Chapter 222
The cold wind howled through the shattered remnants of the Hands of Renewal's hidden sanctum, rattling torn banners and scattering the blackened remains of ritual altars. Smoke curled from overturned braziers, carrying the acrid scent of burnt herbs and shattered soul crystals, weaving with the chill like a living thing. Only a few dozen remained, survivors of the cult once feared across Valdyrheim, but desperation clung to them, gnawing at their resolve. Hadrun the Hollow slumped against a crumbling stone column, his blackened robes torn and singed, face gaunt and eyes sunken, trembling hands tracing the runes etched into the floor.
"We should leave," he whispered, his voice hollow, a fragile echo of reason. "There's nothing left here… only death and shadows." But Ulfric Greyvein remained in the center of the room, framed by flickering torchlight, silver-grey hair catching the dim glow, eyes cold, sharp, and calculating, a predator among the dwindling prey. Around him shuffled twenty cultists, their loyalty fractured, yet clinging stubbornly to the last sparks of ambition. Ulfric's voice sliced through the chill, smooth and seductive. "You speak of leaving," he said, each word precise, deliberate, "yet what will the world do if we walk away powerless? The Hands of Renewal were not forged for cowardice. We were forged to transcend mortality, to rise beyond limits. And now, the White Devil Guild offers a path—a final transformation unmatched by mortal alchemy or sorcery."
Hadrun's gaze flickered, wary, even as Ulfric's words wrapped around his reason like a serpent. "Transformation? Madness… the Guild's experiments"
"They succeed," Ulfric interrupted, a sharp smile cutting across his face. "You know their power. Mira Sennblood has perfected the summoning, the fusion… the Nuckelavee itself. The berserker potion is not mere liquor. It carries the essence of the demon realm, harnessed, stabilized, and now ready for us."
Fear and anticipation tangled in the eyes of the cultists, hesitation dancing with longing. Some glanced toward the exit, imagining freedom or a quiet death in exile, but Ulfric's gaze anchored them like iron. "Do you see," he continued, pacing among them like a stalking wolf, "how this potion bends flesh, awakens fury, fuses spirit with demon? The Nuckelavee is no myth, it is terror incarnate. Mira replicated the summoning, perfected the fusion. What the Guild left unfinished, we shall inherit. Drink, and you will walk as gods of war, unstoppable, unbound, feared by all."
One by one, the cultists raised their vials, hands trembling with equal measures dread and determination. Hadrun's pulse thundered, but Ulfric's gaze made hesitation unbearable. Finally, he tilted the vial. Fire burned through his throat, molten and scorching, flooding his veins with heat and darkness. His body convulsed violently, muscles stretching beyond natural limits, sinews twisting as the demon essence fused with his mortal flesh. A scream tore from his throat, but it was swallowed in the cacophony of agony and fury that surged through the others. The room itself shuddered, shadows lengthening unnaturally across walls, floor, and ceiling, while runic glyphs flared with blinding intensity. The fusion of human and Nuckelavee essence reached its apex, reshaping limbs, sharpening senses, twisting flesh into predatory perfection.
Hadrun staggered, body and spirit rebelling, yet Ulfric's manipulation and the potion's power claimed him. His eyes, once hollow, now burned with crimson fire; his veins pulsed with dark energy, every heartbeat a drum of relentless fury. The other twenty followed in grotesque symphony: arms elongated into claws, fingers malformed, teeth jagged crescents, eyes burning with the same infernal red. Shadows clung to them, an aura of cold flame that warped the air. Low, throaty growls, neither fully human nor beast, resonated through the chamber, vibrating the stone and echoing in every corner.
Hadrun led, now taller than ever, torso arching unnaturally, sinews rippling over jagged bone beneath taut, rune-marked skin. His legs ended in cloven, hoof-like extremities, giving him a predatory, fluid gait. Each step struck the stone with a hollow, resonant thud, yet he moved with unnerving grace, pivoting, crouching, springing, as if gravity itself yielded to his will. Behind him, the others mirrored these transformations, every limb a hybrid of human precision and demonic savagery, moving as a stalking pack, senses sharpened, bodies coiled like living weapons. Ulfric Greyvein moved among them, eyes gleaming, relishing the power now under his command: taller, faster, stronger, faster than natural humans, muscles twitching independently as though alive, instinct and intelligence fused into a single, terrifying force.
The air grew thick with sulfur and brimstone, each inhalation carrying whispers of the demon realm. Shadows stretched and writhed across walls, creating a living tapestry of horns, claws, hooves, and jagged silhouettes. Hadrun's crimson gaze flicked to Ulfric, momentary fear buried beneath raging instinct—but the fusion drowned hesitation, leaving only lethal precision and raw, predatory power. They moved as one yet not as soldiers, not under mortal order, but under the raw, unyielding will of Ulfric: no mercy, no hesitation, only power and rage. Each step crushed debris, sending shards of stone and splinters flying. The sanctum itself seemed to shiver under their presence, space warping faintly as if reality recoiled from the demon essence coursing through their veins.
And at the center of this living storm, Hadrun the Hollow—no longer hollow, no longer entirely human, stood, muscles rippling unnaturally beneath rune-marked flesh, crimson eyes glowing like molten fire, limbs coiled with lethal energy, claws scraping stone with a sound like thunder. His very existence, monstrous yet controlled, warned the world that the Hands of Renewal were reborn—not as mere mortals, but as predators, storm incarnate, fury made flesh, and Ulfric Greyvein's ambitions were no longer limited to whispers in the shadows. Outside, the wind carried the first tremors of chaos, a promise that Valdyrheim would soon face the full wrath of demon-fused rage, and nothing would stand untouched.
The new settlement on the side valley of Storm Skjorn Fjord buzzed with a kind of energy Eirunn had never seen before, not even during the most intense weeks of the training era. Here, people from the eastern lands and other hidden, long-forgotten places moved with a renewed fire inside them. They were no longer driven by fear, desperation, or the instinct to merely survive.Now they worked with purpose, with ownership, with the fierce determination of those who finally believed they had a chance to build something that would truly belong to them.
Small plots of land had been assigned to each family. Most were nothing more than rough rectangles marked by stones, wooden stakes, or lines scratched directly into the earth by eager, trembling hands. Yet over these squares, new lives began to rise.
No house was beautiful, not yet.Just timber frames strengthened with thick beams, planks cut from storm-fallen trees, woven thatch tied tightly with rope, and clay-packed walls hardened by time, wind, and the sweat of a people who refused to remain rootless.
But every strike of a hammer, every nail driven into the wood, every patch of grass trampled flat—carried pride.
And standing among these emerging homes were the sixty Neth'raen, the first unified order born under the Netherborn's guidance, a strange, powerful blend of warrior discipline, forger craft, and an almost monk-like enlightened spirit. Their banners, hung high over the central ridge, bore the mark of the Black Flame, symbol of rebirth through hardship and strength carved from pain.
They were the hidden heart of the settlement, unseen by most, yet felt by all.
The First Branch Clan of the Neth'raen
Three among the Neth'raen had risen to form a new branch clan within the settlement, choosing to serve the Netherborn not from the battlefield, but from the shadows, as merchants, travelers, and information gatherers. They blended into the settlement easily, yet their presence held a quiet gravity.
Karnulf's forged story painted him not as a warrior, but as a former mountain hauler from the northern highlands, a man who spent decades transporting stone and timber through treacherous passes. According to his crafted identity, he had lived a quiet life until a rockslide crushed the caravan he was leading, leaving him with the scar that cut down the left side of his face. He alone survived.After the tragedy, he supposedly abandoned hauling and turned to small-scale trading, using the skills he acquired from years of navigating dangerous terrain. His towering frame and calm demeanor added weight to the tale; people believed him when he spoke of avalanches, roaming beasts, and seasons spent alone in the frozen heights. The scar, the silence, the steadiness, everything made sense.
In truth, the persona allowed him to move freely, ask questions without suspicion, and map hidden paths for Daniel and Melgil's operations. To the people, though, he was simply Karnulf the Stone Merchant, a man who had already suffered enough and preferred honest work over old memories.
Bomier's false identity cast him as the last surviving member of a family of silver prospectors from the southeastern valleys. Their clan name, Greyhallow, was an old miner lineage that most had heard of but never met, perfect for blending truth with invention. His prematurely grey hair and beard matched the crafted legend: years of smoke-filled tunnels, failed veins, and rough winters aging him beyond his twenty-seven years.
The scars on his chest and back were explained as wounds inflicted during a tunnel collapse that killed his father and brother. Bomier, so the story went, had clawed through the rubble for hours to escape, earning deep respect from every person who heard it. He claimed he had given up mining after that day and turned instead to distributing ores, tools, and everyday goods to the smaller settlements that larger caravans ignored.
The people believed him, his broad frame, quiet politeness, and instinctive caution fit perfectly. In truth, Bomier used this cover to establish supply routes for the Neth'raen, slipping coded messages and rune-marked crates between shipments. But to the outside world, he was simply the Silver Trader, a reliable and humble wanderer.
Freka's crafted identity was the most intricate. She became Freka Lornsdottir, daughter of a wandering storyteller from the Winter Coast. Her lean build and graceful movement fit the role of someone raised on long roads and shifting shores. According to her tale, she traveled with her father's troupe until raiders attacked a coastal festival, slashing her neck as she fled into the dunes.The scar became the center of her myth, proof of survival, resilience, and luck.
