Free Chapter Friday - Helsgaard's Storm

The first three chapters of the third book of the Helsgaard Chronicles... Helsgaard's Storm. 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.

Screams in the Orb

Terror Travels Fastest Through Glass

Helga’s terrified face burst across the crystal orb. “Draugar! Coming in on boats!”

Lozen snapped upright. “Bryn!”

Bryn moved with athletic speed, shooting to her feet, her hand flashing to the wall map where the fist-sized crystal farsight orbs sat inset. Her fingers hovered over Copperhearth’s ball while Helga’s image jolted in its frame. Through the orb, heavy blows hammered the floor on Helga’s side—thud, thud, THUD—and dust drifted across her as if the ceiling had started to shed.

“Someone! Open a portal! Get me out of here! Pleeeease!” Helga sobbed, eyes huge in the orb.

Lozen stared, her pulse quickening. Helga? She was just in Ravnborg a few days ago. Why is she back in Copperhearth? She turned toward Bryn, her red eyes flaring. “How—”

“Helga! Press the Helsgaard Keep orb! Now!” Bryn screamed.

“Everyone, hands off!” Arne’s voice boomed from the Ravnborg orb cutting across the room. “Protocol. Do not open the link.”

BAM—CRACK! Heavy wood split and splintered, the noise snapping through the orb link.

“No!” Helga flinched. Her breath hitched. A tall shadow spilled over her. “Bryn! Help! Brynnn!”

Her face crumpled as the undead reached her. Rotting green flesh, a bristling red crest, boar tusks, and sickly glowing eyes lunged into view. A scream cut off with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed the inside of the crystal.

“Tharnak,” Lozen breathed, the Aelfinn curse sharp with shock.

Silence answered. Carved oak framed the wall map, each major borg marked by a crystal orb that cast a cold glow across the small square room. The standard layout of the Royal Intelligence Operative Service—RIOS—enclosed them: a tapestry on the left hiding the portal’s soft hum, another behind their backs, and four hovering lights steady in the corners.

“Skítr—shit,” Bryn whispered.

Copperhearth’s image flickered. The Draugr’s grotesque face filled the orb. It looked like the beasts Lozen had fought outside South Shore and Hel a half moon ago.

Lozen forced a slow exhale, cooling the spike of heat in her blood. “Ugly skitkarlar—bastards, huh?”

Bryn’s usual sharp look was shattered. She only shook her head, her high blonde ponytail swaying.

Lozen’s gaze swept the cramped RIOS Farsight Chamber. Two arm-spans square and muffled by thick carpet, the hidden room suddenly felt like a cage. Nordlund sprawled across the wall map with Ravnsríki centered.

“They don’t stop,” Lozen said, her jaw tightening. “You cut off an arm, they use the other. Take a leg, they crawl. Chop off the head? It still tries to bite. And their eyes keep looking the whole time—showing their Necros what we’re doing.”

Bryn swallowed hard. “I’m sorry you went through that,” she whispered. “I’m also glad I—”

“—Brynhildr!” Arne shouted. “What in the nine realms were you doing? Did you really open the portal to Copperhearth?”

“Sir, I—”

“—Did you or not?”

“I didn’t. But I was about to.”

“Same thing! You know the protocol! If a station is lost, leave the link alone! Do you have any idea what could have happened? If that Draugr made the jump, it could have brought others with it. Helsgaard Keep—attacked from the inside!”

Lozen’s gut twisted.

“You don’t risk others for the lost,” Arne snapped. “No one in RIOS is worth that. Am I clear?”

Bryn’s face was stone. “Yes, sir.”

With a sharp motion, she pressed the walnut-sized orb in the corner. Every crystal orb on the map dimmed. A heavy silence followed. Bryn rubbed a hand down her face. “I should have thought before I acted.”

Lozen studied her. “She died trying to warn us.”

“But we knew Copperhearth was lost. She should have stayed hidden or escaped. She died for nothing. But she died trying—may Freyja welcome her.”

A tear formed and rolled down Bryn’s cheek. She wiped it away and turned to leave, but Lozen’s voice stopped her.

“How do you open the portal?”

Bryn exhaled, trying to steady herself. “Portals only work if both sides activate them. Watch.” She tapped the Aethel Monastery’s orb quickly. It remained dark. “The sender primes it,” she explained. “But it requires the destination to push the sender’s orb to complete the circuit. The link won’t form without that mutual confirmation. It creates the link and stabilizes the jump.”

