Crown of Surtr

The flame was stronger now in Helgabyr. Warriors leapt from slumber ready for war. Their eyes burned with purpose.

The Missing Element

And yet... Jón saw something missing.

There was no fear.

A meal could stir the heart, yes—but could it also warn it?

The Dark Shrine

He returned to the shrine of Helga Fire-Eye. This time, the fire would not light.

So he knelt in darkness, pressed ash to his brow, and whispered:

"I have fed them strength. Spirit. Sorrow. Fury. What now must I feed them?"

The Fire Giant's Call

A spark leapt from the stone. The shrine roared to life.

In the flame, a figure of pure red. A shadow crowned in molten horns. His name was not spoken, but known.

Surtr.

"You want fear, cook of men? Then walk where even flame fears to tread."

The Journey South

Jón obeyed.

He journeyed to the southern rift, where black glass juts from the earth like broken teeth. The land there bleeds heat—not from the sun, but from the veins of the world.

At its heart, a crater smouldering with no smoke—only red dust shifting like breath.

The Crown's Remnants

Buried deep, under obsidian crust and bone, Jón found the crown.

Or what remained of it.

Not gold. Not metal. Not ash.

But a powder that shimmered like rage made solid.

The Final Warning

He took only a thimbleful. Any more, and the air screamed.

Back in Helgabyr, he worked in silence. Gloves on. Breath held.

He added a single pinch to the stew.

Those who ate it that night did not speak.

They sweated. They shook. They held their weapons as though they might be struck at any moment.

For Crown of Surtr is not a flame you command. It is a flame that reminds you—you are mortal.