Free Chapter Friday - Helsgaard's Fury

As promised... The first chapter of the first book of the Helsgaard Chronicles... Helsgaard's Fury. If any of the words aren't clear, feel free to click on the Rosetta Stone button.

Note: This is a copy & paste from the formatted novel.

Lozen’s Chaos

Sheathed Sword, Unsheathed Tongue.

The needle crunched through the tough skin of the woman’s forearm; the sound was sickeningly loud in the sudden silence of the room. Lozen didn’t flinch. Her pale hands were slick with hot, sticky blood, but her fingers moved with the cold precision of a machine. She drove the suture taut, her glacier-blue eyes narrowing until the world became nothing but the jagged wound and the thread closing it.

Sweat stung her eyes. The air in the infirmary was thick, choking on the metallic tang of fresh copper and the heavy, fresh scent of crushed herbs. Beneath her blood-spattered apron, her muscles were coiled tight—the lithe tension of her Aelfinn mother warring with the dense, immovable solidity of her Dwarfinn father.

Outside, angry voices vibrated through the oak planks of the door.

Snap. Lozen tied off the gut-thread.

The door didn’t just open; it exploded inward, crashing against the stone wall with a violence that made the dust jump from the lintel.

Rohand stormed in, sucking the air out of the room with his manic, impatient energy.

But it was the figure behind him that truly blocked the light. Rylen—Lozen’s father—stepped into the frame. He stood a head shorter than Rohand, but he possessed the density of a granite boulder. His leather armor creaked over a chest broad enough to stop a cart, and his medium-length red hair was swept back from a face that looked like it had been carved from weathered sandstone.

“Lozen!” Rohand barked, his voice cracking like a whip. “You’re late! The roster is set! We are waiting!”

Lozen didn’t look up. She didn’t even blink.

“Hold.”

The word was a flat, hard stone dropped in a pond.

He skidded to a halt, his storm-gray eyes flashing above his black beard. He opened his mouth to shout, but the sight of her stopped him.

Lozen stood over the patient, her red-orange plaits tied behind her head, wiping a smear of gore from her wrist. She made no effort to hide her ears—pointed, unmistakable, and currently flushed pink with irritation. She looked less like a Healer and more like a butcher who had just finished a shift.

“I’m working,” she said, the words low and dangerous. “I’ll be there when the bleeding stops. Shortly.”

“Shortly? This is ridiculous!” Rohand yelled, stepping into her sterile space, violating the boundary. “The war doesn’t wait for stitching!”

Rylen stepped forward, placing a heavy, calloused hand on the doorframe. The massive axe at his belt clinked—a heavy, threatening sound in the small room.

“Easy, lad,” Rylen rumbled. His voice was like gravel, grinding deep in his chest. “Can’t you see the girl is deep in the red? She’s stitching flesh, not weaving wool.”

Rohand spun on him, veins bulging in his temples. “She’s on the roster. That means she moves when I say move.”

Lozen finally looked up.

Her blue eyes locked onto Rohand’s gray ones, freezing the air between them.

“Sometimes, the Norns sisters are bored and like to fukk things up.” She flicked a hand, sending a spray of red droplets onto the stone floor. “She’s bleeding out on my table. Right now, I’m the only thing keeping her from the pyre. Too bad for you that the Norns ruined your precious schedule.”

Rohand’s arm twitched. He started to raise his hand in his signature knife-hand point—the prelude to a vicious reprimand.

“Don’t,” Lozen snapped. Her voice dropped, vibrating with a gravity heavy enough to crush bone. “Do. Not.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the patient on the table stopped whimpering.

Rylen leaned back against the wall, crossing his thick arms. His eyes gleamed with a grim, terrifying pride, locked on his daughter as she stared down the Keep’s lead combat trainer.

“Everyone has a new mithril sword,” Lozen said, turning her back on him to grab a clean rag. “Put them to use. Have Elros run the drills. The enemy isn’t waiting for me, and neither should you. What’s your backup plan? Or does the war stop because the Healer is busy?”