She reinvented herself as a traveling negotiator after losing her voice for several weeks due to the wound. The strangeness of her accent, the confidence in her eyes, and the soft charm of her smile made this false past feel authentic to everyone she met.
Traders trusted her instinctively; clan leaders often underestimated her until she secured a better deal than expected.
Her ability to slip into silence and listen without being noticed became part of her legend "the Winter Voice who speaks only when needed."In truth, Freka's charm, memory, and quick reflexes made her the perfect information gatherer. No one suspected that behind her gentle façade lay a Neth'raen blade sharper than winter ice.
Under these crafted histories, Karnulf, Bomier, and Freka traveled between settlements, markets, and hidden roads without attracting the wrong kind of attention. People welcomed them with familiarity, trusted their stories, and traded with them as if they had always belonged to the land.
Their fake identities were not disguisesthey were living masks, fully fleshed out histories that blended truth, lies, and just enough pain to be believable.
They became experts at disappearing in plain sight.
And through them, the Netherborn's influence spread like quiet snowfall, soft, unnoticed… yet changing everything it touched.
Together, these three formed the Shadow Branch of the Neth'raen—an order sworn to serve the Netherborn from behind curtains of smoke and silence. They walked among merchants, caravans, and wanderers, learning stories, tracing rumors, and finding cracks in the world no one else could see.
They were not warriors in the open.
They were hunters of information.Guards of hidden truths.Eyes in the dark.
And their presence allowed the settlement to grow with confidence—knowing that even while they built homes, broke soil for crops, and hammered walls through the night, someone was watching for the dangers they could not yet face.
The wind rolling down from Storm Skjorn Fjord carried the scent of pine resin, fresh-cut timber, and the warm, comforting smoke of evening cooking fires. It swept across the ridge like a living thing, stirring Eirunn's cloak and brushing cool fingers across her cheeks. Below her, the valley settlement pulsed with motion and purpose, alive in a way she had never witnessed, not even in the fiercest, most determined days of their training.
Homes rose like newborn ribs from the earth: rough timber frames, thick planks shaped by calloused hands, stone foundations packed tight with clay, thatch woven by families working shoulder to shoulder. And between these growing structures moved people, hundreds of them, working with the synchronized efficiency of an organism that had discovered its heartbeat only recently, yet already refused to lose it. This was no longer a collection of frightened refugees. This was something sharper, brighter, more deliberate. A community that had finally been given space, and belief, to grow.
Eirunn rested her weight on her crutches at the crest of the ridge, breath steady, movements practiced. She did not feel weak leaning on them. Not anymore. Not after what she had survived. Stormbreaker, the name had spread, whispered first, then spoken with awe. And though she had not sought it, she carried it because she must. Beside her, the other five Silver Drengr stood in reverent silence, not the tense quiet of warriors anticipating battle, but the stunned, private stillness of people witnessing a future they had never imagined they'd live long enough to see.
The valley below seemed to glow under the reddening sunset, its busy pathways illuminated by drifting torchlight and the shimmer of golem-spider eyes patrolling gently through farmland and work sites. The settlement was changing hour by hour, growing in strength, in discipline, in unity—and the five young warriors drank in the sight like those starved too long of hope.
Arvid Raskir was the first to speak, exhaling through his nose, the sound deep and grounded. The tall warrior rested both hands on the haft of his war axe, gaze fixed on the bustling valley. "I've fought raiders," he murmured, his voice a low rumble,
"beasts, and men who should've stayed in their graves. But I have never. never. seen a town move like this. As if the whole place is following a single heartbeat." His expression softened as he spotted his father below, coordinating workers with surprisingly youthful vigor. "My father used to say the land chooses who deserves it." His grip tightened slightly. "Seems it's chosen them."
To Arvid's right, Sigrid Ironveil traced his thumb along the flat of his longsword, a habit he'd adopted whenever his mind sharpened into focus. His armor caught the ambient torchlight from below, the silver edging glimmering faintly. "Discipline without a whip," he said thoughtfully. "Order without fear. I didn't think such a thing could exist. Not in this age. Not after everything we've seen." His gaze shifted to Eirunn.
"This Veridica philosophy, whatever it is, it's working. They don't just follow it. They live it." His voice lowered, awe slipping through his usually controlled tone. "It's frightening how well it works." But admiration—deep and quiet, rested beneath every word.
Harald Thryne stood with his shield strapped across his back, fingers drumming lightly on the worn leather straps. He wore a grin, but not the cocky grin he usually flashed before a duel or challenge. This one was almost boyish, surprised, and deeply proud. "That's my family down there," he said, pointing with his chin toward a cluster of newly raised homes. "My father, look at him." Varrik Stonejaw hauled timbers with three other clansmen, moving like a man half his age. "Hasn't smiled that much since my mother passed. Thought grief would bury him forever." Harald's voice caught just slightly. "But look at him now. Old bastard moves like he's twenty years younger." A quiet pause followed. "I never thought I'd see him with hope again."
Closest to Eirunn, the loyal staff and dedicated clan members moved with quiet attentiveness, their presence a steady anchor against the rising bustle of the settlement. Their faces, weathered and focused, reflected the same awe and satisfaction that Eirunn felt, eyes scanning the healing tents, fields, and work areas with a careful, watchful diligence.
One of the staff, a gray-haired healer with hands marked by years of care, whispered to another, "The wounded are fewer than ever. Look at them, eating more, sleeping deeper. Even the elders are regaining color in their cheeks." Another clan member nodded, adjusting a bundle of herbs and supplies, and added softly, "They're not merely surviving, they're rebuilding themselves.
Healing together, strengthening one another." Their gaze followed the flow of life below, noting children running between huts, laborers working in shifts, and Drengr moving with silent efficiency. "This… this is what it means to give them more than survival," murmured one, hand resting lightly on the chest in quiet reverence.
It's hope made tangible." Together, the staff and clan members shared a moment of pride, understanding that the settlement was no longer just a collection of homes and huts, but a living testament to resilience, and that under Eirunn's guidance, every life here was beginning to flourish in ways they had once thought impossible.
Eirunn listened to them all, silently absorbing their words, letting them settle like stones in a lake, rippling outward. She looked down at the valley again, her eyes tracing the movement of children carrying buckets of water from the river, laughing when one of the golem-spiders nudged a bucket aside to guide them down a safer path.
She watched families assemble beams under torchlight, watched young warriors practice Veridica drills beside farmers who now moved with the precision of trained militia, watched strangers share food simply because there was no reason not to.
She had expected progress.She had expected stability.She had expected a settlement trying its best to survive.
But this, this was transformation.
"Do you feel it?" she murmured.
The others turned toward her at once.
"This land… it's changed," Eirunn said softly, her voice caught between wonder and conviction. "Not because of magic. Not because of weapons." Her eyes narrowed slightly as she watched a group of villagers bow respectfully to a pair of golem-spiders before returning to work. "It changed because these people finally believe their lives matter.
That they have worth." She shifted her weight, the metal tips of her crutches sinking slightly into the earth. "When I left, we were bracing for the next attack. The next cultist. The next monster." Her gaze drifted to the horizon, where the dark line of mountains stood like silent witnesses. "But now? They're planning futures. All of them."
She inhaled deeply, letting the crisp fjord air fill her lungs.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
Arvid nodded, emotion tightening his jaw.Sigrid crossed his arms, but the tension in him eased.Harald grinned wider, pride radiating from him.Eira brushed a fingertip under her eye, catching a tear she didn't quite allow to fall.
Together, the five Silver Drengr stood upon the ridge overlooking a land that was no longer dying, no longer running, no longer hiding. It was becoming something new—something strong, something united, something built not by gods or Jarls or the violent will of conquerors, but by the quiet, relentless power of truth in action.
By Veridica.
And though none of them spoke it aloud, each of their hearts whispered the same thought as the sun sank fully behind the mountains:
If this is only the beginning…then what in all the realms will this place become in a year? Or ten?
" we really don't need to wait that long, without the treat of getting killed, skald born worker can build a entire town in just a few days, "
"your father Jarl Ragnar gave his people protection and just within a few months they build this stronghold made from stone metal and wood"
The wind sweeping down from Storm Skjorn Fjord carried fresh pine resin, churned earth, and the warm scent of evening cookfires. In the wide valley below, the settlement pulsed with life—bright, relentless, coordinated. Workers hauled timber, children carried water in wooden buckets, and the new golem-spiders moved gently through fields like metallic shepherds guiding the young and keeping watch. From the ridge, Eirunn Stormbreaker watched the transformation unfold like a living tapestry. The settlement was no longer just a cluster of desperate survivors—it was a rising force, shaped with intention and built upon the first fragile foundations of hope.
Bjorn Raskir, broad-shouldered, stern, and enduring as stone—worked at the heart of the settlement with his Frostmaul clan members. They hefted thick beams that would form the skeletons of the first longhouses, driving foundation poles deep into the frost-hardened ground with rhythmic, bone-shaking thuds. Bjorn's voice, deep as a fjord storm, guided younger builders on how to brace the timber so it could withstand both winter winds and the weight of future generations. War-axes lay in neat rows beside them,close enough to grab within a breath, but untouched. Today, their weapons were hammers and ropes. Today, strength meant creation. Frostmaul hands raised the central hall, storage barns, and early shelters, ensuring every structure was solid enough to endure the cruelty of the north.
