A bone-biting wind swept across the ice-locked fjord as Einar Stormrider rode toward Hrafnheim's outpost, the first stop on a diplomatic mission to reinforce the grain alliance. His cloak—lined with Skeldfjord wolf-fur—flapped like a dark pennant behind him. Astrid Sigurdsdottir rode at his flank, eyes alert beneath her helm, while Kari the Wanderer stalked the road's edge, staff in hand, scanning for hidden wards.
Behind them followed a dozen shieldmaidens bearing folded sails for Hrafnheim's sleighs, and two traders from Silver Fjord escorting a cart of amber. The road, once smooth for sledges, now lay glazed in rime. Every hoofbeat rang like a distant drum—the heartbeat of winter's hush.
(Glaze: a thin sheet of ice forming when water freezes on contact.)
They halted at the stone watchtower marking the midway point. Smoke curled from its elevated brazier—a bale-fire lit each dawn and dusk to signal safe passage and welcome travelers.
(Bale-fire: a large beacon fire, often built on hilltops or towers to send signals across distance.)
A Hrafnheim sentry in ermine trimmed with salt-fur waved them in. "Jarl Ulfwin awaits within," he grunted, voice muffled by a wool scarf. "Follow the trail west."
Einar dismounted, Stormreaver sheathed on his back. He motioned his party forward. "Keep close. No surprises."
Inside the outpost's timber hall, Jarl Ulfwin—tall, silver-haired, helm-crest of crossed axes—rose from a seat of carved spruce. His blue cloak shimmered with sewn runes of Sowilo for success. Behind him stood his thane, Ragna Icehand, shield strapped to her belt.
"Einar Stormrider," Ulfwin intoned, voice echoing. "Your alliance warms the cold. May your visit bear good tidings."
Einar inclined his head. "We bring news of the granary shipments—and seek your counsel on establishing winter patrols along the Spineback." He gestured to Neila and Arvid. "Our traders request safe-conduct letters for their sledges."
Ulfwin studied the traders, then nodded. "They shall pass. But first, a matter more urgent." He turned to Ragna, who stepped forward, unrolling a blood-stained scroll.
Einar's gaze snapped to the parchment. The rune-seal—broken—was Hrafnheim's mark of hospitality. Yet blood adorned its edges.
Ragna's lips tightened. "Found at the southern gate, this morning. The seal was broken by teeth, not steel."
Astrid's hand strayed to her dagger. "Wolves? Or worse."
Kari knelt, running a ward-gauntlet along the parchment. "This is scry-rune corruption. Someone used blood-ward to taint the hospitality seal."
(Scry-rune: a rune used for divination or revealing hidden truths; corruption indicates malicious interference.)
Einar clenched his gauntlet. "Who would dare betray our alliance?"
Ulfwin's eyes darkened. "We suspected a spy in our midst. Now the proof." He folded the scroll. "Ragna and I will ride north to intercept the culprit—lead your party to the moot-fir grove. There, we can speak truth beneath ancient oaks."
(Moot-fir grove: a sacred circle of fir trees where clans convene for council.)
They rode through drifting snow toward the grove—a ring of sentinel firs atop a low knoll, their boughs heavy with ice. In the pale light, the trunks appeared as pillars of a lost temple. At its center stood a stone table scarred by age and moss.
Ragna circled the grove's perimeter, spear in hand. "No tracks here... but footprints lead away, toward the western ravine."
Einar dismounted. "Spread out. Find who cast this blood-ward."
The shieldmaidens scattered. Kari murmured runes of Perthro—revealing hidden signs—while Astrid inspected the table's base. Neila and Arvid stood behind, amber crates forgotten.
From the ravine edge came a sudden cry. Einar, Astrid, and Sigurd Flamehair sprinted toward the call. There, half-buried in snow, lay a figure in merchant's robes, face pale as drift-ice. Ragna knelt beside him, dagger at the ready.
The man groaned, stirring. "Wolf-men... no human," he rasped. "Took our letters... warned them of secrets below."
Einar's blood ran cold. "You mean the mine's pact"—the Heart-door's guardians—"the wolf-guardians?"
The merchant shook his head. "They saved us. Some other hound—harnessed to Hakon's magics—hunt us." He coughed. "We fled their teeth—lost seal... lost trust."
Astrid helped him upright. "Stay with Ragna. We will purge this grove of treachery."
Under the grove's hush, Kari drew a circle of iron filings and charcoal—binding runes of Naudhiz and Algiz. "Their curse lingers here," he said. "We must break it."
