Splinter of Svalinn

Long had Jón of Helgabyr stoked the warrior's fire—he had fed their rage, their clarity, their joy. But fire, left unchecked, consumes even those who tend it.

The Signs of Strain

He saw it in their eyes.

Not bloodlust—burnout. Heard it in their breath. Not strength—strain.

They needed not more flame... but something to stand against it.

The Blade's Offering

So he returned to the shrine of Helga Fire-Eye, where he laid no offering, only his own blade.

"What guards the world from the fire I have awoken?"

The Vision

The fire dimmed. In its glow, the image of a shield: vast, radiant, cracked. And from its edge—a splinter.

"Even a fragment of Svalinn still holds the sun at bay."

The Northern Journey

Jón journeyed to the far northeast, where day clings longest to the sky, and stones shine white even under moonlight.

There, in a glacial ravine that never truly warms, he found it:

The Shield's Gift

A lone fruit, pale and firm, growing from the bark of a tree whose trunk curled like a broken shield.

He touched it, and felt nothing.

Then—a pulse. Like the pushback of a storm held at the edge of the sky.

The Final Balance

He dried it with care, ground it into fine silver dust, and scattered only a whisper of it into the broth.

That night, the warriors sat straighter. They moved slower—not sluggish, but aware. Guarded.

They watched the door. Checked their corners. Measured each word.

They had not been weakened. They had been shielded.

For the Splinter of Svalinn does not feed fire— It stands before it.