“You told her to press ours. If she did, and you pressed hers, the portal would open?”

“One-way movement. From there to here. Nine transports, then a rest period of a full candle-mark. If that Draugr had stepped through, then eight of his buddies…”

Lozen didn’t need her to finish. “But we can close the link, right?”

“Yes, if we’re at the map. But what if we couldn’t?” Bryn swallowed hard. “I won’t make that mistake again. Helga was a close friend. And I let my emotions move my hands instead of my training.”

They looked at each other.

“May Freyja give her peace.” Bryn smeared the tear away and left the room.

Lozen remained still, staring at the red-stained Copperhearth orb. The room felt colder in the silence. Arne’s words echoed in her mind: No one in RIOS is worth that.

She remembered the taste of the street slurry and the grip of the guard from years ago. “Here’s the deal. You’re mine,” he had said, “and I’m taking you to RIOS.”

She had made her choice then. Now, she had to live with it. Lozen reached up and pushed on the walnut orb, lighting up the map, and dashed out of the room.

***

A sluggish wind swept over Copperhearth, carrying the heavy, cloying stench of rot. The Dwarfinn port had once been a cacophony of rhythmic hammers and the shouting of merchants in several tongues. Now, it was a tomb of silent stone. The forges were cold, their great bellows stilled. Bleached bones lay scattered across the cobblestones like discarded dice, and tattered tarps flapped against broken walls like mourning flags in the humid air.

Littendrage, the obsidian-scaled leader of the Dragonclan, soared above the wreckage. His wings sliced through the haze with a steady, low hum that vibrated in the marrow of the earth below. Behind him, Azurea glided effortlessly, her sky-blue scales catching the dim, watery light of a sun hooded by rain clouds.

“This place reeks of the Draugar,” her voice resonated in Littendrage’s mind, carrying a rare tremor of unease. Even for apex predators, this corruption felt primal and foul. “The blight spreads further every time we return.”

Littendrage’s piercing golden eyes swept the landscape, tracking the unmistakable trail of death. The blight carved a jagged, scorched path from Skullsplitter’s Shoal—where the Gorathökk Sea churned—straight through the heart of Copperhearth, stretching east toward South Shore.

Beyond the Shoal, the Orc Kingdom of Gorathökk loomed, but it was no longer a land of warriors.

“Farther and farther,” Littendrage growled, his voice a rumble of thunder between their minds. “The Necromancers grow bolder. They no longer bother to hide the rot. It isn’t cooperation… it’s conquest. The Orcs have fallen.”

“They’re using them as vessels,” Azurea added, her wings flexing as she banked. “The Necromancers have turned an entire race into a weapon. Look! On the shore—the longships.”

Littendrage’s talons flexed, scraping the air. Below, in the harbor, a dozen of Orcish vessels were docked. They were transport hulls, funneling a constant stream of Draugar and cowled Necromancers into the city.

A flicker of movement below caught Littendrage’s attention, sharp and deliberate against the stillness. “Azurea. There.”

They descended with practiced precision, their vast shadows sweeping over the ashen ground. The landing was nearly silent, talons pressing lightly against the cobblestones of the main street. Littendrage, slightly larger than a well-built warhorse but dense with power, folded his obsidian wings. Azurea, three times his size, moved to his flank, her blue-tinted breath curling in the dead air.

A Draugr shambled toward them from the shadows. It was a hulking Orc, its decayed flesh hanging in tatters. Its sunken eyes glowed with a sickly green light. It dragged an oversized axe along the street, the blade screeching against the stone.

“A scout,” Littendrage said. He lowered his head, his neck coiling. “The Horde is close. They’ve anchored their rot here.”

Azurea’s tail twitched. “We must tell Lozen. Use the glass, Littendrage. Tell her the sea has brought our doom to the docks.”

Littendrage paused, his golden eyes narrowing. He shifted his weight, his mind searching the familiar tether of the farsight orb he usually kept secured within his harness. He felt only the hard press of his own scales.

“The orb,” he rumbled, a note of uncharacteristic irritation sharpening his mental voice. “It remains in the lair. I did not bring the human trinket.”