Rohand’s jaw worked, grinding teeth. He calculated the odds of winning an argument with a woman who wouldn't cave into his bullying. He didn’t like the math.

He spun on his heel, his black ponytail whipping the air. He stopped at the door, looming over Rylen.

“Go relieve Elros at the gate,” Rohand hissed. “Send him to me on the drill field. Now.”

Rylen straightened, the father vanishing into the soldier. He squared his massive shoulders. “Aye, sir. On m’way.”

Rohand stormed out. He slammed the door so hard the jars of herbs rattled on the shelves.

Rylen lingered for a heartbeat. He winked at Lozen—a spark of warmth in the cold room.

“Aye, the lad’s got a burr in his britches today. Watch yerself, lass. Sharp edges everywhere.”

He slipped out, closing the door with a surprising, gentle click.

She exhaled through her nose, a long, shuddering breath, and turned back to snip the final thread. She wiped her hands again, scrubbing at the red stains. Her face was pale, emphasizing the foreign slope of her high cheekbones and the smaller-than-average points of her Aelfinn ears poking through thick red-orange braids. Her Dwarfinn ancestry grounded her, giving her a sturdy build that was all sharp lines and quiet power.

Lozen rubbed her hands together, hovering over the sutures. The soft blue light bloomed, like moonlight breaking through a heavy fog. The patient gasped softly as the warmth seeped into her skin and flooded her senses. Neither she nor her husband had witnessed Aelfinn healing, even though they had heard stories. After a few moments, she stopped and sighed.

“You were harsh on Rohand,” Anja said gently. “I could’ve finished suturing.”

“I know, but he barged in shouting like I was skipping training to make wreaths for Yuletide. I wasn’t in the mood for his skitr—shit.”

“Not many people in the Keep could’ve said that to him and remained standing. That means something.”

“Yeah, it means I just skitr on the guy and I have drunk patrol duty with him tonight. Fukk me.”

Anja smirked. “Good reason to think before you speak.”

“Easier said than done. Sometimes my mouth runs faster than my brain. I didn’t mean to be short with him. Especially him.”

Anja smiled, knowing Lozen had a crush on Rohand, and wondered how their relationship would play out.

She wrapped her patient’s arm in a cloth bandage, cleaned her station, grabbed her gear, and left the infirmary, the late autumn air cooling her flushed cheeks. The Keep buzzed quietly with boots on gravel and the rhythmic clang of the smiths preparing the tradesmen for winter.

She stepped into the courtyard, closing her eyes to savor a single moment of calm.

A shadow cut across the light.

She opened her eyes.

Bryn.

Dressed in her usual black-on-black leathers, the Royal Intelligence Operative Service agent carried a silence that swallowed the space between them.

“I need a word,” she said.

Lozen’s pulse kicked, but she kept her face steady. “What is it?”

“RIOS business. Meet me after Náttmál—night meal. I have something to show you.”

Lozen shifted her weight, the exhaustion from the surgery making her bold. “I’ve got Drunk Patrol with Rohand tonight. Unless you want to explain to him why his partner is missing, it’ll have to wait.”

Bryn’s eyes narrowed, calculating. “Fine. Not critical. I’ll find you in the infirmary before midday tomorrow.”

Lozen crossed her arms, a sharp laugh escaping her lips. “I’m not exactly hard to find. It’s the building with all the blood in it.”

It was a snap of sass, born of stress, and it landed poorly.

Bryn’s lips thinned. The temperature between them seemed to drop ten degrees.

“Don’t get comfortable. You’re a Healer because the mission allows it; Anja and Elros can fill that role.” Bryn stepped closer, her voice lowering to a smooth, dangerous quiet. “That makes you available for reassignment. Available to RIOS. Available... to me. Keep that in mind.”

She turned and melted into the shadows of the Keep.

Lozen stared into the void she left behind, the tension knotting tight between her shoulder blades.

