The Wyrm's Spine

Winter came early that year. The flames in Helgabyr burned hot, but not long. Wood was scarce, and Jón's meals, though powerful, felt... thin.

The Restless Night

The fire danced, the salt sang, the root rang true, and the tears of Sigyn gave depth. But the warriors still stirred restlessly in the night.

"They sleep," Jón thought, "but they do not settle."

The Shrine's Guidance

He returned once more to the shrine of Helga Fire-Eye. The coals hissed as snow fell upon them.

And in the smoke, a voice:

"Seek the fire beneath fire. Not the flame above... but the heat that coils, forgotten, beneath stone."

The Ancient Bones

Jón followed the old trail south—beyond the old fjords, past the basalt cliffs, and into a cave choked with silence.

The bones were there.

Not of men. Not of beast. Something between.

The Wyrm's Gift

Coiled around itself in ancient agony, fossilised by time, lay the Wyrm—its spine twisted, its ribs like broken oaths.

At its heart: a withered branch growing from the bone marrow itself.

He touched it, and the marrow cracked. Amber flaked into his hands—fragile, curling like bark but hot to the breath.

The Ancient Heat

He crushed them between stone. The scent was sweet, but bitter. Warm, but ancient.

He returned to Helgabyr and scattered the dust into the stew of elk and bitter greens.

The Deep Dreams

That night, mouthful silence filled the hall. Then came the slow breath. The deep sigh. The heat not of flame... but of the thing that came before flame.

That night, the warriors slept like stones. Their dreams were dark, and long, and full of wisdom.