A piercing wind raked Skeldfjord's rooftops as dawn broke over the frozen fjord. The sky burned with pale rose and lavender—the herald of spring's slow return beneath winter's grasp. Einar Stormrider stood on the newly built watchtower, Stormreaver at his hip and eyes fixed on the distant sledge-trail winding toward Frostfang Ridge. Below, shieldmaidens drilled in the courtyard, their shields glinting through the swirling snow.
Astrid Sigurdsdottir mounted the stairs, cloak swirling like a dark banner. "Reports from the northern beacon," she called above the gusts. "Merchant sleighs arrived intact—salt and trade strong. But one sledge returned empty and late. No word on its fate."
Einar's jaw tightened. The road to Silver Fjord was well-warded, yet even the best-planned route could falter under winter's cruelty—or darker designs. "Gather a patrol. Sigurd, Ingrid, and Kari—ride at first light. Follow the trail north, find our missing sleigh."
Astrid nodded, hand slipping to the runed dagger at her belt. "I'll prepare the mounts."
By sunfall, the north road lay deserted—tracks half-erased by drifting snow. The patrol moved in single file: Sigurd with spear poised, Ingrid's shield locked at her side, Kari murmuring runes of direction through chattering teeth. The fields of grain lay buried beneath white, the granary beacon a lone ember against the dusk.
Ingrid halted by a broken sled runner. "Here," she said, voice low. "Signs of struggle. Ice shards splintered the runner's iron binding."
Sigurd examined the track. "Footprints—two sets. One of them booted, the other bare. Strange for a merchant's escort."
Kari knelt, light from his lantern illuminating a smear of blood upon the snow. "Not merchant's blood—more like wolf-howl."
Einar sheathed Stormreaver and stepped forward. "Wolfish raiders? Hrafnheim hunters would report if it were true."
Kari's eyes glittered. "Or… shapeshifters. Creatures of seiðr—wolves that walk as men at moonrise."
*(Shapeshifters: sorcerous beings who can assume animal forms, cursed by ancient magics.)
Ingrid's shield raised a sliver. "Then they hunt us on our own road."
Einar's gaze narrowed. "We'll find our people—or avenge them."
They pressed on, lanterns carving golden paths through the snow. Each crunch echoed like a heartbeat against the silent night.
Under a pale moon, the patrol found a hidden glen where the trees formed a natural amphitheater. The missing sleigh lay overturned; its cargo of salt scattered like fallen stars upon the snow. No bodies—no sign of the merchants themselves. Just footprints leading into the grove's shadowed heart.
Einar dismounted. "Stay alert. The grove's ward weakens here."
Kari drew a ward-rune in fresh snow—a barrier of Algiz and Raidho—binding wind and path to their will. The glow of the ward revealed shapes moving beyond the trees: half-seen figures whose eyes reflected lantern-light.
Sigurd gripped his spear. "Show yourselves!"
From the darkness emerged three figures: clad in wolves' furs, faces streaked with white-painted lines. Their mouths were human but barred with canines. They paused, heads tilting as though considering whether to pounce—or parley.
Einar stepped forward, torch held high. "Who are you, and what have you done with our merchants?"
The foremost wolfman whimpered—voice hoarse, but human. "We… we protect the grove. Merchants trespassed on sacred ground. We led them to safety—away from the ancient heartstone beneath the Spineback."
Astrid's brow lifted. "The Heart-door's secrets reached far."
Ingrid advanced, shield raised. "Or you would see our kin lost—and stir the old power."
The shapeshifter lowered his head. "Our pack guards the old rites. We meant no harm. Only to draw attention away from the Heart-door's seal."
Einar studied him, recalling Kari's warning: ancient magic lingers beneath the mountain. "If you truly led the merchants to safety, bring them forth."
The wolfman nodded and called in a low growl. From the grove's edge stumbled a merchant and two escorts—exhausted, shaken, but alive. A sledge horse followed, dozing in the snow.