Azurea’s mental laugh was dry and sharp. “The great Littendrage, outwitted by his own haste. You left our only link to the Dragon’s Hand behind?”

“I did not anticipate the need for parley so soon,” he growled, baring his teeth. He turned his gaze toward the scorched remains of the Draugr he had just incinerated. “The Moon-Pact Alliance cannot wait for us to fly back to the peaks only to fly out again. This news is too heavy for a return trip.”

Azurea cast a final look at the harbor, where the black-sailed ships bobbed in the gray water. “Then we go to the source. If the humans don’t act, this will spread beyond Dûrgath. The Verdant Valley—Ravnsríki—nothing will be safe.”

“To Helsgaard Keep, then,” Littendrage commanded.

Without another word, the two Dragons launched. Littendrage’s wings unfurled with a crack like a whip, propelling him upward into the smoke-choked sky. They banked away from the ghost-city, their silhouettes cutting a hard line through the haze as they turned their flight toward the remote mountain outpost.

The Price of Promises

All Alliances are Bought Twice—Once in Gold, Once in Blood

Axes bit into pine with the rhythm of war drums. Hammers struck iron, setting brackets with bone-shaking thuds. The clearing east of Helsgaard Keep throbbed with industry—a sudden hearth carved out of the whispering woods. Sawdust and damp soil mingled in the air, the scent sharp and honest.

The Trades Clan worked like a shield-wall. Braided beards swung with each heave, muscles taut as they anchored heavy beams into place. Rain from an earlier shower had left the soil dark and sticky, and now the late afternoon sun drew a thin mist from the earth, curling low like the breath of the forest watching from the tree line.

The new hall rose from the clearing like a defiant outpost—thick timber walls bound in iron, built to weather storm and siege. A wide stone hearth sat at its heart, already roaring with a massive fire where whole boars turned on heavy iron spits. Two boars were left uncooked for the Dragons. RIOS shipped dried fish from South Shore. The Keep had sent wagons of ale, mead and bread; the Skyborn had been invited to share the meat and mark the raising of the roof.

Alva stood apart, cloaked in dark green. Her red eyes—those uncanny eyes that had stared too long into death—scanned the work. A satchel of herbs rested against her hip. She hadn’t asked for this hall, but Commandant Günther and the builders had insisted on a proper house to replace her worn tent.

Günther stood nearby, arms crossed. Once-blond, his cropped beard had silvered, his scar-lined forearms telling the stories of a hundred fights. The orange silk of his tunic glimmered beneath the gray sky—noble fabric stretched across a warrior’s frame.

Lozen appeared from the tree line, having walked the short distance from the Keep’s eastern gate. Her red hair was tied high, warrior-style. “Coming along nicely,” she said.

Alva’s smirk was small. “They mean well.”

“It’s gratitude,” Lozen countered. “You’ve earned it.”

“Gratitude can be a heavy thing to carry,” Alva murmured.

The sound of massive wingbeats tore through the mist. Littendrage descended first, his obsidian scales catching the fractured sunlight like shards of night. Azurea swept down after him, her sky-blue wings folding with regal, heavy grace. Their arrival silenced the hammers.

Rohand and Hrolf emerged from the trees moments later. Rohand moved with the easy confidence of a veteran. Hrolf followed like a stormfront—broad-shouldered, his dark blue silk tunic marking his rank. He looked at the Dragons, then the hall, then back again, his brow furrowed as if trying to count the nails in the wood. Bryn came last, silent as her own shadow.

Littendrage wasted no time. “Copperhearth is being reinforced.”

The word hit the clearing like a cold wind.

“The Horde has fortified the city,” the Skyborn growled. “The blight spreads. They are using boats to ferry their dead—landing more Necromancers every day. It is a full invasion of Dûrgath.”

“Ships?” Hrolf blinked, his hand falling instinctively to his belt. “Orcs don’t sail. They raid. We need to focus on the west. If they take the coast, they’ll be at the walls of Helsgaard before the moon turns. I need to get the Rangers on the trails—defensive missions are our only hope of spotting the rot before it hits the town.”

Günther cut through Hrolf’s tactical squint. “If they have the harbor, they have the gateway to Ravnsríki. We cannot sit in the woods and wait for them to find us.” He turned to Littendrage. “We strike before they can entrench.”