Where Frostmaul built power, the Ironveil clan brought precision. Eldra Ironveil oversaw a stream of workers shaping doorframes, carving storm-resistant supports, and reinforcing window beams with strips of ironwood. Their tools sang, chisels tapping in quick, clean rhythms; saws slicing with practiced patience. Sigrid Ironveil moved through the chaos with a calm surgeon's focus, tracing careful Ironveil patterns along supporting pillars.
These weren't meant as decoration alone,they were reinforcement sigils, carved to guide structural pressure away from weak points. Other Ironveil artisans wove thick storm-screens from bramble, seal-hide, and tar-thread, layering them like armor over the most exposed walls. Under their steady craft, raw lumber became homes capable of resisting the brutal sea winds.
On the settlement's outer edges, the Thryne clan worked like a living shield. Varrik Stonejaw, his voice rough and booming, directed the digging of trenches, the raising of barricades, and the reinforcement of watchtowers. Thryne defenders moved with the ease of warriors accustomed to standing between danger and their people. When their hands weren't shaping earthworks or hauling stone, they trained volunteers in shield drills.
Children, elders, farmers. no one was deemed too weak to learn. Wooden shields clapped together in unison as rows of villagers practiced bracing, rotating, and advancing. It was work, yes, but it was also preparation. The Thryne ensured that every soul in the settlement could hold the line when darkness finally arrived.
Further inward, the Valsmir clan tended to the well-being of the entire community. Alva Valsmir established a healing pavilion made of clean white cloth draped over driftwood frames. There, clan healers soothed strained muscles, packed wounds with cool moss paste, and treated fevers from overexertion. Eira Valsmir moved swiftly between cots, her hands steady and gentle as she examined each patient.
Valsmir workers organized water distribution, herb-gathering routes, and rest cycle, small, quiet decisions that prevented collapse. Children scampered around carrying baskets overflowing with wildroots, frost-lotus petals, and medicinal mosses, eager to help. Under the Valsmir's quiet stewardship, exhaustion did not turn into sickness, and hardship did not turn into despair.
All around them worked the Skaldborn Drengr, one hundred and one trainees who had learned the foundation and now became disciplined warriors. They moved among clans with silent purpose, their presence like a stabilizing pulse. They hauled lumber, settled disputes before they grew heated, patrolled the perimeter, and shielded families from hazards.
Their discipline, shaped by Daniel and Melgil, set the tone for the entire settlement. And rising above everything, overlooking the valley like a guardian eye, stood the martial school, constructed in mere days. Its architecture blended strength and serenity, its banners carrying the symbols of Veridica. For the first time in centuries, multiple clans shared a common code, one that defined honor, restraint, unity, and the defense of life.
Old women murmured it beside fire pits.Elders whispered it with wonder.Children spoke it with curiosity:
"This… this will change everything."
And it already had.
As torches flickered across the valley like stars scattered across the earth, the Stormbreaker clan moved tirelessly among the people. They taught newcomers how to angle their roofs so that snow would slide rather than crush. They demonstrated how to pack earth for frost-resistant crops. They adjusted foundations to prevent shifting in spring thaw.
Even at midnight, the valley hummed with construction: hammer blows echoing off fjord stone walls, sawdust drifting like pale smoke, work songs rising from tired throats to keep the darkness at bay. Children slept bundled in blankets atop wagons while parents traded shifts, each family determined to contribute in every way they could.
This was no longer a fragile settlement.
This was a rebirth.
Yet while all of this noise and life filled the valley, Daniel and Melgil moved in the shadows. Their Netherborn forms flickered at twilight, slipping silently into the northern forests. They traveled farther than any scout, past the living land, past the whispering trees, until the ground grew gray and cold, the air stale as old tombs.
There, beyond all warmth, beyond all hope, they found it.
An ocean of the dead.
Hundreds of thousands of undead warriors stood in absolute stillness, packed so densely the land seemed made of corpses. Their empty eyes faced south. Waiting. Listening. Preparing for war.
Melgil's hand drifted to her blade, cold fury stirring in her chest. "We should strike first," she breathed. "Burn them before they move."
Daniel reached out, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. His voice was quiet. Firm.
"No. The answer is not a preemptive slaughter. The answer is what we set in motion." He gestured south, toward the living valley, toward the clans building a future instead of a graveyard. "This time, the Skald born must defend their own fate. We will stand with them… but we will not steal their destiny and glory."
Melgil's eyes lingered on the army of the dead, on the silent hill of corpses waiting for command.
Then, slowly, she nodded.
She understood.
The world was changing.The people were rising.And when the storm finally came…
They would be ready.
Dawn broke over Huldmark like a silver blade, spilling pale light across frost-tipped grass and jagged ridges. From the central settlement of Storm Skjorn Fjord, a small caravan of emissaries departed, cloaked in furs and bearing the banners of the Netherborn.
At their head rode Eirunn Stormbreaker, her forearm crutches modified for speed and balance, and beside her, a contingent of Skaldborn warriors, silent, imposing, their armor catching the first sunlight like molten metal. Their presence alone sent a ripple through the morning mists, announcing purpose without a word.
The first stop was a cluster of small, isolated homesteads in the eastern highlands. Smoke curled from chimneys, but the inhabitants peered cautiously from behind frost-lined doors and narrow windows. Eirunn dismounted, the wooden tips of her crutches digging into the frozen earth, and stepped forward. Arvid Raskir and Sigrid Ironveil spread slightly, flanking her with careful precision, while Harald Thryne and Eira Valsmir moved among the wagons, ready to assist or heal if needed.
A man, gaunt from winter hunger, stepped into the clearing, clutching a spear, eyes wide and suspicious. "Who comes to our lands?" he demanded, voice trembling slightly despite his stance. "We need nothing from strangers."
Eirunn inclined her head, tone calm but firm. "We bring no conquest. No levy. Only knowledge… and help. Your people can grow, your homes can stand against winter and wind, your children can learn to defend themselves without fear."
Behind the man, a woman peeked from the doorway, her hands gripping a wooden railing. "And why should we trust you? We've heard tales… of the Netherborn, of warriors… of war."
Eirunn's eyes softened. "Because we have built what we speak of. Families who once lived in fear now wake to work, to warmth, to hope. We do not take. We share. Those who wish to remain in shadow may do so, but those who dare step forward will never be alone again."
A pause fell, heavy as frost. Then, slowly, the man lowered his spear, glancing at the smoke rising from the distant central hall of the Fjord settlement. "And if we fail?" he asked, voice quieter now.
"You will not fail," Arvid interjected, voice steady as a war drum. "You will learn. We all will. Strength is not in one hand, but in many, joined. That is what Veridica teaches."
The villagers whispered among themselves, glances exchanged over frozen fields. Hesitation battled hope, suspicion fought curiosity. And then, with a slow, collective movement, the man gestured for the emissaries to follow him back toward the cluster of homes.
By mid-morning, the emissaries rode toward the central plains, where a larger, wilder group of clan settlements lay. Smoke dotted the horizon, but here the people had dug ditches, stacked palisades, and mounted watch posts. A young hunter with a bow, standing atop a ridge, let loose a warning shout at first sight of the caravan.
"Wait!" Eira Valsmir called, lifting her hands to show peace. "We are not your enemies. We come with offerings of tools, seeds, and knowledge. We come to teach, not to fight."
From below, voices rose—some skeptical, some curious, some outright fearful. "Why now?" "What do they want?" "How do we know this isn't a trick?"
Eirunn's gaze swept over the plains, noting the frost-hardened soil and the frightened but capable eyes of the defenders. "We come because the world is changing," she said. "Storm Skjorn Fjord has already begun. The villages we helped now build homes, train warriors, heal their sick. You have a choice: remain isolated, or step into the light of what can be. Your hands, your children, your people, they deserve a future."
A council of elders appeared, their cloaks flapping in the cold wind. One, an elder with a scarred face and deep-set eyes, spoke, voice cracking. "We've seen villages fall. We've seen strangers bring fire and death. How can we know this will be different?"
Sigrid Ironveil stepped forward, sword at his side but unthreatening. "Because we have lived it. We have seen a people rise from nothing to purpose. We have built a society that protects without oppressing, teaches without coercing. You do not need to take our word, come and see. Walk among the houses, learn the methods, speak with the Skaldborn. Decide for yourselves."
As the morning light shifted, a tentative silence fell over the plains. Slowly, a handful of villagers descended from their ridge, then another, until a cautious procession of people moved toward the emissaries. Their steps were uncertain, but determination burned quietly in their eyes. Children clung to parents' hands, dogs barked nervously, and old men and women leaned on staffs or crutches, but each moved forward, drawn by the promise of a life rebuilt.
And all across Huldmark, from the rolling eastern highlands, through the central plains, and down into the southern valleys, the word spread like wildfire: Storm Skjorn Fjord is alive. Storm Skjorn Fjord offers a way forward. The emissaries would not force the clans; they would show them, guide them, and wait. But in every village, as the frost melted under the first rays of sun, the seed of change had been planted.
Even in hesitation, even in fear, the land itself seemed to lean forward, welcoming the footsteps of those willing to embrace a new future.
The emissaries moved cautiously, riding through frost-bitten plains where the grass glimmered like silver beneath the early sun. Eirunn Stormbreaker led the first contingent, supported by the Skaldborn warriors, silent, sharp-eyed, and disciplined. Smoke curled from distant homesteads, and at every ridge, people peeked out, hands on spears, eyes wary.
