Svikiðrþorn

Not all fire is for warmth. Some is for warning.

The Betrayal

There had been a time—one generation past—when Helgabyr opened its gates in peace.

The valley clans came with banners lowered, palms up, promises made over shared flame.

And Helgabyr believed them.

They fed them. Housed them. Let them sleep beside the very hearth of Helga Fire-Eye.

And on the third night... the knives were drawn.

"They struck at our backs," the old skalds say. "Not as warriors—but as thieves in the skin of brothers."

The Unhealed Wound

The dead were burned. The treachery avenged. But the wound never closed.

And though no warrior of Helgabyr spoke it aloud... they felt it. That silence between drinks. That pause before any stranger's name was spoken.

The Three Offerings

Jón of Helgabyr knew the time had come.

He brought three things to the shrine of Helga Fire-Eye:

A splinter of the longhouse bench stained with blood

A torn strip of a traitor's tunic

And a cup of untouched mead poured out for the unburied dead

"Where the kin-fires were betrayed," it whispered, "the thorn still grows."

The Blood-Soaked Earth

Jón went to the lowlands of Kinnslá, where the blood had soaked deep into the earth. There, in crooked grass, he found it:

A spined moss—dark, coiled, and sharp as vengeance. It didn't burn to touch... but it refused to be ignored.

The Bitter Harvest

He cut it carefully. Dried it. Ground it fine.

That night, he added it to the stew served only to blood-bound kin.

The Awakening

The warriors tasted it—and sat straighter.

One stood and gripped his brother's shoulder. Another swore an oath again, though no one had asked him.

And all who tasted it looked to the doors, as if to say:

"Try us now."

For Svikiðrþorn does not call for war... It calls for honour. And burns in the hearts of those who will never again break bread with treachery.