Azurea’s sky-blue wings flexed, the sound like heavy sails catching a gale. “And strike with what? Copperhearth is already a tomb. The Shoals crawl with the dead. We can drown the city in white fire, but diving into that swarm without a target will cost us wings. We will not bleed just to buy you time.”

“We will not fly blind,” Littendrage answered. “We find the source of the rot, and we burn it out.”

He turned his burning golden eyes to the Commandant, his tone shifting smoothly from strategy to law. “But before my kin shed more scales for your borders, there is an older ledger to settle. What of our agreement? The Dragonclan bled at South Shore. In return, the Verdant Valley—what you call the Helsgaard Frontier—would be restored to us. King Valdissen’s word was given.”

Hrolf’s jaw tightened. “We can’t just hand over the King’s land while the dead are at the door—”

“—The Verdant Valley was ours before your King had a crown,” Littendrage cut him off, his voice a low vibration in the earth.

Lozen stepped forward, her red eyes catching the light like banked coals. She spoke as the Drekahönd—the Dragon’s Hand.

“The pact stands,” she said, her voice steady and cold. “The Dragons held the line when our own steel failed. The Verdant Valley will be returned. I will not see the King’s word tarnished with excuses.”

Littendrage tilted his massive head, watching her with a predator’s careful curiosity.

Günther nodded slowly. “The Drekahönd is right. The bargain was blood for land. You have my word; the Frontier will be yours.” He turned to Lozen. “But the King must be the one to sign the decree. Hrolf, you return to the Keep—keep the patrols tight and the town secure. Lozen, Rohand—the Griffins are ready in the longhouse. Take them to Ravnborg. The King must hear of this fleet and the Dragon’s demand before the sun sets tomorrow.”

Lozen glanced toward the Keep, where she knew the RIOS chamber was tucked safely away behind stone and secrets. “Why bother with the Griffins? We can be in Ravnborg—”

“—The Decree of the Veil,” Bryn interrupted, her eyes flashing a severe warning. “RIOS secrets stay behind stone. The King does not know the extent of our network, and we will not reveal it just to save you a day’s ride. You arrive on Griffin-back, as a Heroine wearing a torc should, or you don’t arrive at all.”

Lozen exhaled, the frustration tight in her chest. “Fine. We fly.”

Günther and Hrolf looked at each other, nodding in silent agreement that their Heroine was deep in the secrets of RIOS.

“Eat well before you fly,” Hrolf told her, gesturing toward the roasting meat. “We will ready the men.”

As the group dispersed—the commanders and the Skyborn turning their attention toward the raucous feast gathering around the hearth—Alva approached Lozen at the quiet edge of the clearing.

“Valdissen won’t do it,” Lozen finally said to the trees.

“Do what?”

“Evacuate the Helsgaard Frontier,” Lozen said flatly.

Alva’s silence was answer enough.

Lozen folded her arms, frustration cutting rough through her voice. “We made a bargain with the Dragons. They fight, bleed, burn for us—and in return, the land is theirs. But Valdissen? He’ll stall. He’ll weave excuses like spider silk. Kings always do. They break their word when it no longer profits them.”

“And if he doesn’t return the land?” Alva asked.

Lozen’s eyes hardened. “Then we’ll have fought and bled beside the Dragons for nothing. And they’ll remember that betrayal for generations.”

“And yet, you stood for them today.”

“Of course I did,” the Drekahönd snapped. Softening her tone, she added, “Because it’s right. Because loyalty matters. Because without them, we’ve already lost.”

Alva studied her for a long heartbeat. “Would you still fight for them,” she asked softly, “if you knew the King would betray them?”

The question struck like a blade sliding smoothly between ribs. Lozen hated it because she already knew the answer.

“Yes,” she said, the word tasting like iron on her tongue.

Something flickered in Alva’s gaze—approval, perhaps. Or the quiet recognition of a decision that cannot be taken back. “Then your doubt doesn’t control you.”

Lozen exhaled, bitter. “It still sits in my gut like a stone.”

“Good. That means you’re paying attention. Now pay attention to the language of kings.”

“What language?” She frowned.

“Power. Property. Pleasure. Payment. What can you offer Valdissen that he wants? Not needs, wants.”

Lozen thought for a moment. “Power is his already. He doesn’t care about property—not really. I’m guessing he has as much pleasure to warm his bed as he desires. That leaves—”

“—Gold,” Alva finished quietly.

