Farmer's Wrath

The warriors of Helgabyr were full of pride. Their hearts had known sorrow, kinship, legacy.

The Unseen Truth

But Jón of Helgabyr saw something they did not.

The servants in the hall—those who stirred the pots, mended the cloaks, stoked the fires—moved slower now. Eyes down. Teeth clenched.

One morning, Jón watched a boy slice kindling with a blade far too dull. The child muttered through his teeth:

"Let them eat their fire. One day, we'll see if they bleed like us."

The Dark Offering

That night, Jón brought no food to the shrine of Helga Fire-Eye. He brought a stone—cracked from a ploughshare. He brought soil—taken from a grave marked with no name. And he brought a single coin—bent, blackened, unused.

The fire flared red. But not bright. Low. Controlled. Dangerous.

"There is flame born not in battle, but in broken backs and empty bowls. You want wrath? Go where the fields were sown with false promises."

The Bitter Fields

Jón followed the old trade road to the lowlands of Vetrarkorn, where the soil runs deep and black and bitter.

He walked until he found a field where no bird sang.

And there, among twisted stalks and thorned husks, he found the fruit.

The Taste of Fury

Red. Heavy. Scarred. It grew despite the rot. Because of the rot.

He took it and tasted it.

Sweet at first. Innocent.

Then came the fire.

Not a scream. A slow, rising fury—like someone remembering just how badly they'd been used.

The Evening's Truth

He dried it hard. Ground it with flint. Folded it into the meat of the evening stew.

The warriors ate.

And as they swallowed, they paused.

Then one grunted. Another swore. A third slammed his cup down and said:

"We've been too long on thrones of borrowed sweat."

They rose—not in rage—but in resolve.

That night, they carried firewood. They poured drink with their own hands. They gave thanks to the quiet, calloused hands that fed them.

For Farmer's Wrath is not the rage of gods. It is the rage of the forgotten— And it burns clean.