Reassignment. The word hung in the cool air. RIOS always came with sharp edges and deeper motives.

She stepped back into the infirmary as her patient and the husband were leaving. She sank onto a stool and rubbed her face with her palms, the moment of calm thoroughly shattered.

“First Rohand, now Bryn. Everyone needs something, and they need it yesterday.”

Anja, an Aelf with blue eyes, graying, platinum-blonde hair, dressed in a brown tunic, walked over and laid her palms gently over Lozen’s head. The soft blue light bloomed. Lozen relaxed as the warmth seeped into her skin and flooded her senses. The sensation was more than soothing; it felt alive.

“It’s okay to feel overwhelmed. You’ve had a tough time lately. You’ve dealt with the wounded, the Aelfinn prisoners, training, healing... Honestly, I’m not sure there’s much more I can teach you.”

Lozen gave a bitter laugh. “Bryn thinks I’m dispensable now. Says I belong to her.”

“She’s bluffing. Or testing you. But you are stretched thin. Peace celebrations, expectations, patrols, politics. It’s a lot.”

“Not like I had a choice. RIOS or the dungeon. I just need time to breathe.”

“You’ll find a way,” Anja said, pulling her hands back and squeezing Lozen’s shoulders. “You always do. One step at a time.”

“Thanks, Mom. First training. Then patrol. Then… whatever Bryn’s cooking.”

Anja chuckled. “That’s the spirit. Now go on, Helsgaard’s Heroine. The town awaits your protection from drunken fools and bard’s tales.”

Lozen grinned and stood. The weight didn’t vanish, but it settled more evenly across her shoulders. She headed for the yard.

But first, she had to deal with Rohand.

Drunk Patrol

The Cost of a Thought Spoken Aloud.

The remote outpost of Helsgaard Keep stood like a stone sentinel at the western edge of settled Ravnsríki, carved from red rock and willpower. It loomed over the verdant valley of the Frontier, staring down the scorched, volcanic plains of Hel to the west—where fires never fully died and old stories whispered of Dragons sworn to Hela, daughter of Loki.

It was Freyja’s Day, the final, grinding stretch of the week’s training cycle and the trades working their crafts. As the last echoes of daylight faded, signaling the beginning of the mundanity of Laundry Day and the silence of the day of rest, Lozen and Rohand ducked into the Warrior House. They grabbed rough-cut loaves of black bread and strips of smoked venison, eating on the move. Night patrol waited for no one.

Outside the heavy wooden gates, Helsgaardborg flickered with life. The scent of fresh-cut pine, old ash, and the metallic tang of autumn frost drifted on the breeze. New walls were rising around the town, not from blueprints, but from calloused hands and shouted guesses. Sod roofs caught the moonlight, imperfect but sturdy, laid atop lattices of woven birch. No frills. Simply shelter that worked.

The town buzzed like a kicked hive. Wagons rolled in heavy with gourds, carrots, and dried grain. Laughter rolled louder than the wagon wheels. Windows glowed with firelight, and every open door spilled noise like a keg left untapped.

Lozen’s braids were tight tonight, coiled high—the way she wore them before a sparring match. Her armor, oiled and scuffed, bore faint scratches that told better stories than she ever could. Rohand walked beside her, his hair tied in a high bun, beard sharply trimmed, armor dark as pitch and twice as unfriendly.

They didn’t speak. The silence between them was heavy, a leftover weight from the argument in the infirmary. Their boots hit the packed dirt in sync, eyes scanning the shadows, looking for trouble before it started.

Peddlers wrapped up tarps. Lovers ducked into dark alleys. A drunk sang to a pumpkin like it might propose back. Children darted past, playing swordfighters with broken sticks, screaming war cries that were too realistic for games.

“Second patrol this week,” Lozen said, shifting her baton. The wood was comforting in her grip.

“Harvest season. Folk worked hard. They think they’ve earned their ale. Rangers, too.”

A burst of laughter punched through a half-open tavern door. Someone inside shouted about goats. Bad singing followed.

