Root of the Ninefold

The fire roared. The salt sang. The smoke curled through the hall like a whispered story. And yet... Jón of Helgabyr frowned.

The Missing Element

Something was missing. The warriors ate like wolves, but their eyes wandered. Their blades were fast, but their hearts unfocused.

The food stirred the flesh—but not the soul.

The Shrine's Whisper

So Jón returned to the shrine of Helga Fire-Eye. This time, he did not bring flame. He brought silence. He listened.

And the wind answered:

"In the place where nine rivers braid like a woven tale, lies a root that remembers every path a man might walk."

The Journey to Njarnholt

He followed the wind east, into Njarnholt, where the rivers twisted and turned like fate itself.

There, at the ninth bend, the soil breathed heavy. Not cursed... but knowing.

The Discovery

Jón dug with his hands, not tools. The ground was soft, but deep—resistant, as though testing him.

When he touched it, the breath left his lungs.

It was not one root, but nine—splitting, curving, reaching like fingers toward something unseen.

The Taste of Memory

Bitter on the tongue. Sharp on the nose. Sweet at the finish.

Every bite gave and remembered:

• His father's last words.
• The first oath he ever broke.
• A child's laugh behind a closed door.
• A cry from a battlefield he'd never fought.

The Return

The Root of the Ninefold does not season food. It seasons memory.

That night, the warriors of Helgabyr sat differently. Not louder. Not prouder. But truer. Their knuckles tightened on worn handles. Their eyes turned inward.

They remembered not just what they'd won... but what they'd lost.