At the eastern highlands, a cluster of isolated huts lay scattered among broken stone ridges. Eirunn dismounted and stepped onto the frost-hardened earth, her crutches thudding softly but with a rhythm that carried confidence. Arvid Raskir and Sigrid Ironveil flanked her, Harald Thryne and Eira Valsmir moved among wagons carrying seeds, tools, and rolled hides.
A gaunt man emerged first, spear in hand. "Who comes?" he barked, eyes darting between the riders. "We have no welcome for strangers!"
Eirunn's voice was steady. "We bring no conquest. No levy. Only guidance, tools, and knowledge. Your families can build. Your fields can grow. Your children can train without fear."
A woman whispered from behind the doorframe: "And if we fail?"
"You will not," Arvid said quietly, shoulders squared. "We do not leave anyone behind."
By mid-day, the villagers allowed the emissaries into their clearing. Axes and hammers replaced suspicion; a tentative trust blossomed as Eira taught them how to plant frost-resistant crops, Harald demonstrated basic defensive formations, and Sigrid and Arvid helped reinforce weak wooden walls. By evening, a few fires burned, not in wariness, but in shared labor, and the first seeds of cooperation had been sown.
a few days passed, and news of the settlement's success traveled across the plains. Small clans from the central Huldmark sent scouts and apprentices to Storm Skjorn Fjord, seeking knowledge.
Under Melgil's guidance, groups of young men and women practiced martial movements not as instruments of war, but as exercises in control, discipline, and defense. Children learned to carry small tools as if they were swords, practicing precision and care alongside drills in balance and focus. The Skaldborn moved silently among them, correcting posture, reinforcing courage, teaching that strength meant responsibility.
In the evenings, apprentices huddled around firelight, learning songs and tales of Veridica. "Why do we do it this way?" one asked, tracing patterns in the dirt with a stick.
"To see clearly," Eirunn replied, leaning on her crutches. "To act wisely. A sword is easy to swing, but knowing when and why is power no one can take from you."
By the end of the first moon, the central clans sent messengers bearing tools, timber, and even small flocks of animals, ready to start settlements of their own with the guidance of Storm Skjorn Fjord. Cooperation had begun to ripple outward, like rings on water.
The southern Huldmark was slow to respond. Its valleys were rich, but sparsely populated, with clans cautious of strangers and old grudges still simmering beneath the frost.
Eirunn with her fellow Drengr warriors moved with quiet precision through the southern valleys, stepping lightly among vineyards and over ridges crowned with abandoned watch towers, their weapons stowed but ready, eyes scanning for any sign of hostility. At first, the villagers retreated into the shadows, doors clanged shut, and children peeked from behind their mothers' skirts. The air was thick with suspicion, the kind born from isolation and decades of self-reliance.
Then Daniel and Melgil appeared in their Netherborn forms. Their presence was immediate and impossible to ignore, two figures shimmering with otherworldly energy, their movements fluid yet undeniably commanding. The wind seemed to bend around them; the frost on the ridges sparkled as though acknowledging their passage. For a heartbeat, the villagers froze, awe and fear mingling in their eyes. No words were spoken, and yet the sheer authority of their presence conveyed something far greater than threat or intimidation: mastery, wisdom, and restraint.
The Silver Drengr, disciplined and composed, began setting up demonstrations. A small group of children and adults were instructed in mock defenses against simulated attacks, moving like shadows under careful guidance. Nearby, others learned how to filter river water through layers of sand, charcoal, and woven cloth, the clear stream sparkling as it poured into waiting containers.
On the frost-hardened soil, villagers practiced planting hardy, winter-resistant crops, the Drengr showing them how each seed, each furrow, was a small claim against starvation and despair. Between lessons, they quietly spoke of Veridica, of balance, responsibility, and the principle that strength should protect, not dominate. Words were gentle, almost like a song, but they carried weight, shaping minds as much as hands.
As the sun sank behind the southern ridges one evening, painting the sky in copper and violet, a middle-aged woman emerged from a crooked hut, her hair streaked with gray, eyes wary but curious. She stepped forward, hands resting on the edge of her apron. "We've heard tales… that your settlement thrives. That your people rise and do not fall," she said, voice quivering with both skepticism and hope. "Why should we trust you?"
Harald Thryne stepped calmly into view, his shield slung across his back, the faint glow of torchlight tracing the lines of his armor. "Because you can see it for yourself," he said, his tone steady, measured. "Our fields grow, our homes stand, our children learn to defend themselves without fear. You may remain isolated, clinging to old fears… or you can choose a future where your people are stronger, where your valleys are alive with work, learning, and protection."
There was a long pause. The wind rustled the dry grass, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and smoke from distant fires. Slowly, others emerged. A boy clutched a small wooden sword like a real blade, practicing stances learned from the Drengr. Young men lifted hoes and shovels, mimicking the motion of spears and axes as they tilled the ground.
Women carried baskets of grain, herbs, and saplings, eager to learn the new planting techniques. By the first frost, the southern valleys bore the marks of cooperation: neat rows of hardy crops, shared wells, and workshops where villagers crafted tools together, and for the first time, clans who had never spoken worked side by side, trading knowledge, labor, and cautious trust.
Night fell, and fires flickered in the valley like stars brought to earth. Shadows danced across timber frames and stone walls, and the air hummed not with fear, but with potential. From the ridges above, Eirunn, Harald, and the Silver Drengr watched quietly, seeing what they had sown: a fragile, growing network of hope, discipline, and unity, the first roots of Veridica taking hold in the once-isolated southern realm.
The news traveled first by horse, then by raven, and finally through every firelit across th entire Valdyrheim,
"Ragnar Stormbreaker and Astrid Skyrend have united their territories."
It shook the land.
The east whispered.The central plains murmured.The west grew tense and watchful.
But the North remained silent.
Not the silence born of ignorance or indifference,but the silence of a predator listening from the shadowed rim of the world, hearing every shift of power across Huldmark and choosing, with deliberate restraint, not to move. The silence of something ancient, cold, patient.
For generations, the northern realm had endured storms that could freeze a horse mid-stride, blizzards that swallowed entire villages in a single night, and winters so long and merciless that even the sun seemed to abandon the sky. It was a land of jagged stone cliffs, endless ice fields, and valleys carved not by rivers but by glaciers grinding across the earth like slow-moving giants. Only the hardest people survived there, men and women whose wills were as unyielding as the frost itself.
Because of this brutal harshness, no raid lasted long in the North.Bandits did not thrive there; even the desperate fled south. The cold itself was a warrior—unforgiving, inescapable, merciless.
From this unforgiving cradle rose a man whose name carried weight like hammered iron:
Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane, Warlord of the North.The Eternal Wolf of Winter.**
Where other Jarls gained power slowly through alliances, council meetings, and inherited rights, Eirikr seized his with violence—fast, decisive, and absolute. He claimed the seat of power from his father in a night of red snow, walking into the longhouse at dawn soaked in frost and blood. The clans bent knee not because they feared him, but because they believed he was something more than mortal.
Eirikr Bloodmane did not age.Or if he did, the North could not see it.
Though older than every Jarl ruling the east, central plains, or west, his face remained that of a man in his prime: no wrinkles, no sagging of muscle, no flicker of fading youth. His eyes shone with the cold, sharp intensity of a wolf watching its prey through drifting snow. His voice carried the weight of glacial stone. His presence alone chilled the air around him.
The clans whispered:
"He carries the blood of a forgotten god.""The frost itself chose him.""He is winter made flesh."
Whether any of these rumors held truth, Eirikr never denied them.Power was a blade,and belief was the whetstone that sharpened it.
He fought with a mind as cold and precise as the glaciers that shaped his homeland. He studied terrain like scripture, used cliffs and frozen lakes as weapons, turned fog into traps, and starvation into strategy. To him, honor was a useless luxury; victory was the only truth that mattered.
Underhanded tactics?Perfectly acceptable.
Letting rivals freeze overnight rather than meeting them blade to blade?Efficient.
Waiting four years,four long northern winters, for the perfect moment to strike?Child's play.
It was this ruthless patience that allowed him to outlive, outmaneuver, and crush every northern warlord before him. By the time the rest of Huldmark entered their new generation of Jarls, the North had known only one ruler for decades:
Eirikr Bloodmane, the unmoving shadow that ruled beneath the auroras.
His reign was absolute.In the North, obedience was not taught, it was survival.
many weeks ago, before the unification of the East, before Veridica ignited across the plains, before Daniel and Melgil rose from myth into undeniable power, the White Devil Guild's elders had ventured into the North after securing passage into the Second Floor, the Upper Realm, through the ultimate sacrifice of Alexsei Sokolov. Alexsei, forty years old, Guild Leader, an S-Rank combatant famed for his mastery of the Golem Forge, had laid down his life to shatter the barrier. His younger sister, Natasha Sokolov, the cold-eyed vice-captain wielding a crossbow infused with ice and water magic and carrying a mana reserve of a few hundred , led the remaining White Devil forces alongside loyal members.
They were joined by the East's Lazarus Guild under Senior Leader Addison, mother of Charlotte and Jacob Lazarus, along with their cousins from the High Strategy Guild led by Mary Kaye Lazarus, and the noble Rothchester family guided by Daniel Rothchester and his brother Melgil Veara, the final descendants of the ancient Gehinnom bloodline.