Rohand pushed the door open. Heat, stale ale, and noise hit him like a physical blow.

The tavern was stuffed wall to wall. Tankards clanged. Elbows flew over roasted meat. Every table wobbled under the mass of people and alcohol-fueled bravado. Smoke curled from tallow candles clinging to the sconces. Faces glistened with sweat, firelight dancing in eyes that were glazed and wild. A lyre hummed in the corner, fighting a losing battle against the pounding of boots.

They stepped inside. The crowd parted.

No one made a scene. No one dared. These two didn’t wear badges, but their armor, reputation, and the way they walked—predatory and precise—said enough.

Hands lingered on belts. Not in response to a threat, just a reflex. Muscle memory from a war that hadn’t been over long enough to forget.

No fights. Not yet. Simply joy edging dangerously close to chaos.

Rohand scanned the crowd. “Looks like they’re handling it.”

Lozen smirked, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yes. No need for us here.”

Before they turned to leave, Bjorn stumbled out from the shadows near the hearth. He was massive, a bear of a man, clearly drunk. His tunic was untied, and foam dripped from his beard into the mat of hair on his chest.

“Look who’s shere,” he slurred, arms spread wide, knocking a tankard off a nearby table. “The Heroine of Helshgaar shershelf. Whatcha doing down shere with the resht of ush shtinking shkitkarlarsh, eh?”

With Bjorn’s attention locked on Lozen, Rohand slid silently to the man’s flank, shoulders stiffening.

Lozen didn’t blink. “Walk away, Bjorn. I don’t feel like cracking ribs tonight.”

Bjorn laughed, a hard, bitter sound. “What’sha matter? Not enough parteesh and runeshtones in the Borg for you? Had to come down and remind ush who the real hero ish? The half-breed who shaved ush?”

The tavern went dead silent. The lyre choked off mid-strum.

Rohand moved first—fast and efficient. His right hand shot out, snatching Bjorn’s right wrist and twisting it high behind the man’s back as he grabbed Bjorn’s left shoulder and pushed forward. The joint lock forced the big man to bend at the waist, grunting as his knees wobbled.

Lozen was there a heartbeat later. She stepped into Bjorn’s space, seizing his free hand and wrenching it back. She delivered a sharp, calculated kick to his left shin. Bjorn buckled, hitting the floor hard, and they drove him forward, flattening him face-first into the sawdust.

“I don’t want runestones,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “I want peace. But if you keep talking, you’re going to get silenced, and it will come with bruises.”

He winced, his mouth full of sawdust. “All right! All right! Godshah...”

Rohand released the pressure, stepping back but keeping his hand hovering near his baton. Bjorn lay there a moment, panting, humiliated.

Lozen knelt beside him. She didn’t offer a hand immediately. She let him breathe in the dirt for a second, letting the reality set in. A moment later, she extended a gloved hand. Bjorn hesitated, pinning his eyes on the floor. He grasped her wrist and she hauled him to his feet.

His legs wobbled slightly. His gaze met hers, clearer now, stripped of the ale-soaked bravado.

“I din’t mean nuthing by it,” he said, voice hoarse. The words cost him more in dignity than the physical pain.

She nodded once. Cold. Professional. “Good. Walk back to the longhouse and sleep it off.”

He staggered for the door, head down, stripping the room of its tension as he left.

Conversations resumed in cautious trickles. The lyre player picked up a new tune, something slower.

Lozen and Rohand stepped back into the cold. The door creaked shut, sealing the noise away. The night’s calm returned—quiet, bracing, and indifferent.

She stretched, her leather armor creaking. “Fukken Bjorn. He's been a pain my rass—ass since I got here.”

“They’re scared of you,” Rohand said, adjusting his belt, “or they’re finally learning respect.”

Lozen rolled her eyes. “Great. Add that to my ever-growing list of titles: Lozen the Scary.” She quickly fixed a braid that had come loose during the scuffle.

