Dust of the Hollow Fang

Helgabyr was quiet. The warriors were fed. The spirits, stirred. Their sleep was deep, and their steel well held.

The Lingering Shadow

But still... some would not wake easily. They dreamt of mounds. Of moaning winds. Of eyes behind the eyes.

Jón stirred at night, unease in his bones. No flame, no salt, no tear or root could rouse them fully.

The Silent Shrine

So he turned once more to the shrine of Helga Fire-Eye.

This time, no voice spoke.

Only a scratching—not sound, but feeling—along the back of his neck.

"There is a fire that feeds not on life, but on silence. A heat born of stillness. A poison that outlives its source."

The Journey to the Mounds

He packed no food. No wine. Only a knife, a torch, and a trowel.

He travelled to the old burial hills, where they say no song echoes and the breath hangs too long.

The Ancient Discovery

In the largest mound, sealed with a stone carved in runeless warning, Jón descended. He followed the smell first: dry rot and cold dust.

Then, the whisper—not words, but memory. A flicker behind the ribs of a long-dead thing.

And there... he saw it:

A fang, blackened and hollow, nestled beneath the skull of a warrior too large for any clan of men.

The Careful Harvest

Jón dared not touch it whole. He scraped at it, ground it, until the dust rose sharp and grey.

Even in the torchlight, it moved, twitching in the air like a living curse.

The Final Touch

He returned home and added just a breath of it to the blade-meat—thin elk cuts seared over high flame.

That night, those who could not wake... finally did. And those who could not sleep... finally could.