With their combined strength, they were able to clear the Empire of Grave quest and finally forced open access to the Upper Realm, and the White Devil elders seized the moment to travel into the North, attempting to guide the region's harsh Jarl toward the destiny they believed awaited him.
For a time, they cleansed corrupted ruins buried beneath ice, slew monstrous ice-fiends that prowled the ridges, and manipulated the movements of the cult known as the Hands of Renewal, either crushing old footholds or luring them into the open. as they establish their own control, but Netherborn sudden apprance even after a month change their plan, so they decide to focus on the north ,Yet despite all this effort, the North bowed to no one.
Eirikr Bloodmane only accepted their aid only as long as it served his ambitions, studying the elders with the patient brutality of a wolf evaluating strange creatures, testing their limits, probing their instincts, silently searching for the gaps in their armor. The elders, sensing his intentions, withdrew swiftly once their necessary tasks were done, and the North never summoned them again.
So when the East formally unified under Ragnat Stormbreaker and Astrid Skyrend… when the names Daniel and Melgil spread across Huldmark like a second dawn… when Veridica burst into the world and reshaped the plains… the North did nothing. Not out of fear, nor out of dismissal, but out of cold strategy. Eirikr Bloodmane was many things, ruthless, ancient, brilliant, but he was not a fool. He recognized the shift in the wind: alliances forming, doctrines rising, ancient powers awakening.
He knew the east would not remain fractured, and he knew the Netherborn were no longer rumor. Yet he also understood the only law that mattered in the North, the storm outlasts the fire. Why act while the world was still reshaping itself? Why reveal allegiance or hostility before the ground settled? Why show weakness by moving too early? So the North watched.
The North listened. The North waited and was ammasing unknown power by making weapons that do not feel , and deep within his glacial throne, Eirikr Bloodmane believed with absolute certainty: all storms come south eventually… and when they do, he will already be standing. Behind his icy borders he gathered strength, prepared for whatever future the world dared to bring, war, peace, rebirth, or devastation. And in the coldest corner of his mind, one truth gnawed like a buried fang: the Netherborn would one day come north. And when that day arrived, Eirikr Bloodmane would be ready.
And now? Their united lands openly embraced Veridica—the new doctrine that was spreading like wildfire across Huldmark.
The West Takes NoticeTo the far west, beyond the cold rivers and wind-scoured hill lines, rose the Stoneback Wall, a towering fortification built generations ago by clans with a completely different ancestry.
They called themselves the Tengri-Born.
Their features differed from the Nordic-descended Skald-born, sharper cheekbones, bronzed skin, dark almond-shaped eyes, long black or chestnut hair, sometimes braided in steppe fashion. Their ancestors were not seafarers nor fjord-dwellers, but riders of the Great Western Steppe, crossing the calm-western ocean and settling in Huldmark long before written records.
The Tengri-Born built cities differently too, not halls, not longhouses, but Palace-Complexes of courtyards, tiered roofs, water gardens, and stone walkways carved with sky-ward symbols reminiscent of Mongolian culture many had always admired this elegant fusion.
But admiration was not mutual.
The Tengri-Born elite often looked down on the eastern Skald-Born, dismissing them as uncultured brutes, violent, simple-minded, and lacking refinement. Yet the Tengri-Born conveniently ignored their own bloody origins. Their ancestral homeland had been shaped by the same turmoil, war, and death they now mocked in others. Long ago, fleets of Tengri-Born ships sailed across the sea in search of a new world, eventually landing on the vast continent of Valdyrheim, a land five times larger than their motherland. Many settlers remained in the western reaches, while others wandered deeper into foreign territories. As generations passed, countless Tengri-Born women were captured by the Skald-Born raiders and taken as spoils of conquest. Because the Skald-Born bloodline was physically dominant, nearly all male offspring inherited their fathers' towering stature and rugged strength, becoming Skald-Born in all but name. Only a few daughters retained the fair features and slender grace of their Tengri-Born mothers, creating rare bloodlines that carried fragments of both worlds.
For generations, they remained behind their great wall, trading only through narrow, heavily guarded gates. They believed themselves blessed by the Sky Father, Tengri, chosen to remain pure, untainted, and untouched by the chaos beyond their borders. Yet even in isolation, they gathered every whisper of news from outside, fearing that the endless raids and killings would someday spill into their lands. Fortunately, the western expanse was vast, stretching across a long, rugged geography that made reaching the Tengri-Born's territorial wall difficult and slow. That wall itself was no ordinary barrier; it was reinforced with ancient Fulu sigils mystical diagrams crafted by Taoist priests. Each symbol was drawn with irregular strokes, resembling Chinese characters yet intentionally distorted, incomprehensible to any common reader. Their strange shapes and hidden meaning created an unsettling aura, a veil of otherworldly protection that kept the world at bay.
The unification of Stormbreaker and Skyrend had terrified the Tengri-Born long before their riders ever mounted horses, for if the east truly united under one banner, nothing would stop them from eventually riding westward; nothing would keep the spreading doctrine of the Netherborn from reaching the inner west walled cities and ti the main capital of Shangdu that had remained untouched , unchartered for centuries.
Thus, the West sent delegates, not politely or humbly, but with calculated intimidation. From the colossal Fulu-warded gate they emerged in a gleaming procession of more than three hundred elite guards, four merchant-princes, and twelve nobles, all mounted on high-bred steppe horses draped in embroidered saddles, lamellar armor shining like lacquered bronze beneath the sun, silk banners snapping sharply in the wind.
Their journey eastward was unopposed; no bandits or raiders dared challenge riders whose mastery of blade, longbow, and horse was unmatched, whose mere passage suggested war-readiness. For five days they traveled through territories that bordered the Skald-born lands yet lay outside Tengri-Born jurisdiction, passing small settlements with watchful eyes and shuttered doors. The delegates regarded every village with an air of superiority:
muddy streets dismissed as barbaric, homes of stone and timber deemed primitive, the people considered beneath the notice of those who "carried Tengri's breath." Their arrogance only deepened as they continued another four days beyond the sparse outposts and poor merchant stops of the frontier, moving steadily toward the wide central plains where eastern culture began to show itself more clearly.
Those nine days of travel became a parade of haughty whispers and thinly veiled disdain, Lady Shioren scoffing at farmers tending frost-bitten fields, Lord Khödan openly mocking the simple militia drills they occasionally passed, Lady Jala silently evaluating everything with a diplomatic sneer,
while the monk Saruq took in each scene with unnervingly calm intelligence. Their purpose, of course, was not mere diplomacy; they came to congratulate Ragnat Stormbreaker and Astrid Skyrend on unification, but truly they sought to probe the east. its strength, its weaknesses, its unity under the strange Veridica teachings, and most importantly, the truth behind the rumors of Daniel and Melgil, the Netherborn who walked like shadows stitched into human form.
Four days after leaving the border villages behind, the Tengri-Born procession finally reached the outer rim of the central plains, a land of sweeping grasses, rolling winds, and scattered watch posts recently rebuilt under the eastern alliance. Here, the terrain widened into an open horizon, allowing the delegates to survey the world they had long dismissed as barbaric.
As the sun dipped low, the western caravan established a fortified camp with near-military precision: rows of tents arranged in perfect formation, braziers lit in disciplined intervals, nearly one hundred elite warriors forming a living wall around the four high delegates. From the center pavilion, Lord Khödan released two falcon messengers, each bearing sealed scrolls addressed to the newly allied rulers of the allied Central East unified clan, ruled by Ragnar Stormbreaker and Astrid Skyrend, and with the central and east plains council that had recently sworn unity.
The Tengri-Born waited, and in waiting, they observed a subtle peculiarity: for all their pride in detecting killing intent, for all their certainty that the east must tremble at their approach, there was nothing, no tension, no hidden malice, no fear. The plains remained still. Watchful. Unmoved. And this unsettled them more than any open threat, for the Tengri-Born had always prided themselves on superior warfare and sharper instinct than the Skald-born clans they considered little more than violent brutes. As they camped through the night and into the next day,
Khödan grew irritated, Lady Shioren restless, Lady Jala contemplative, while Saruq studied the plains with quiet thoughtfulness. Unbeknownst to them, high above on a stone ridge, Daniel observed the camp in his Netherborn form, shadow coiling around him like living smoke, eyes burning faintly with cold luminescence. He did not move, did not speak; he simply watched, assessing whether this western delegation carried sincerity or pretense, knowing well that the Tengri-Born were no different from the Skald-born at their worst, quick to look down on perceived weakness, unable to imagine a world where strength took forms they could not measure.
They were arrogant not because they were superior warriors, but because their walls had protected them from constant threats, from the harshness that shaped the east. After three days of waiting, the sound of hooves broke the morning quiet. A single warhorse approached the Tengri camp, breath steaming in the cold air.
At its side walked a woman whose presence silenced the plains more effectively than any army, Eirunn Stormbreaker, known now as Eirunn the Iron, Eirunn the Unbroken. She moved on her rune-etched forearm crutches, gait uneven but fierce, each step a testament to a body damaged but will unshaken. Behind her marched ten Veridica-trained guards, disciplined, silent, radiating calm strength.
When Eirunn arrived at the camp's edge and demanded the delegation's purpose, Khödan smirked and mocked her for letting "a cripple" guard the border. Eirunn merely laughed, a sharp and fearless sound, and reminded him that arrogance made enemies predictable. A clash of cultures ignited instantly, Lady Shioren sneering that Eirunn spoke boldly for someone who could barely stand, Eirunn replying coolly that her legs had faltered, not her will.