“You’re Helsgaard’s Heroine,” he said. “Savior of Ravnsríki. The girl who turned the tide.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let them sing songs and recite eddas.” She slowed her pace, looking up at the aurora flickering faintly above. “I’d rather they sang about peace. Petr was the brains behind the tactic they now call Lozen’s Hammer. I just swung the sword.”

Rohand glanced sideways at her. “This peace celebration... it makes you nervous?”

“We fought them for years. I held up Soren’s severed head on the battlefield and screamed for more blood. I’m not sure peace is something I’ve earned. And I definitely don’t know if we can trust them.”

“We can’t live at war forever,” he said. “Maybe peace is exactly what you’ve earned.”

She kicked a loose stone off the path, watching it bounce into the darkness. “I just want a day when I can hang up my sword and bow. Heal people. Not smash drunks into the dirt.”

“Maybe this treaty gets you that day.” He paused, looking toward the Keep. “What about Bryn? And your little agreement with RIOS?”

Lozen let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Always owe someone. Eight more years to the Keep, or whatever debt RIOS decides I owe. With them, who knows? Could be espionage. Could be babysitting politicians.”

“Deal with a spy, you get Loki’s price.”

“Thanks, pikk,” she said with a smirk. “Real comforting.”

They walked on, boots crunching on packed dirt. The night stretched ahead, quiet and full of questions they couldn’t answer.

Lozen glanced at him. He was stiff, annoying, and rigidly traditional. But he had moved when she moved. He had covered her flank.

The night and the drunk patrol were only getting started. It was going to be a long night.

Ranger’s Life

Peace is Just a Quieter War.

The morning sun and thin clouds bathed the training grounds in cool, diffused light. An autumn breeze carried the scent of woodsmoke and the tang of the forge. Rohand and Lozen walked side by side along the packed earth. The previous month of shared patrols and days of training had carved out a rhythm between them of comfortable silences, snarky remarks, and the occasional playful shoulder check.

“You know,” Rohand said, “you’ve got a real knack for melee combat. That Aelf, what was his name? Soren? He didn’t stand a chance.”

Lozen smirked. “He called me the ‘D’ word.”

He winced theatrically. “Ah. That charming slur. Starts with Dwarf, ends with Aelf, and usually results in missing teeth.”

She shot him a sideways I-will-throat-punch-you-and-not-even-feel-bad look, slow and sharp. “Careful. You used that word before.”

He laughed. “True. And you tried to tackle me for it.”

“Tried? I would’ve had you if you hadn’t ducked like a scared little bikkja—bitch.”

“You flew at me like a feral Kobold. I just let gravity do the work.”

“Still rude,” she said.

He grinned. “Fair. I haven’t used it since, have I?”

“No. But only because I scared you straight.”

Rohand gave a mock bow. “Terrifying, truly. So, has anyone else been brave, or dumb, enough to call you that?”

“A few. The guard who arrested me in Ravnborg. I tried to throat-punch him. Didn’t go well. He twisted my arm and made me eat skitr.”

“Ouch.”

“That was over two years ago. I’ve gotten better since then.”

“I noticed. You’re fast, unpredictable, and mean as a Kobold when cornered. You’d make a scary close-combat specialist. You ever think about joining the King’s Guard?”

They arrived at the infirmary and stopped. Lozen’s gaze drifted towards the imposing walls of Helsgaard Keep. “I appreciate that. But... all I’ve ever known is fighting and conflict. Aeldoria, Ravnsríki, the Aelfinn invasion...” she said, sighing. “Since I was exiled; it’s been one battle after another. I’m tired of it. The Keep is my home, and I want to contribute to Helsgaardborg in a way that doesn’t involve bloodshed.”

He turned toward her, reaching out and taking her hands in his. “I understand. You’ve seen more than your fair share of strife.”

“Yeah,” Lozen said, a shadow passing over her face. “And let’s not forget my commitment to RIOS. It cost them seven Odin’s Merks to secure me. I have to honor that debt.”

His eyes wide in surprise. “Seven Odin’s Merks is a king’s ransom. They paid you that?”