“Right,” Rohand’s voice joined from behind them, startling her. “And where do you expect to find enough gold to buy the Helsgaard Frontier back from the King?”

Lozen shot him a sidelong look. “Where indeed?”

“Laying around in some burned-out trading port, perhaps?” Alva murmured, her lips curving faintly before turning away.

“Copperhearth,” Lozen breathed, the realization clicking into place with lethal precision.

“Not burned out—” Rohand began.

“—Yet,” she finished. A grim, dangerous grin touched her mouth. “It’s crawling with Draugar, and we happen to have fire-breathing allies who’ve been itching to roast some dead flesh for payback.”

“Lo, that’s disgusting,” Rohand said, his voice dropping low.

“Toughen up, ást mín,” she said, letting the Old Norse word for my love soften the mock-slap to his scarred cheek.

“And if the Dwarfinn army objects to you looting their merchants’ vaults?” he asked. “They will do more than grumble if they catch us.”

Lozen’s grin thinned to a razor’s edge. “Then we figure it out. You taught me that, remember?”

For a moment, silence returned—thick and cold as the forest night. She turned back to Alva, but the Seithr—Seeress—was already gone.

“The world won’t remember who won or lost,” Alva’s voice drifted back from the shadows, soundless as a thought fading from memory. “Only who survived to tell the tale. Make sure you’re the one left standing.”

Lozen stared into the trees. The weight of what lay ahead pressed down hard—alliances on the edge, kings who would bargain with betrayal, and a war whose true cost no one yet grasped.

Rohand broke the silence with a low, tight whistle. “I knew you robbed merchants in Ravnborg, and helped the poor. But rob an entire city?”

“Not the entire city. Just enough to solve a royal problem. And if anyone asks—well, maybe the Necros needed the gold for their magic.”

Rohand snorted. “If we’re caught, they’ll Blood Eagle us before the gold hits the ground. And I won’t lose you to a king’s greed.”

“Ást mín. You worry too much.”

She turned toward the Keep, the coming dark already swallowing the treeline. The war wasn’t just about the dead anymore—it was about surviving the King.

Threads of War

Threads Snap Before Walls Fall

Inside the cramped RIOS Farsight Chamber, the air hummed faintly with magic and carried the metallic odor of burnt salt. In the center of the room stood a small wooden table flanked by two sturdy chairs. Bryn sat in one of them, her black RIOS shawl gathered neatly around her shoulders. She smoothed her sharp features, forcing herself past the lingering grief over Helga. She stood, her eyes fixed on the glowing orb labeled “Ravnborg.”

“Okay, Ravnborg,” she murmured, her fingers deftly tracing the runes beneath the glass ball. She touched the orb, cold blue light drawing power from the deep-stones beneath the Chamber.

The crystal brightened, and the faint silhouette of a man flickered into view. The image sharpened, revealing the weathered face of Arne. Behind him, Bryn could make out the faint outlines of Ravnborg’s own Farsight Chamber—a grander, busier counterpart to her own.

“Bryn,” Arne said, his voice firm. “I assume this call concerns the movement at Copperhearth? We’ve had no word since Helga’s final message.”

“The situation has shifted from occupation to invasion,” Bryn said without preamble. “Copperhearth is no longer just a graveyard of stacked bodies waiting for the thaw. The Horde is active. The blight is spreading out from the city, and they are landing reinforcements.”

Arne’s jaw tightened. “So the winter reports were merely the prologue. Helga’s last word was of the ships—have you confirmed the size of this fleet?”

Bryn glanced briefly at the Copperhearth globe on the wall. It remained dark. “The station is destroyed, but our scouting wing is… consistent. You know the Dragons... they don’t count like quartermasters, but Littendrage reports more longships than he has claws anchored in the harbor. They aren’t just raiding; they are funnelling a legion through the docks. They’re bringing in fresh Draugar and more of those cowled masters.”

“Cowled masters?” Arne leaned in. “Orcs?”

“It’s a hypothesis, but the pieces fit a dark pattern. The Orcs aren’t just muscle anymore; I suspect they are the Necromancers. They’ve raised their own fallen, but they’ve also deployed living companies of archers to hold the perimeter. They aren’t just here to kill; they’re ravaging the vaults and stripping the city of its treasures. It’s a dual threat—dark craft to swell the ranks, and living greed to secure the plunder.”