Saruq stepped forward with controlled respect, stating their wish to meet the Jarls and to witness Veridica for themselves. Eirunn allowed them passage, though she made it clear that western titles held no weight here, for in this land , strength was measured not in bloodline but clarity. Khödan scoffed that true strength came from conquest; Eirunn countered that he must be deeply frightened to require three hundred warriors for a diplomatic visit.
Through the valley settlement she guided them, showing a world far from the chaos the west expected: unified clans working side-by-side, Veridica apprentices blending magic and martial discipline, farmers cultivating frost-resistant crops, village militia practicing the defensive formations engineered by Daniel.
Lady Shioren whispered in disbelief that this was not what their scouts had reported; Saruq murmured that the world shifted while the west slept. And still from the high ridge above, cloaked in the lengthening shadows of dusk, Daniel and Melgil remained watchful silhouettes, Melgil rumbling that the west had sent wolves, hungry and prideful. Daniel's eyes glowed brighter, cold and certain. "Let them come," he whispered. " they will learn what unity truly means."
As the Tengri-Born delegates and their hundred warriors pressed onward through the narrowing valleys and jagged ridges of the central plains, the terrain began to change, rising sharply into the Skjorn Peaks, a forbidding range of mountains that stretched five thousand meters into the storm-laden sky and spanned ten kilometers across, jagged cliffs catching lightning in a never-ending dance of thunder. Here, even seasoned riders felt the weight of the air, dense with charged electricity, and the wind howled like a living beast through the narrow passes. At the apex of this colossal natural fortress rose the central city of Storm Skjorn Fjord, newly rebuilt and redesigned under the meticulous care of Siglorr, whose genius in both architecture and strategy was whispered about even in the farthest reaches of Valdyrheim.
Its walls were more than mere stone and timber; they were an orchestration of artistry and purpose, designed to conceal and protect those who dwell and live inside it , and it was designed to hold the leviathan if Daniel wish to move their fortress in the future.. As the delegates crested the final ridge and gazed upon the city, their initial awe was tempered by disbelief, and then, slowly, by arrogance. Khödan Altan, his sharp eyes narrowing beneath the white tiger fur that crowned his shoulders, muttered that the structures were impressive, but far too refined to be natural, far too calculated. Lady Shioren tilted her head, her gaze flicking over the soaring towers and sweeping courtyards,
her lips pursed, though a hint of admiration betrayed itself briefly before her pride smothered it. Lady Jala Tsagaan, ever more diplomatic yet still steeped in the subtle currents of superiority, noted the perfection of the wooden frameworks, the intricacy of joinery, the almost impossible harmony between form and function, but she too could not resist the thought that these eastern Skald-born must have somehow stolen or copied such designs,
for nothing so refined could originate from "brutes," she believed. Saruq the Quiet said nothing, his pale golden eyes scanning the city as if reading every line of architecture for hidden weaknesses, yet beneath his calm exterior, a spark of irritation lingered: the east had clearly built a fortress and a city that rivaled the skill of the Tengri-Born, and that unsettled him more than he would allow to show. Even as their horses' hooves struck the hard-packed earth, the wind tearing through the peaks, and the thunder rolling above, the Tengri-Born could not let themselves be humbled by the grandeur before them.
They saw elegance, coordination, and ingenuity, and yet in their minds, it had to be imitation, they could not fathom that the eastern Skald-born, the very clans they had always dismissed as simple and violent, could create something equal in complexity and beauty to the structures of the western homeland. Arrogance, as much as pride, carried them forward, tightening their grips on their weapons, guiding their horses with imperious motion, and pressing them onward toward the city that challenged everything they believed about their own superiority.
To them, this place was a contradiction, too refined to be barbaric, too alive with purpose to be random, but still, in their minds, merely a pale shadow of what the Tengri-Born could claim. And yet, even as they approached, high above on the jagged cliffs overlooking the city, Daniel shifted his Netherborn form slightly, shadows coiling like smoke around him, pondering whether this place, the city, the mountains, the living lightning, would remain the site of the meeting, or whether he might quietly change its location before these proud interlopers even realized the breadth of the east's power.
As the Tengri-Born delegates and their hundred warriors finally crossed the final ridge of the Skjorn Peaks, descending into the wide primary courtyard of Storm Skjorn Fjord, the magnitude of the settlement became immediately apparent. The open training grounds stretched before them like a carefully orchestrated mosaic of activity, apprentices of all ages moving in disciplined formations, practicing maneuvers that blended martial precision with methods utterly foreign to the Tengri-Born. The younger students, still in adolescence, leapt and spun with uneven, eager motions, guided by the steady hands of their instructors.
At the center of it all stood Melgil Veara, moving among the children with calm authority and effortless grace. She adjusted the stance of one adolescent with a flick of her hand, whispered encouragement to another, and observed a small group struggling with a defensive formation, her sharp gaze softened by the warmth in her eyes. She did not shout. She did not strike. She guided, and the children followed her not out of fear, but out of trust, admiration, and devotion.
Khödan Altan's flint-like eyes narrowed at the sight, though his reaction was not one of understanding, only incredulity. He had expected disorder, chaos, timid villagers cowering at the sight of a foreign army; instead, he saw children moving with precision and confidence, laughing, smiling, and responding to guidance with devotion rather than obedience. And at the center of it all, standing like a beacon of calm authority, was Melgil. Her white hair glinted like frost in the sunlight, her pale eyes seeming to pierce everything in their path. To Khödan, who had never known a woman so untouchable, so commanding without fear or cruelty, it was impossible not to be captivated, but his captivation was different than reverence. He did not follow their Eastern teachings, the doctrine of Veridica meant nothing to him or the others. They believed in strength born of lineage, conquest, and divine favor from Tengri. The disciplined power before him was alien, unnerving, yet his pride, his unshakable sense of superiority, demanded he interpret it as a challenge to be overcome rather than a system to respect.
Arrogance surged through him, drowning the faint voice of reason. He decided, in a single, reckless instant, that this woman, this unusual leader who dared guide children with patience instead of fear, would become his prize. His imagination raced with visions of conquest, of bending her to his will, of claiming her as a mark of victory, as he had taken spoils in countless campaigns. He ignored the ten Veridica-trained guards arrayed behind her, radiating discipline and calm that did not stem from fear but from mastery. To him, they were obstacles easily removed.
Lady Shioren's gaze flickered to Khödan, sensing the heat in his posture, and a tight, amused smile curved her lips. Lady Jala Tsagaan's broad shoulders stiffened, and even Saruq the Quiet's eyes narrowed, observing not the children or the woman, but the recklessness of their own leader's arrogance. They had been taught that the east was weak, that the Skald-born were brutes easily cowed by might and intimidation. Yet every instinct told them this was no ordinary eastern settlement. Every gesture, every movement, every disciplined pattern in the courtyard was alien, unnerving, and yet, frustratingly, it made no move to yield.
As Khödan stepped forward, the pull of desire and the certainty of dominance clashing with the subtle, unseen power that emanated from Melgil, he felt for the first time the faint prick of caution. Her presence was not a challenge he could simply crush with sword or force; it was a force of its own, woven into the lives around her, into the children who moved with unshakable trust, and into the very ground of Storm Skjorn Fjord itself. He did not understand it, nor did he wish to, but it unsettled him.
Yet, stubborn, arrogant, and blind to everything but his own desire and pride, Khödan would not pause. To him, she was not a leader to respect, nor a force to be understood—she was a prize to be taken, a challenge to be conquered, a woman who dared command without fear, without submission, and without recognition of his faith. He imagined bending her, claiming her, triumphing over what he could not yet comprehend.
And even as the invisible currents of Veridica brushed against him, subtle and precise, reminding him that discipline, clarity, and skill were more than brute strength, Khödan remained blind, his arrogance acting as a shield against caution. What he did not yet understand, and would soon be forced to learn, is that in this land, the doctrines of power were not written by conquest or bloodline alone, and that the woman he sought to possess was not a prize, but a storm capable of destroying empires.
Melgil bend down to adjust a young girl's posture, murmuring quietly and with care, her presence emanating authority without dominance. Shioren glanced at him, sensing the subtle shift, and whispered, "Do you see that? They follow her freely. They revere her." Khödan grunted, more out of habit than comprehension, but even he could not deny the undeniable influence Melgil held over these young warriors-in-training.
As the delegates and their guards moved cautiously into the courtyard, the courtyard's activity seemed to shift subtly. The children paused, uncertain at first, then resumed under the watchful eyes of their instructors, some stealing glances at the unusual visitors in silk-lined lamellar armor and high-bred steppe horses. Eirunn Stormbreaker stepped ahead, leaning on her rune-carved forearm crutches, her ten Veridica-trained guards forming a subtle yet formidable line behind her, radiating calm strength. She met the eyes of the Tengri-Born with measured defiance, though she allowed the visitors to see the organization and coordination of the courtyard without obstruction.
Khödan's gaze drifted from Eirunn to Melgil, and something in him shifted, almost imperceptibly, beneath his habitual arrogance. Here was a figure who commanded not by threat or display of conquest but by the quiet strength of understanding, by patience, by clarity of purpose—a model he had never expected among the Skald-born.
