Three gemstones. Three candles. Three herbs. The sacred number nine for the Norns. And now, to bind the visions to me, three drops of my Valkyrie blood.
The ornate hilt of her ritual dagger was carved with a trio of runes.Sowilo, for her identity as the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden.Perthro, for hidden knowledge of fate. AndLaguz, for her triad as a Valkyrie—and Sigurd’s spirit stone as a Sea Wolf.
Set into the silver pommel of her sacred blade was a glowing amber teardrop, like the gems in hermóðir’sBrisingamen necklace. With a quick prick of the sharp tip, Brynhildr pierced her thumb and let three droplets of blood fall into the herbal mead.
As the blood dripped into the golden brew, and the coppery tang of iron blended with the sweet honeyed scent of mead, she chanted avarðlokkur—a melodic invocation—to summon the three Norns.
“Urd, Verdandi, and Skúld I call.
Reveal the threads of fate unseen
Norns of past, present, and yet to be,
Unveil the future… that I may see.”
Brynhildr drank three swallows of the herbal, blood-soaked mead. Continuing hervarðlokkurchant, she reverently placed the silver chalice in the center of the triangle of glittering gems and burning candles. Inhaling the sweet smoke from the stone hearth, she sat upon her carved oak chair and watched the dancing flames.
As her head spun and she swooned in the seat, her spirit left her body behind. White swan wings spread wide, she soared through the sky, toward a storm of blades in Midgard.
She hovered overhead, watching the carnage unfold.
In full berserker rage, Agnar tore through the clashing steel, his thick brown bearskin soaked with blood, the bronze sunburst on his chainmailbrynjaglinting in the bright sun. As she watched in horror, thick tendrils of black smoke curled around him, clearly marking Agnar for Odin.
The deafening roar of an invading army drew her attention toward the western shore.
Tendrakkarlongships, each bearing a green sail emblazoned with a great black tusked boar, lined the beleaguered beach. Hundreds of men swarmed the shore and stormed up the grassy banks toward Agnar’s besieged fortress.
And there—his chainmail armor splattered with blood and gore, a garish grin on his scarred, bearded face—stood the blond brute Hjálmgunnar, the ruthless king who had slain Agnar’sfaðir,leading the merciless attack. In his upraised hand, he clutched an ominous sword which sent a surge ofseiðrthrough theouroborosabove Brynhildr’s thundering heart.
Úlfsbani,herseiðrwhispered from within.Forged by Odin himself. To shatter Sigurd’s sword and ensure Agnar’s defeat.
With bated breath, she watched Sigurd slash, dodge, and strike. Each deadly thrust pierced armor and found flesh as enemy warriors fell beneath his unerring blade.
But when Sigurd lunged to shield Agnar, blocking Hjálmgunnar’s killing blow withÚlfblóðr —forged in the blood ofBlárúlfr,,the great blue wolf whose spirit infused Sigurd with Sea Wolf strength—his magnificent sword shatteredlike shards of a frozen fjord.
As theseiðrvision unfolded with stark, startling clarity, and Agnar was encircled by swirls of smoke like slithering snakes, Brynhildr saw herself press the blade of herValkjósleiðrspear against King Hjálmgunnar’s sword arm.
Selecting the blond brute for Valhalla instead of Agnar.
Herseiðrsight shifted again.
No longer hovering over the bloody battlefield, she found herself before a thunderous waterfall which plummeted from a cliff into an icy fjord. Droplets of frosted mist enshrouded the entrance to a hidden stone cave. Inside,a black-haired dwarf hammered a sword over an open forge, sparks flying like tiny stars. At his side, Sigurd shaped the glowing metal with skilled, steady hands.
Sigurd bears the wolf blood of Odin, herseiðrwhispered. Only he may awaken the Völsung power of this sword. Sigurd is fated to help the dwarf reforge Gramr—his faðir Sigmund’s legendary sword, the precious relic safeguarded by Queen Hjördis. The Dwarven sword with which he will slay the emerald dragon.
Her vision altered a third time.
Sigurd stood over an enormous green dragon, its leathery scales slick with blood, the acrid air heavy with the stench of iron and smoke. Behind the slain beast lay another cave, concealing a hoard of treasure. Amongst the shining silver and glittering gems, three golden objects drew herseiðrgaze.
A helmet of molten gold, shaped into the snarling head of a dragon, emerald eyes ablaze with otherworldly fire, wings unfurled on either side.
A goldenbrynja,magnificent armor wrought like the sun itself, thrumming with potent power.
And a goldenouroborosring— the samemark of the dragonwhich bound her soul to Sigurd’s—perched atop a chest of coins, its coiled dragon bearing the same emerald eyes as the helm of molten gold.
As Brynhildr beheld the dragon ring, theouroborosmark above her breast seared with such violent intensity and blinding pain that it hurled her out of the vision and back into the chair before her burning hearth.
Her senses slowly returned.