Arne leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “If your hypothesis holds, we aren’t just facing a puppet army. We’re facing a race that has weaponized death to fund their conquest.”

“Precisely. Every settlement they touch adds to their dead, while the living Orcs provide the ranged defense we saw at South Shore. Copperhearth has given them a bridgehead and a treasury to fund a campaign that could last all summer.”

“And… what is the Moon-Pact Alliance’s plan to stop this advance?”

“We’re mobilizing to retake the city. The Dragons are conducting scouting while we weave the assault. We intend to strike before they can entrench further.”

Arne’s skepticism remained evident through the flickering glass. “The Dragons? How did you secure their flame for a siege?”

“Lozen. She was the lead Emissary when we proposed the alliance at South Shore. The Dragons respect her. They’re calling her Drekahönd. She’s a skilled tongue-smith when she’s not being a petulant bikkja—but I’m working with her on that.”

“I’ve heard the King speak of her. She has his ear. But what motivates the Dragons to help now?”

“They have conditions. The Dragons expect the King to evacuate the Helsgaard Frontier and return the Verdant Valley to them once the Draugar are gone. They see our presence there—the Keep, the homesteads of the borg—as an insult.”

“And you think he will agree to this? To abandon a century-old overlook?”

“Without the Dragons, we lose the north. The King will have to weigh the Frontier against the survival of Ravnsríki. It’s a bitter draught, but he’ll have to drink it.”

Arne’s jaw tightened. “And the Dwarfs? Have they committed?”

“Not yet. Lozen and Rohand fly to Ravnborg at first light. We’ll need the King’s support to convince the Dwarfs to join the shield-wall. Without them, any assault on Copperhearth will cost us too many lives.”

“And why Lozen?”

Bryn’s sharp eyes gleamed. “She is the Heroine of Helsgaard. Her father was a Dwarf, giving her a toehold in Dûrgath. With Rohand at her side, she’s our best chance of convincing the King to act. Both Kings.”

Arne nodded. “Understood. I’ll relay this to the King’s council immediately. Expect His Majesty’s response by the time Lozen and Rohand arrive.”

“Thank you,” she said. “And Arne? You might want to give her a quick course in high-manners before she approaches the throne. She still carries the dust of the trail on her tongue.”

“Good idea. I will.”

The orb dimmed, leaving the room in silence. Bryn let out a slow breath. Her gaze lingered on the dark Copperhearth globe. Beyond the stone walls, she knew the people of Helsgaardborg were sleeping in their new homes, unaware that the spring thaw had brought a tide of rot and a dozen ships of death to their doorstep.

With a purposeful stride, Bryn left the Farsight Chamber. The battle for Ravnsríki had already begun.

***

Outside the Keep, the night air was sharp. Lozen did not head back toward the Haven House. She wasn’t ready for the crowded heat of the longhouse, the smell of twenty people sleeping in close quarters, or the quiet, ever-watchful eyes of the House Father who managed the communal living. Even though she and Rohand were bound in Sambúð—the recognized, intimate partnership of a shared life and a shared bed—the space offered no true privacy, only the thin illusion of it behind hanging blankets.

She crossed the open courtyard, passing the darkened windows of the Warrior House. The Rangers still called it that, a stubborn nod to their history before they had “upskilled” into the elite scouts they were now. Beyond it sat the Trades House and the Merchants House, each a silo of specific craft and noise. She slipped through the eastern gate and moved past the flickering torches of Helsgaardborg.

The new town was a sprawl of fresh timber and muddy tracks, but Lozen didn’t stop there. She pushed further east, following the trail into the deep woods where the air grew heavy with the scent of hemlock and damp earth.

Two hundred armspans from the Keep’s shadow, she reached the clearing. The industry of men had followed her even here. At the northern edge of Alva’s clearing, the Trades Clan was nearly finished with a new longhouse. It sat like a defiant outpost of timber and iron, a “gift” from Günther that felt more like a claim. It was a sturdy, stubborn thing, built to last another hundred years, standing in stark contrast to the small, weathered canvas tent that Alva still occupied nearby.

Lozen bypassed the new structure, her boots silent on the pine needles. Alva’s tent stood like a hunched beast in the shadows of the unfinished hall.