“No. The guard that caught me claimed the bounty—he got six.”

“Vid hamri Thors! He got a payday!” Rohand interrupted.

“Yeah, he did. They tossed me the last one for supplies. But mostly, it was to make it official. Trying to break an Odin’s Merk in a slum is harder than earning it. The money changer accused me of stealing it. By the time I convinced him otherwise, the skitkarlr had kept a quarter of it as a ‘tax.’”

“What does the deal entail, exactly? What are their expectations?”

She hesitated, uncertainty in her voice. “That is precisely what I need to find out. Bryn started to tell me when Elros arrived, and then we got distracted with the invasion and the peace negotiations. Yesterday, she said she wanted to talk to me.” She looked deep into his eyes, squeezed his hands, and said, “Do you think—”

“—Follow me. Got no time for that.” Bryn interrupted, slapping her on the arm. She strode confidently across the training yard clad in fitted black leathers, knee-high boots, and a tunic that allowed for zero drag, her blonde hair flowing in a high ponytail behind her.

“Looks like I get to find out now,” Lozen said, stepping away from Rohand and hurrying after the Helsgaard spy.

They made their way to the southwestern corner of the Keep, where the imposing guard tower loomed above them, its stone walls darkened over time.

The air inside was cool and carried the aroma of stone and iron, with a deep silence that settled heavily around them.

They stopped at an unmarked section of wall to a bare, unremarkable stone. “You remember this?” she asked, placing her palm against a familiar notch.

“Sort of,” Lozen said. “Things were hectic last time.”

“Then pay attention.” Bryn pressed the stone. “You will need to know this in your RIOS role.”

The wall shifted with a grinding rumble, and a hidden door opened inward. Bryn motioned Lozen through, sealing it behind them with a dull thud that erased the world outside.

The room inside was small, no more than two armspans across, but it radiated quiet purpose. Bryn stepped behind her, pointing to the map dominating the right-hand wall.

“This is Ravnsríki,” she said. “Every city, sizeable borg, and outpost is represented here.”

Lozen stepped closer, eyes scanning the sprawling map. A dozen fist-sized crystal orbs were embedded across its surface, each glowing faintly. Inside each orb, a face hovered, some in motion, some still, some empty as their operators were not there. Her finger traced her route from Ravnborg to Helsgaard Keep when she made the deal with RIOS years before.

“Linked farsight orbs. Bound in pairs. We see them; they see us. It is not just for conversation. It is for sharing information. And occasionally... diplomacy.”

Lozen looked at the rest of the room, softened by thick, layered tapestries hanging on every wall.

“They keep heat in, kill echoes, and absorb magic,” Bryn said. “This room wasn’t built for comfort. It was built for secrets.”

Lozen’s gaze moved upward. In each corner of the ceiling, pale mage-lights floated, soft and steady, giving off no smoke and casting no shadows. The air felt unnaturally quiet, as if the room itself was holding its breath.

In the center, a plain wooden table stood between two heavy chairs.

Bryn gestured. “Sit.”

She sat and looked at the map again; her heart beating faster.

Bryn stayed on her feet, watching.

“Two years ago, you made a deal with RIOS,” Bryn said. “One Odin’s Merk in exchange for your services. You understood this would involve fieldwork, covert operations, and potentially dangerous assignments.”

“I remember. My options were limited. RIOS or dungeon.”

“It was still a choice. And you agreed to be ready when called upon. That time is coming.”

Lozen was apprehensive. “What kind of operation are we talking about?”

“The Aelfinn War ended. But peace doesn’t mean stagnation. The King is eager to expand his influence to secure valuable resources for the kingdom. He has his sights set on the north, on expanding trade routes with the Dwarfinn clans.”

Bryn concentrated on Lozen. “The south is secure. We beat the Aelfs. Aethor and Soren fukked the dog on that invasion and handed us the win. Time to look north.”