He saw the way the children responded to her, how they followed her guidance willingly, how her presence alone held the space, and for the first time in the journey across Huldmark, he felt the stirrings of hesitation. Shioren's hand tightened on her bow, sensing the change in her leader, while Lady Jala Tsagaan's diplomatic mind raced to reconcile the sight with everything they believed about the "brutish east." Even Saruq, ever calm, allowed his eyes to linger on Melgil for a heartbeat longer, scanning her movements not for weakness but for intentions, for patterns, for the subtle intricacies that defined her influence.
Eirunn's voice cut through the tension, steady and precise. "You have traveled far, Tengri-Born. You see our people, you see our children, and you see the order that grows from discipline and clarity. State your purpose. Speak truthfully, for neither threat nor flattery will sway what you see here." Khödan's jaw tightened, the pride and arrogance that had carried him across this land , now brushing against the unfamiliar awareness that he was observing a system he could not immediately control or dominate.
He met her gaze, his flint-like eyes unwavering, but inside, a flicker of doubt stirred. Shioren whispered to him, "The east… it is not what we expected," but he ignored her, focusing instead on Melgil, the quiet arbiter of this carefully ordered chaos, as Daniel, high above the walls in his Netherborn form, watched and assessed, coiling shadows like a river of smoke around him, his glowing eyes following every movement.
He noted the subtle pride in the Tengri-Born, their overconfidence, their arrogance, and he knew it would guide them even as it blinded them, for they had never faced constant threats to survival, never endured the trials that shaped the east's people and forged Veridica into their living doctrine. And so, the first confrontation in the heart of Storm Skjorn Fjord was set, not a battle yet, but a careful, almost invisible dance of perception, pride, and observation, with Melgil guiding the young, Eirunn holding the border, and Daniel watching from the shadows, ready to see how the wolves of the west would behave when faced with a power they could not simply conquer by arrogance alone.
Khödan Altan stepped forward, his boots crunching on the frozen courtyard stones, flanked by Lady Shioren, Lady Jala Tsagaan, and Saruq the Quiet, while the hundred Tengri-Born warriors fell into a disciplined, silent perimeter. His eyes, flint-like and sharp, fixed on Eirunn Stormbreaker, who had shifted slightly to allow him a clear line of sight, her forearm crutches grounding her in the earth like the mountain itself.
"So," he said, voice deep and carrying over the courtyard, "this is the famed eastern order you speak of. Children trained in magic and movement, a woman guarding the border with, what?, a pair of crutches? Tell me, One-leg, do you truly believe that clarity of mind and the murmured doctrines of your Veridica can stand against the certainty of conquest? Against the will of the Tengri-Born?" There was arrogance in his stance, but also an unmistakable curiosity, a glimmer of something darker, something personal stirring beneath the surface. His gaze drifted subtly toward Melgil, observing the way she moved among the adolescents, how effortlessly she commanded their loyalty, their admiration, he felt the sharp sting of envy and desire twist together, a heat he barely restrained.
Eirunn's lips curved slightly, neither smile nor sneer. "You speak of conquest," she replied, her voice even, measured, yet carrying an authority that seemed to reverberate through the courtyard, "as though victory can be claimed by bloodline or strength alone. Here, we measure strength by understanding, by discipline, by clarity of thought and action. We measure it by how well we protect those who cannot yet defend themselves, and how well we prepare for what the world will throw at us, not by the spoils of arrogance." Her gaze sharpened on Khödan now, the unyielding calm in her posture an invisible wall against his pride.
Shioren's lips parted, a sharp laugh almost escaping, as she shot a glance at Khödan. "So much talk for a crippled border guard. Do you truly believe this… doctrine of yours can match the years of skill, the superiority of our blood, our training?"
Eirunn's eyes flicked to the archer, then returned to Khödan, unwavering. "We do not measure ourselves against your arrogance. You speak of skill, of blood, of superiority, yet your people have never faced the storms that shape the east. You have never faced the trials that demand cooperation, patience, and clarity under fire. You may see children in the courtyard, and think them weak. I see potential, discipline tempered by freedom, guidance tempered by respect. That is strength you cannot grasp, Tengri-Born."
Khödan's jaw clenched, and beneath the pride, a strange, disquieting pull tugged at him as his gaze flicked again to Melgil. Desire, fascination, and the first tremors of something he did not understand, fear mingled with obsession, threaded through him. He wanted to reach for her, to bend her to his will, to possess her as a conquest of flesh and blood, yet some instinct whispered that this was impossible. That power radiated from her, quiet yet absolute, a power he could neither intimidate nor buy.
Before the tension could fracture further, a sudden movement on the main gate drew every eye. Ragnat Stormbreaker and Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend emerged together, their presence a stabilizing force on the courtyard. Ragnat's arm rested lightly on his sword hilt, eyes assessing but calm, while Astrid's gaze swept over the Tengri-Born, a mixture of command and quiet warning in her posture. At once, Saruq the Quiet stepped forward slightly, hands open in gesture of peace, voice carrying a deliberate softness that contrasted with the taut air. "Tengri-Born delegates," he said, "you have traveled far. Let us not allow weariness or the burdens of long travel to shape our first meeting. There is no cause for immediate tension, let patience and reason guide us, as they have guided our journey."
Khödan's shoulders stiffened, and a flicker of irritation crossed his face, but the words, spoken calmly and without deference, disarmed the moment. Eirunn relaxed her stance fractionally, the young apprentices sensing the slight easing of the air, while Melgil's gaze softened, though the quiet authority never left it. Even as Khödan's fascination with her simmered beneath his pride, he could not ignore the presence of Ragnat and Astrid, nor the subtle intervention of Saruq. The courtyard remained alive with motion, the children training, the guards standing disciplined and alert, yet the first real confrontation, the ideological, cultural, and personal clash, had been paused, suspended like the taut string of a bow, waiting for the first arrow to fly.
As the delegates and their hundred warriors fell back slightly into a loose cluster, the four Tengri-Born began to confer quietly, their voices low but sharp, edged with pride and growing irritation. Khödan Altan's eyes, however, remained fixed on Melgil, who now moved with measured grace toward the ascending steps of Mjorska Hall. Lady Shioren muttered under her breath about the "odd deference" being shown, her hand brushing the hilt of her bow as if ready to react. Lady Jala Tsagaan shook her head slightly, whispering that diplomacy required caution, observation, and patience, yet her tone was tinged with disbelief as the four observed Eirunn Stormbreaker and her ten Veridica guards step aside to welcome Melgil, bowing in the ancient manner of respect that seemed instinctive, almost sacred. Saruq the Quiet simply inclined his head, his calm eyes narrowing in thought, reading the subtle hierarchies and the unexpected reverence being displayed.
Khödan's flint-like gaze hardened as Melgil ascended the steps, her white hair glinting in the cold light, her posture regal and unyielding, her every step deliberate. He could feel the heat of desire prickling through him, a lust sharpened by both his arrogance and the inexplicable aura she exuded. As she reached the platform before the main doors, she turned slightly, her eyes catching his in a way that made his chest tighten. For the first time, he felt a flush of self-consciousness despite himself; even his warriors noticed the subtle change in their leader's demeanor. His pride and obsession warred within him, a dangerous duality he could not suppress.
To his growing astonishment, and rising confusion, the other rulers, Jarl Ragnat Stormbreaker of the central plains and Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend of the East, both lowered their heads in respectful acknowledgment of Melgil, a gesture that seemed to defy all expectation and protocol. Khödan whispered sharply to Shioren, "Why… why do they honor her? She is not one of their Jarls. She is… she is merely" but he stopped short, unable to find words sufficient to describe the authority and quiet power radiating from her.
Melgil's voice cut through the murmurs, smooth and commanding, carrying clearly across the courtyard. "Delegates of the West," she said, her tone even and welcoming, though not indulgent, "you have traveled far to reach our lands. I welcome you, not as subjects or challengers, but as guests. You will find that here, respect is earned through presence and clarity, not through bloodline, conquest, or arrogance." She gestured lightly toward Ragnar and Astrid, who immediately straightened, but did not speak; Ragnar opened his mouth, presumably to make a formal greeting, yet Melgil's slight tilt of her hand, just enough to convey authority without harshness, stopped him. "Let them be," she said, voice calm but firm. "They are our guests. Let their first impressions of your domain be measured in clarity, not haste."
Khödan's jaw tightened, the unbidden thrill of his desire for her mixing with irritation at being publicly restrained by her mere gesture. As he took a step forward to address her directly, he felt a shiver run through him, a dangerous recognition that this woman, this Melgil, already knew more of him than he cared to admit. He realized, with a mixture of awe and frustration, that her gaze had lingered on him just long enough to mark him, to understand his pride, his obsession, and perhaps, to toy with it. His chest tightened, his resolve faltered, and his mind began to race with possibilities that were both absurd and consuming, even as he forced himself to maintain a composed expression before his comrades.
Shioren hissed under her breath, sensing the growing fixation, while Jala Tsagaan adjusted her stance, reminding herself that the situation required diplomacy above all. Saruq simply observed silently, noting the volatility in Khödan's posture and the delicate interplay of respect and authority Melgil wielded over both her own people and the foreign delegates.
The courtyard was still alive with motion, apprentices pausing briefly, guards shifting subtly, but the tension was now concentrated in the silent, electric space between Khödan and Melgil, a clash of pride, desire, faith, and ideology that had yet to be spoken aloud, yet was already shaping every step, every breath, of the West's first entry into Storm Skjorn Fjord.
