Guwayne pushed back from the table, his mind reeling.The visions in the sea—the warrior king, the chanting woman—had felt too real, too directed."You sent those visions?To lure me?"
"Not lure," Calista corrected, turning back to him."To awaken.The ring amplifies your bloodline's legacy, connecting you to ancestors who wielded similar power.I merely...nudged the veil, allowing them to speak.You needed to see the stakes, boy.The Ring crumbles from within—traitors like Aldrich gnaw at its heart—while shadows gather without.Your mother fights in chains, your people suffer.But rushing north unprepared?You would perish, and with you, hope."
The mention of his mother twisted like a knife.Guwayne's guilt, already a heavy burden, intensified.He had defied Gwendolyn's command to seek safety south, chasing Thor's spectral call instead.Now, to learn she was imprisoned..."My mother—in chains?How do you know this?"
Calista's eyes softened fractionally."The winds carry whispers; the waters reflect truths.I scry from afar, seeing threads of fate.She endures, as she always has, but time grows short.Your father lives, wounded but alive, among the northern tribes, learning their ways to combat the breaches.But he cannot stand alone.Neither can you."
Guwayne's heart leaped at the confirmation—Thor lived!The vision on theDawnbreakerhad been true.Resolve hardened in him, overriding the wariness her aura inspired.He stood, glancing toward the door."Then I must go to him.Now.If he's alive, I can help.The ring will guide me."
Calista stepped into his path, her presence suddenly more imposing, the air thickening with unseen energy.The fire in the hearth flared brighter, casting her shadow long and commanding."Impulsive, like your father in his youth.But hear me, Guwayne: you are not yet ready for what awaits.The unmaking is no mere beast or army; it is a void that devours magic and flesh alike.Your ring is a key, but unmastered, it will consume you.The northern tribes hold fragments of knowledge, but here, on Nymbrax, lies the wellspring—the ancient druidic arts that Argon and I guarded.Your training must begin before you can hope to save anyone—including Thor."
He met her gaze, defiance warring with the instinctive pull of her wisdom.The ring thrummed in agreement, urging him to listen, but his blood called for action."Training?How long?I don't have time for lessons while my family suffers."
Calista's expression remained unyielding, though a spark of empathy glimmered in her eyes."As long as it takes.Days, weeks—the elements do not rush.Refuse, and you leave this island doomed to fail.Accept, and you emerge forged anew, a true heir to the druids' legacy."
Guwayne hesitated, the weight of her words pressing down.The aura of ancient power around her no longer just guarded him; it challenged him, promising transformation or oblivion.
“You only have one chance.The universe won’t give you a second opportunity.It will be too late, you will have failed.You will be dead.”
He looked into her blue eyes, trying to read them, but it was impossible, like trying to read the emotions in a stone.She said that the universe didn’t give second chances.But what about Thor?His father needed him now?He had called for him to come now, not in days or weeks.It could be too late then.
Guwayne stood there in this strange woman’s home, knowing the decision was his and his alone and that not just his future depended on what he chose to do.Not even his father’s future or that of the Ring.But the future of the whole world.
Outside, the mist swirled, as if the island itself awaited his choice.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The clanhold of Grimolf’s people was a cluster of low, sturdy longhouses nestled against a jagged ridge, their bone-and-hide walls blending into the snow-swept tundra as if grown from the earth itself.Thorgrin sat by the central fire of the main longhouse, the warmth seeping into his bones, chasing away the lingering chill that had nearly claimed him in the blizzard.His wounds, though still tender, were healing under Lirna’s skilled care, the green paste she applied knitting his flesh with a speed that spoke of more than mere herbs.The druidic spark within him, faint but persistent, pulsed in time with the fire’s rhythm, as if recognizing a kindred energy in this strange, frozen land.
He was alive, and for that, he was grateful, but wariness kept his senses sharp.These people had bound him over coals, their chants and daggers haunting his memory, yet now they offered shelter, food, and healing.Grimolf’s claim—that the ritual was meant to save, not sacrifice—gnawed at him, a puzzle he couldn’t yet solve.The longhouse bustled with quiet activity: men and women moved with purpose, sharpening blades, weaving reeds, or tending to steaming pots of stew.Their tattoos seemed to shimmer in the firelight, as if alive, and their eyes, though curious, held no malice.Children darted between adults, their laughter a stark contrast to the grim ritual Thor had endured.This was no barbaric horde; it was a community, bound by traditions he was only beginning to glimpse.
Plus, he was there as a guest, not a prisoner.That much was now clear to him.