The fire outside the canvas walls crackled low, throwing restless shadows against the hemlocks. Inside, the air was thick with the aroma of Fyrnrót stalks and elderberry, sharp and earthy, curling upward in ghostly tendrils from two steaming cups.

Lozen sat cross-legged across from the woman who had spent two decades pulling the threads of the North from the shadows. Alva’s robes, deep green embroidered with silver thread, rustled softly as she leaned forward.

“A warlord once wrote a truth,” Alva said slowly, her voice like grinding stones. “If you know the enemy’s heart, and know your own, you need not fear the outcome of a hundred shield-clashes.”

Lozen’s brows furrowed. “No skald in Ravnsríki sings such lines.”

“Because the North sings only of glorious death to gain entrance to Valhalla,” Alva countered. “That warlord sang of surviving.”

Lozen snorted and took a tentative sip from the cup. The tea hit like forged iron—bitter, metallic, ancient. “Fyrnrót tastes like this? I’d rather lick a whetstone.”

“This brew is but the dried stalks and husks,” Alva explained. “It sharpens the mundane mind. It shears the everyday fog from the ond—the life force. The Seithar have used the dregs for generations to stay awake through the long watches.”

Lozen swallowed, feeling a slow, manageable heat spread behind her eyes. “It doesn’t grant the Sight?”

“It reveals the world as it is, not as you wish it to be. Many would rather walk through the world with a blindfold of their own making. This simply pulls the cloth away.”

“You speak in riddles, Alva. I’m a Ranger. Give me a trail I can follow.”

“And you hide behind your own Mírenstál sword,” Alva replied, her voice quiet but cutting. “You treat your spirit like a fortress under siege. You worry about the King’s gold and the Dragon’s demands, but you do not look at the hand moving the pieces.”

The fire popped outside, a sharp crack that made Lozen’s hand twitch. She’d spent her life fighting—first for scraps, then for RIOS, then for survival. She had never stood still long enough to see if she was the one walking, or if she was being led.

“I’ve watched you since you were thirteen,” Alva murmured.

Lozen’s grip tightened on the cup. “Since Aeldoria? Before my exile?”

“I followed because I saw what the masters of the court did not. Strength. Instinct. But more than that, a gift of gæfa—that deep, inescapable luck of the gods that can reshape the North.”

“A gift for what? Killing? And lately, killing that which is already dead?”

“For being the piece that refuses to be taken.”

Alva reached into a leather pouch and withdrew several small, supple leaves. Unlike the woody stalks in the tea, these were soft, their veins glimmering a deep red. She extended them.

“Take them.”

Lozen raised an eyebrow. “I’ve already drunk the dregs.”

“Those were the bark. These are the heart-growth,” Alva whispered. “Keep them. When the path clouds and the trail vanishes, chew one leaf—mix it with your spit to wake the essence. But only one, Lozen. To take more is to invite truths that will shatter a soul-cage not yet forged for the strain.”

Lozen accepted the leaves carefully. She felt a faint thrum in the plant, a lingering echo of the earth’s raw energy. She tucked them into a pouch at her waist, fastening the leather toggle shut.

“You have the fire,” Alva’s tone shifted, the mystical veil dropping to reveal the cold, calculating weight of the puppeteer. “But fire alone consumes. You must learn when to burn… and when to let the embers warm the hearth. A sword forged only for the swing will shatter against the first heavy shield.”

The Ranger looked down at her calloused hands. Slowly, deliberately, she nodded.

“Good,” Alva said. “Then drink. Clarity cools when left waiting.”

This time, Lozen raised the cup and drained it. Outside, the spring wind pressed against the tent, moving through the beams of the new, empty longhouse. It was heavy with the scent of the coming war.

Lozen stood to leave, looking back at the half-finished hall. “You won’t live in it, will you? The house they’re building you.”

Alva didn’t look up from the fire. “A house is just a box to keep the wind out, Lozen. I prefer to hear the wind when it speaks. But let them build. It gives them the illusion that they have a place for me on their map.”

Lozen walked away, the bitterness of the tea still sharp on her tongue. She thought of the Haven House, the crowded heat, and Rohand waiting for her in the dark. The game was much larger than a sword swing now. And for the first time, she was ready to play it.

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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.