Starbrand

There came a stillness in Helgabyr.

The Final Space

Not peace. Not calm.

But the silence before the final verse. The wind before the last storm. Jón of Helgabyr had gathered fire from across the world—of sorrow, pride, joy, vengeance, and even stars.

But something still tugged at the edge of his soul. A space in the blend that refused to be filled.

The Celestial Offering

Still, he returned to the shrine of Helga Fire-Eye.

He brought:

A stone struck by lightning

A feather scorched in aurora

A bowl of sky-reflected water gathered under a moonless night

The Divine Jest

The fire curled in colors not known to the earth—white, then violet, then red-gold like a sunset seen in a dream.

And the flame laughed.

"There was a night when the gods wagered foolishness," it said. "Loki challenged Thor to push a fruit through the eye of a needle without bursting it."

The God's Folly

Thor, ever proud, chose a strange, round fruit—flexible, he claimed. Clever.

But the stalk held firm while the belly bloated behind.

In rage, he hurled it skyward—through aurora, through cloud, through stars.

And where it crashed back to Midgard, it struck mountain stone and cracked the sky.

The Star-Touched Fruit

There, in the sunlit fissures of the high cliffs, the Starbrand was born.

Jón climbed high, where no trail held, and found it—striped, warped, pulsing like a joke that never stopped burning.

He tasted it.

Sweet, then stinging. Bright, then gone. It did not linger. It mocked.

The Divine Mockery

He dried it, smoked it, powdered it light as ash.

And when served, the warriors of Helgabyr laughed, coughed, blinked, and shouted:

"What in the nine realms was that?!"

Jón said nothing.

He simply smiled.

For Starbrand is the fire of jest, pride, and punishment— A flame hurled by gods, meant to shame the bold.

The Incomplete Tale

And yet… when Jón looked into the fire that night…

He knew.

The blend was still incomplete. One flame still waited. A crown hidden not in glory… But in shadow.