Tears of Sigyn

The feast hall was full. Firelight danced along steel, mead sloshed, and the warriors laughed. But Jón of Helgabyr watched in silence. He tasted the food and frowned.

The Missing Thread

The heat was there. The depth. The spirit.

But something else was needed—something smaller, sharper, almost invisible. A thread to bind the rest.

The Vision at the Shrine

Not a roar. A whisper.

He went again to the shrine of Helga Fire-Eye. This time, he did not speak. He knelt.

And in the embers, he saw a woman—not Helga, but another. Pale, sorrowful, eternal.

Her name was Sigyn. Her eyes brimmed with gold.

"All great fires are kindled by sacrifice. But even the smallest flame may be born of love that grieves."

The Journey to Fjallbrekka

Jón followed the vision to the cliffs of Fjallbrekka, where the wind keens like a widow's song.

There, he found a tree that bore no leaves—but wept golden droplets into the soil beneath.

The Sacred Seeds

He dug at its roots. Not deep—just enough to find the clustered seeds, golden and tight, bitter to the tongue.

As he held them, the sky cracked above him. Rain fell. But it was warm. And it shimmered.

The Weeping

He wept. Not from heat. Not from memory. From grief.

From the ache of holding on too long. From loyalty stretched thin, but unbroken.

The Final Touch

He carried the seeds home, dried and crushed them, and sprinkled them lightly over the meal. Just a pinch.