed to pulse with intent, as if it were guiding him—or testing him.His body was failing, his breaths shallow, his fingers numb.Death loomed, a shadow just beyond the next wave, but the visions held him, anchoring him to something greater than himself.
Another image: a boy, no older than Guwayne, standing on a battlefield strewn with broken shields and bloodied banners.The boy’s eyes were stormy gray, like Guwayne’s own, and he held a ring—thering—its glow cutting through the carnage.He spoke no words, but his gaze locked with Guwayne’s, a challenge and a promise.“The Ring endures through you,” Gwendolyn’s voice whispered, overlapping with the boy’s silent stare.Guwayne’s chest tightened, guilt and duty warring within him.He had defied his mother, abandoned his duty to the throne, yet these visions seemed to affirm his choice, as if the ancestors themselves were calling him north.
His strength waned, his strokes growing feeble.The cold was winning, his body slowing, his mind drifting.He saw a final vision: a circle of figures, cloaked in furs, their faces marked with azure tattoos, chanting around a fire that burned with unnatural hues.Their voices wove a song that resonated with the ring’s power.One figure, a woman with braided hair, looked directly at him, her eyes piercing the veil between worlds.“Find us,” she said, her voice clear despite the storm.“The unmaking is coming.”
Guwayne's eyes fluttered, his body sinking beneath the waves once again.The cold was absolute now, a void that promised peace.But the ring flared one last time, or was it something else, some other source, from deep within himself, fueled by the visions?Wherever it came from, it produced a surge of heat that jolted him back to consciousness.He gasped, his head breaking the surface.He blinked in the light, and it took him several seconds for his dazed mind to figure out what had happened, what was different.
The fog had gone, as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind a grey, leaden sky.The sea still roiled around him, but perhaps too, that had changed, its intensity lessening.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the salty air, willing strength into his exhausted limbs.Then he saw it.
A shadow on the horizon, a shape that wasn’t sea or sky.He blinked twice, urging his eyes to focus, pleading for them not to play tricks on him.