Neighbors wept with relief as Einar led them back to the cleared trail. The wolfmen watched from shadow, then melted into the trees like specters of frost. Kari lingered, torchlight revealing lines of concern on his face.
"They serve a forgotten pact," Kari said quietly. "They feared the mine's opening disturbed the earth's balance."
Einar placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then we must honor the balance—and ensure no more trespass."
Back at Skeldfjord, the rescued merchants received ale and blankets. Astrid oversaw their warming while Sigurd reported the encounter. The wolfmen's claim needed scrutiny: secret guardians of the Heart-door, enforcing pacts older than any jarl.
Einar convened the clan council in the longhouse. The rescued merchants confirmed the wolfmen's story: led gently, guided away from danger "beneath the mountain's heart." The farmers stared at Einar, questions flickering in their eyes.
Bjorn the smith rose. "If these beasts guard our legacy, should we not parley? They fear the same power we sealed."
Thora Sigurdsdottir inclined her head. "A council beneath the Spineback—both clans meet. Words before steel."
Einar considered the weight of his clan's ambitions and the balance between growth and reverence. "So be it. We meet at the Heart-door's threshold—no weapons drawn—seek alliance with those who guard our past."
Astrid placed a steadying hand on his arm. "You tread a delicate path, jarl."
He met her gaze. "A leader must balance blade and word."
At dawn, Einar's delegation rode to the mine entrance: Astrid, Kari, Ingrid, and three shieldmaidens. They found the wolfmen awaiting: a dozen figures, cloaked in furs, eyes glinting with caution. Beyond them, the Heart-door yawned in silent watch.
The wolf-warden stepped forward: once the foremost of their pack, now honorable envoy. "I am Fenror," he announced, voice low and resonant. "We call you heir of ash and ice—Stormrider's vow awakened our pact. We guard the Heart-door until the land heals."
Einar inclined his head. "Then let us renew the pact. Skeldfjord takes only what we need, honors the earth's balance, and in turn is granted safe passage through the mines."
Fenror studied him, nostrils flaring. "If you uphold the balance, the Heart-door's magic will bolster your forges when steel fails." He banked eyes toward Kari. "But know this: if greed returns, the earth will claim both keeper and king."
Kari traced a Rune of Gebo between their hands—binding partnership. The runes glowed as wards entwined with Fenror's blood-oath. The Heart-door's seal shimmered faintly, as if acknowledging the pact.
Astrid sheath her dagger. "Then we stand as allies."
Fenror dipped his head. "Under moon's rise, we will train your miners in ward-craft, to keep the Soul-vein from turning foul."
Einar clasped Fenror's gauntlet. "So shall it be."
Returning home, Einar felt the weight of both hope and warning. The wolf-guardians' pact bound Skeldfjord's promise to honor the land—and tempered ambition with reverence. Beyond the mine, the village bustled: children waved, smiths hammered, and the longhouse's flags snapped in the wind.
At the great hall, Einar sat beside Astrid as the clan gathered under torchlight. He recounted the wolf-guardians' oath, the rescued merchants' tale, and the renewed pact. The villagers cheered the wolfmen's name and the promise of warded mines.
Kari stepped forward, staff raised. "Let each miner bear the rune of balance—so that every ingot forged shall honor both earth and clan." He etched Naudhiz–Jera–Gebo into the frozen courtyard's stone. The runes glowed before fading into the frost.
Bjorn raised a horn. "To soil and steel! To wolves and wardens!"
Voices joined: "Skeldfjord endures!"
Einar and Astrid exchanged a triumphant glance. Together, they had bridged past and present, blade and bargain, forging not only steel, but the very soul of their homeland.
And as the hall's emberlight danced across fierce faces and hopeful eyes, Einar Stormrider felt the surge of destiny's current: the road ahead would demand both blade and reverence, but his clan stood ready—bound by oath, shielded by runes, and guided by the whisper of wolves beneath the mountain's heart.