Grimolf sat across from him, carving a bone flute with a small, sharp knife, his weathered hands steady.Lirna knelt nearby, sorting dried leaves into piles, her fingers deft as she murmured to herself in their guttural tongue.The others—whose names Thor was learning slowly, like Halvok the young hunter and Sigrun the scarred weaver—kept their distance but stole glances, their expressions a mix of awe and caution.Something in him, something they could detect or at least sense, marked him as something more than a mere “warm-lander.”Just as he sensed the undercurrent of power in their rituals, their runes, their very way of life.
“Grimolf,” Thor said, breaking the comfortable silence, his voice stronger now after days of rest and broth.“You call me spirit-touched.You speak of the earth’s pulse, of breaches like those in my Ring.I need to know more.Your ways… they’re not what I thought.Tell me of your people, your magic.”
Grimolf set the flute aside, his dark eyes meeting Thor’s with a weight that felt ancient, as if he carried the memories of generations.“Our ways are old,” he began, his accent thick but his words clearer now, as if practice with Thor’s tongue was sharpening his speech.“Older than your Ring, your shields.We are the Iceborn, children of frost and stone.Long ago, before warm-landers built castles, we walked with spirits.Fire, ice, wind—they speak.We listen.”He gestured to the longhouse’s walls, where carvings of beasts and swirling runes seemed to pulse faintly.“These tell our story.Our truth.”
Thor leaned forward, the fire’s warmth a counterpoint to the chill of Grimolf’s words.“Truth?My people speak of northern tribes as savages, burning offerings to cruel gods.But you…” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully.“You saved me.You wield magic that feels like my own, yet different.What is this truth?”
Lirna glanced up from her herbs, her intelligent eyes narrowing as if weighing whether to speak.She exchanged a look with Grimolf, who nodded slightly.“The warm-lander seeks,” she said, her voice softer but no less commanding.“He carries the fire.Show him, Grimolf.The cave.”
Grimolf’s face tightened, a flicker of hesitation crossing his features.He stood, brushing bone dust from his hands.“Come, Thorgrin.See with eyes open.But know this: truth is heavy.It may break what you believe.No going back, when you have seen.When you know.”
Thor rose, his muscles protesting, but his resolve firm.He followed Grimolf out of the longhouse, Lirna trailing behind, her robe whispering against the packed-earth floor.The clanhold was alive with activity—hunters returning with snow-hares, women tanning hides, children playing with carved wooden totems—but all paused to watch as Grimolf led Thor toward the ridge.Their gazes held a mix of reverence and unease, as if Thor's presence was both a blessing and a portent.
The ridge loomed above the clanhold, a wall of black stone streaked with ice, its surface pitted by centuries of wind and frost.Grimolf led Thor to a narrow crevice, barely wide enough for a man to slip through, hidden behind a curtain of frozen vines.Lirna produced a torch from her robe, striking flint to ignite it, and the flame cast eerie shadows as they entered.The air grew colder, sharper, edged with a metallic tang that set Thor’s teeth on edge.His senses tingled.This was no ordinary cave; it thrummed with power, ancient and vast, like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
The passage widened into a vast cavern, its walls soaring into darkness, illuminated only by the torch’s flickering light.Thor’s breath caught as the flame revealed the cave’s secret: paintings, vivid and sprawling, covered every inch of stone.They weren’t mere drawings but masterpieces, etched with pigments that glowed faintly—reds like fresh blood, blues deeper than the sea, golds that shimmered like trapped sunlight.The images told a story, one that made Thor’s heart pound with both awe and dread.
“See,” Grimolf said, his voice low, almost reverent.He raised the torch, casting light across the nearest wall.“Our history.The world’s history.”
Thor stepped closer, his eyes tracing the images.Towering figures dominated the first panel—beings of impossible size and majesty, their forms wreathed in light and shadow.They wielded powers that defied comprehension: one raised mountains with a gesture, another parted seas with a staff, a third called fire from the heavens.Their faces were both beautiful and terrible, godlike, inhuman, with eyes that seemed to pierce through time itself.“Who are they?”Thor asked, his voice a whisper.
“Titans,” Lirna answered, stepping beside him, her torch casting new shadows across the paintings.“First ones.Rulers of the world when it was young.They shaped stone, bent skies, tamed beasts with a word.Their power was… endless.”
Thor’s gaze moved to the next panel, where the Titans stood atop a world in chaos—cities burning, skies torn by storms, seas swallowing lands.Mortals, tiny and frail by comparison, knelt in worship or fled in terror.“They were gods,” he said, half-questioning.
