Prologue: Balthazar
940 AD
The sky hung heavy, swollen with boiling storm clouds as I rode my horse home, intoxicated by the thrill of victory. As one of the most feared Hersir warriors in the Viking ranks, I could easily lay waste to entire hordes—my blunt mace crushed armor and my battle ax carved through bone like butter. Each kill, each scream, each shatter of steel fed the shadow inside me. I forgot who I was. I became the thing the darkness had created. Violence gave purpose to my cursed existence.
Adrenaline surged through me as I replayed the blood-soaked chaos. We had faced the Timehunters—a ruthless order whose very name conjured images of death without mercy. Led by the infamous Chronosbane, they fought like cornered beasts, relentless and brutal in their mission to win at any cost. But in the end, we stood victorious, our blades slick with their blood, our hearts still echoing the rhythm of war.
As I nudged my horse into a trot, a sudden, cold shiver slashed down my spine, raising goosebumps despite the pale winter sun. A sense of dread settled over me like a storm cloud on the brink of breaking. My gut twisted with certainty—everything I knew was about to collapse, and I could do nothing to stop it.
I tried to silence the thoughts clawing at the edges of my mind. I had built a life of honor—or so I told myself. But lately, the weight of that illusion was suffocating. Who was I beneath the blood andglory? Did I have a purpose beyond the battlefield? Or had I been lying to myself all along? The questions festered, paralyzing me. And in the silence, I feared the answers most of all.
The Havenshield Fjord shimmered in the distance, its waters catching the light like polished steel. Nestled along its edge sat my coastal village’s dwellings and bustling shops. Havenshield thrived on fishing and trade, a lively port that connected us to neighboring towns through waves and wind.
My journey had been long and grueling, but my heart swelled with warmth as I crested the hilltop. Below, anchored in the valley, stood my cherished home—a longhouse I had built with my own hands, a sanctuary for my family and myself. Pride stirred in my chest, fierce and unwavering. Yet again, that same shiver of dread sliced down my spine like a phantom claw trailing my vertebrae. I cast it aside.
As I guided my horse down the slope, a heartwarming sight met me—my five daughters burst from my home, their faces alight with joy. Laughter rang through the crisp air. I gave a silent nod to our stable boy, Håkon—a ruddy-cheeked lad with golden curls and a permanent smudge of dirt on his nose—who quickly moved to take my reins.
I dismounted, and little Freya ran straight into my arms. I scooped her up, smothering her rosy cheeks with kisses, her giggles as warm as spring. The sunlight danced through her pale braids, turning them into threads of gold.
The other girls swarmed around me in a flurry of laughter and affection, tugging at my woolen overcoat, loose-fitting trousers, and even my fingers. Each was adorned with golden rings etched in ancient runes and Viking knotwork, charms of protection and power.
I smiled at my daughters, my heart swelling with a fierce love that nearly brought me to my knees. I had been a warrior forged in fire and blood since age twenty-one. Battle had been all I knew—until them. In my daughters, I had found a purpose beyond the battlefield. I had thrown myself into fatherhood with the same zeal I once gave to war, eager to share tales of raiding and adventure with bright-eyed little ones who knew nothing of the horrors behind those stories.
Crouching low, I set my youngest down. Instantly, they swarmed me—hugging, kissing, clinging to my arms and legs with giggles and questions flying like arrows.
“Where have you been?”
“What did you see?”
“Did you bring us presents?”
I chuckled, patting the side of my leather pouch. “There might be a surprise or two in here.”
But even as their laughter lifted around me, a shadow passed through my mind—blood on snow, the screams of dying men, the copper scent of death thick in the air. I thought I heard Odin’s whisper, low and cold, brushing against my ear like a ghost.
I hid the image and focused on the light in my children’s eyes.
“Show us! Show us!” they cried in unison.
“Not yet,” I said with a grin, pulling them close once more before releasing them individually.
Finally disentangling myself from their eager arms, I stepped into the heart of our home. Warmth radiated from the hearth, and the scent of roasted meat drifted through the air. There, waiting for me with a quiet smile, stood my wife, Zara. She had prepared a meal in my honor, and the children quickly gathered around the table, bouncing with anticipation for my stories.
I set my satchel down beside the hearth, just where Håkon had placed my weapons. Then I crossed the room to Zara and pulled her into a kiss that made the world disappear.
She let out a breathy laugh, her lips curving against mine. “I must tend to dinner, my love.”
“And I must tend to you,” I murmured, teasing the edge of her tunic. “It’s been far too long.”
Zara slapped my hands away, though a mischievous glint flickered as her gaze slid toward the children.
“After we put them to bed, Balthazar,” she whispered. “Then, I shall serve your pleasures—in our bed.”
A low growl rumbled from my throat as I leaned in and nipped playfully at her neck.
“Balthazar!” she squealed, swatting at me with a laugh.
Later, gathered around the table, I recounted tales of fierce battles and impossible victories. My children gasped and cheered,their eyes wide and sparkling with wonder. I spun stories of daring escapes, brutal raids, brave warriors, and cunning enemies, and they drank in every word like mead.