Einar stepped forward, placing Stormreaver's pommel upon the stone table's center rune. "By Stormheart's edge, we cleanse this mockery of hospitality!" He struck the rune with a cry. The table vibrated; splinters of ice cascaded to the forest floor. The binding runes flared, then faded to embers at the table's edges.
A howl answered from the ravine—a chilling, inhuman cry. Astrid raised her hornfire, its antlers sparking with ward-lit fire. "They come!"
From shadowed trees surged figures: snarling wolf-like creatures—fur bristling, eyes aflame. These were no guardians, but frost-hounds—ceremonial beasts bound by seiðkona's blood-ward to spy and sabotage.
Sigurd roared, axe in hand. "To me!"
The grove erupted in battle. Shieldmaidens formed a ring around the merchants and Jarl Ulfwin's party, spears locking in skjoldborg formation. Frost-hounds lunged through the runic ward, snapping jaws at ankles. Kari's staff lashed out runes of banishment, but for each hound dispelled, another emerged.
Einar dashed into the fray, Stormreaver's frost-runes igniting with crystal's pulse. Each swing scattered beasts like blown snow. Astrid charged at a grizzle-frost hound four paces from the ravine, spear spinning in a deadly arc. Ragna fended off two at once, her shield ringing under savage bites.
Above the clamor, a shriek rang out. At the ravine's edge, the seiðkona appeared—her robes woven of mist and bone, staff of black driftwood pulsing with dark energy. "You meddle in powers you cannot comprehend!" she hissed, voice carrying like cracking ice.
Einar raised his voice: "Your dogs of darkness shall not sunder our alliances!" He spurred toward her, forging a path through snapping jaws and snarling forms.
Astrid boxed a hound's head with her shield and drove her spear through its shoulder. Kari cast a ward at Einar's back. Sigurd delivered a crushing blow to a beast that lunged from the stone table.
With a roar, Einar leapt at the seiðkona, cleaving Stormreaver's blade across her staff. A burst of stolen mist exploded as the staff snapped. The frost-hounds paused, whimpering, then collapsed into pools of harmless fog.
The seiðkona writhed, blood-magic surging at her fingertips. She lunged, but Astrid intercepted with a shield-butt blow that sent her staggering. Kari conjured runes of prison—Thurisaz and Eihwaz—sealing her momentarily in a cage of glowing iron.
Einar stood over her, blade lowered. "Begone, witch, before mercy fails."
Her eyes burned with hatred. "This grove was born of old pacts," she spat. "You cannot bind me forever."
With a final curse, she dissolved into swirling mist that fled up the ravine. The warded circles faded, leaving only the hush of battered branches.
In the aftermath, Jarl Ulfwin surveyed the grove's clearing, snow trodden and blood-stained. Merchants huddled with Ragna Icehand, tending wounds. The Stone Table's rune-clearing glowed pale, its carvings restored.
Ulfwin turned to Einar. "You cleanse not only this grove, but every doubt of our alliance. Skeldfjord stands as bulwark against the dark."
Einar inclined his head. "We guard both mine and grove. No blood-ward shall sunder our bonds again."
Sigurd slammed his axe into the ground. "And any who threaten us—wolf or man—will taste Stormreaver's edge!"
Astrid wiped her spear, eyes bright with battle's fire. "Let those roads be free of blood-runes and dark curses."
Kari exhaled, voice soft. "I will renew the grove's wards—stronger than before, tied to both stone and soul." He traced a circle of Jera–Gebo–Algiz, runes of harvest, partnership, and protection, around the table's base.
That night, Skeldfjord's longhouse glowed with torchlight and laughter. The rescued merchants and Hrafnheim emissaries sat alongside the Stormrider clan, sharing stew and bread. Einar rose on a bench, Stormreaver's hilt catching the firelight.
"Tonight, we honor our alliances," he proclaimed. "We have faced frost-hounds and blood-runes, yet stand unbroken. To Hrafnheim's guardians, to Silver Fjord's traders, and to the wolf-wardens of the mine—our unity prevails!"
Horns blared. Voices cheered in thunderous chorus. Even the merchants, once shaken, raised their tankards with newfound confidence.
Astrid slipped beside Einar, pressing a hand to his arm. "We overcame the darkness—together."
He smiled, amber eyes warm. "Together, always."
Behind them, Kari stood at the hall's edge, staff glowing faintly as he traced final runes on the floor: seals of friendship and warded peace. In his eyes shone both relief and quiet wonder at the bond forged beneath the ancient firs.
And so, amid laughter, embraces, and the crackle of bale-fires outside, Skeldfjord's clan celebrated another victory—not of conquest, but of trust tested and proven. The winter road lay clear once more, guarded by steel, rune, and the unbreakable oath that unity, not fear, would shape their fate.