Bryn paused, thoughtful. “Imagine a steady supply of their renowned forged goods in exchange for our protection and surplus food. Also trade with the Aelfs, where we get their medicines, again for our food and protection. A mutually beneficial alliance that could bring prosperity to all our peoples. The world is changing. We must change with it.”

“That sounds... peaceful.”

“Peace is fragile. These negotiations will be fraught with peril. Espionage, sabotage, and perhaps even combat will be necessary to ensure the King’s success.”

Lozen’s heart sank. More fighting? She had hoped for a reprieve from bloodshed.

Sensing her reluctance, Bryn said, “RIOS believes your unique background—”

“—Because my father is a Dwarf?” Lozen interrupted.

“Your unique multicultural background with skills in diplomacy and surveillance would be invaluable to this initiative. You would be responsible for gathering intelligence, establishing contact with the Dwarfinn envoys, and opening the doors to negotiating the terms of the trade agreement.”

“No combat? Just negotiation and espionage?” Lozen’s eyes widened. Excitement replaced her apprehension. This was an opportunity to serve her kingdom in a way that aligned with her desire for a less violent path.

“Indeed.”

“Then I accept,” Lozen said, a sense of satisfaction filling her heart.

“Your acceptance was a foregone conclusion when you accepted the King’s coin,” Bryn reminded her. “I’m glad the work is agreeable to you. For now, do what the Keep demands. Work on the diplomacy part. Turn down the spice a bit. Maybe try to play nice. I’ll be in touch.”

“How soon will this begin?”

“I’m sure it will be in the Spring. I just wanted to let you get a sneak peek of the future.”

Lozen stood, a dangerous spark returning to her eyes. She stepped back into the clamor of the courtyard, her thumb brushing the cross guard of her weapon. Negotiation and espionage—different tools, same violence. Her eyes tracked the Rangers churning the mud, preparing for a grinder. A secret, dangerous smile ghosted across her face. Her war would be fought in the dark, and she was ready to hunt.

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A Note to the Reader (or the Uninitiated)

Forget the hearth fire and the hero's journey. You are about to step into the Helsgaard Chronicles, a saga forged in ash, blood, and the black, cynical humor of a twenty-year military scar.

This isn't a book; it's a butcher’s floor, and you're the next one in line.

Within these pages—stretching through Helsgaard’s Heroine, Helsgaard’s Fury, and the rest—you'll find the grim truth of a world populated by warriors, witches, dragons, necromancers and the monsters men make of themselves. It is a world of dark, visceral power, where the only thing cheaper than a life is a promise.

We deal in violence ranging from petty, soul-crushing degradation to the wet work of battle. Swearing is in the tradition of the Old Norse—so, yes, you'll be exposed to the coarseness of warriors. There is also cost and consequences for the cold reality of child abandonment.

Still clinging to fairytales? Bless your soft, unscarred heart.

You won't find kindly wizards, noble swords, or damsels in distress. Here, the damsels are the ones causing the distress. This isn't heroes versus villains—it's raw politics, cold betrayal, and the taste of mud in your mouth. Peace is bought with the last thread of hope you dared to keep.

DO NOT CONTINUE IF:

You like your sieges tidy. Expect tactical maneuvers, ambushes, and one-on-one melée fights.

You prefer your battles clean. Swords stick in ribs, shields splinter, limbs scatter, and heads roll. Don't look for a neat cut; this is a desperate, ugly mess.

You squirm at a slow, ugly death, the bite of a corrosive, sarcastic joke, or the brutal, inescapable consequences of child abandonment.

Your version of 'roughing it' involves a campfire and a sing-along.

If you crave torchlit keeps, scarred Rangers, and a half-Aelf girl with a blue blade and a red-hot temper—then welcome. You’re twisted enough to survive.

A full glossary is provided for those too soft to infer, but frankly, if you need a Rosetta Stone to decipher a little Old Norse, you’re already behind.

Now, pack your armor. Pour a strong drink. When it all goes to Hel, don’t say I didn’t warn you. I honestly don't care.