The Tengri-Born delegates, flanked by their hundred warriors, followed Jarl Ragnat Stormbreaker and Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend through the massive doors of Mjorska Hall, their boots echoing across polished stone floors that gleamed like liquid silver under the filtered light from high-set windows. The hall stretched before them in staggering scale, so vast that even the disciplined Western warriors whispered under their breath, awed despite themselves. Vaulted ceilings arched high above, intricate beams carved with Nordic patterns intersecting with runic designs, the craftsmanship precise and imposing, yet elegant. Light poured from suspended chandeliers and reflective surfaces, revealing tapestries and murals that told the history of the east: victories, unity, and the subtle integration of Veridica principles into martial and civic life.
At the far end of the hall, they noticed a raised platform with an elongated table surrounded by numerous luxurious chairs. Their pride and preconceived notions surged—surely this was where they would be seated, honored guests of the east, recognized for the long and arduous journey they had undertaken. Khödan's chest puffed with anticipation, Shioren's gaze sharpened, and even Jala Tsagaan allowed herself a slight, controlled smile, imagining the formality of a diplomatic meeting where their Western superiority could be subtly asserted. Saruq, ever the observant monk, noted the delegates' growing expectations and the tension it stirred, though his face remained unreadable.
Yet, before any of them could approach, Eirunn Stormbreaker stepped forward, her rune-carved forearm crutches clicking softly against the stone floor. She gestured with measured politeness toward the long table, her voice carrying calmly across the massive chamber. "Your seats are here," she said, guiding them to a set of slightly raised chairs closer to the center of the hall but well apart from the elevated platform. "The table and chairs beyond are reserved for meetings of a sensitive nature. Rune sigils are embedded in the floor and surface; they block sound from being heard beyond this space. The conversations held there are private, and their protection is not meant to exclude, but to preserve the integrity of discussions that could affect the safety and governance of our now combined land ."
Khödan's flint-like eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation breaking through his usual composure. He had assumed their Western status, their long journey, and the power of their warriors would earn them a seat of immediate authority, perhaps even a gesture of deference to their military skill. Instead, they were politely shown to a place of honor, yet carefully separated from the inner workings of decision-making. His pride bristled at the subtle rebuke, the invisible assertion of control, and his obsession with Melgil, who stood nearby observing quietly, only intensified the mixture of desire and frustration coiling within him. Shioren muttered under her breath about the "curious customs" of the east, while Jala Tsagaan tilted her head, trying to analyze whether this was a calculated message or simple protocol. Saruq, ever the strategist, inclined his head slightly, noting the restraint, the structure, and the subtle power play: the east had established hierarchy and authority not by fear, but by clarity, patience, and deliberate display of protocol, a lesson he realized the four Western delegates had yet to fully grasp.
As they settled into their designated seats, the enormity of the hall, the skill of the architects, and the layered significance of Eirunn's explanation weighed on them, though only faintly. Khödan's eyes kept flicking back to Melgil, her serene composure and the quiet command she wielded over even the most imposing of the east's leaders leaving him in a mixture of awe and burning obsession. Even as they adjusted to their new position, the subtle tension of misunderstanding, cultural difference, and unspoken power filled the space, an invisible thread linking Melgil, Eirunn, and the formidable Skjorn Fjord leadership to the four Tengri-Born, whose pride and arrogance would not allow them to fully submit to a system they did not understand, yet whose very presence demanded recognition and careful negotiation.
The long hall hummed with quiet murmurs as the four Tengri-Born delegates and their hundred warriors settled into their assigned chairs, facing the raised platform where Jarl Ragnar Stormbreaker of the center region and Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend of the East quietly conversed. Neither leader acknowledged the Western delegation immediately; they spoke in measured tones, their attention focused on matters far larger than the sudden arrival of strangers. Khödan Altan's flint-like eyes flicked repeatedly to Melgil, who sat with perfect poise a few seats down from the Jarls, her presence commanding without overt display, radiating a calm authority that belied the subtle currents of control she wielded over the hall. Every movement she made—the faint adjustment of her posture, the slight tilt of her head toward a passing servant, the soft exchange of a nod with Eirunn, was calculated to project confidence, to remind all present that she was the fulcrum of this room.
The Tengri-Born murmured among themselves, testing boundaries in small, almost imperceptible ways. Shioren leaned slightly forward, voice low, "It seems they are… indifferent to us." Jala Tsagaan's golden eyes narrowed, lips tight with frustration, "Indifference or deliberate dismissal. Either way, it is… unsettling." Saruq the Quiet merely observed, calm as ever, noting the subtle power dynamics at play, though even he could feel the tension radiating from Khödan. The Golden Bull's gaze lingered on Melgil with increasing intensity, his composure slipping as desire and pride tangled within him. Every gesture, every quiet motion of hers seemed amplified in his mind, as if the entire hall revolved around her.
Servants quietly brought in platters of roasted meats, fresh breads, fruits, and vessels of spiced wine, distributing them among the 104 delegates and guests. The food, an exercise in ceremonial hospitality, was arranged meticulously, as if every bite might carry symbolic weight. Khödan's attention, however, was entirely on Melgil, noting the grace with which she accepted her plate, the subtle way she gestured to allow Eirunn to serve others first, commanding respect without a word. He leaned slightly forward, voice low to Shioren, "Such poise… such control. This woman… she does not belong to any man's expectations." Shioren's eyes flickered toward him, wary, "Do not lose yourself in her presence, Khödan. Remember why we are here."
High above the walls in his Netherborn form, Daniel coiled silently like smoke along the ridge. His eyes glowed faintly, observing every subtle movement and whisper, assessing the probability of conflict. The possibility of provocation is high, he thought. They will look for any weakness, any breach in protocol, any misstep to justify action. These people are dangerous because they believe the world bends to arrogance.
Melgil, seated with quiet elegance, was equally aware of the potential danger. She observed the delegation with detached patience, noting the flickers of impatience, the restrained testing of boundaries, and the obvious fixation of Khödan. She had seen this play before: Western envoys arriving suddenly, cloaked in pride and pretense, attempting to assert dominance through subtle gestures, through feasts and words. The usual conspiracy—poison slipped into wine or food to manufacture an excuse for war—was a tactic she knew all too well. Even in the vast walled regions of Shangdu, the west had never hesitated to strike under the pretense of insult or injury.
Yet, she allowed the delegates to settle, to dine, to speak among themselves. For now, she would go with the flow, maintaining the outward appearance of courteous hospitality while silently holding the reins of control. Every servant, every placement of food, every subtle pause in her movements was deliberate, a way to communicate both welcome and warning. And as the Tengri-Born spoke softly among themselves, debating strategy and tactics in hushed tones, Khödan's gaze never left her, a dangerous mix of desire, admiration, and the arrogance that had carried him across Valdyrheim now threatening to blind him to the invisible boundaries of power in this hall.
Eirunn, standing near Melgil, mirrored her calm authority, her eyes briefly meeting each delegate, signaling that any misstep would not go unnoticed. Daniel, observing from above, knew the game had begun: the West would test, prod, and seek advantage, but here, in Storm Skjorn Fjord, the stakes were higher than they understood.
The hall had settled into a deceptive calm. Platters of food gleamed in the warm torchlight, the murmurs of the Tengri-Born delegates soft and carefully controlled. But within moments, the illusion shattered. A few of the western warriors, those closest to the serving trays, suddenly convulsed, gagging, clutching at their throats. Eyes wide with panic, they began vomiting violently onto the polished floor, knocking over ornate cups and silver platters. Screams tore through the hall as the chaos spread; three, then five, then nearly ten of the delegates' guards were writhing in sudden agony, tripping over one another in frantic terror.
Khödan Altan's eyes flared with fury and disbelief. He slammed his fist onto the table, his voice cutting through the clamor like a blade. "What trickery is this? Guards! Soldiers! Stand ready! This is an outrage!" He drew his sword, the polished steel glinting in the torchlight, and his companions followed: Lady Shioren Batsaikhan nocking an arrow, Lady Jala Tsagaan brandishing a short blade with precise grace, and Saruq the Quiet lifting his ceremonial staff, the calm in his face betraying none of the simmering anger within. "We have every right to respond to this dishonorable act!" Khödan roared.
The remaining ninety Tengri-Born warriors rose in unison, a wave of lamellar-clad strength, voices raised in anger and disbelief. The hall trembled under the collective weight of their indignation, banners shaking, chairs scraping against the floor. For a brief moment, it seemed as though the carefully maintained diplomacy of the east would collapse under the sheer force of Western arrogance and rage.
And then Melgil spoke, softly, almost tenderly, her voice cutting through the screams like a gentle chisel shaping stone. "They failed to prove their worth, my beloved," she murmured, a small, knowing smile curving her lips. Her ten Veridica-trained guards moved silently among the servants supporting them, guiding them away with an effortless grace that only heightened the contrast between chaos and order. The hall's energy shifted. Where panic had reigned, her calm authority created an invisible barrier that commanded attention. She laughed lightly, a sound of both amusement and disdain, turning to the remaining Tengri-Born with her white hair catching the torchlight. "And this," she said, voice carrying over the crowd, "is the kind of people who call themselves the West."
The delegates froze, the pretense of control faltering. Their intended plan, poison, humiliation, a staged outrage to force a war, had instead exposed their own volatility. Yet, even as Melgil maintained her serene composure, Khödan's gaze remained locked on her. Desire, arrogance, and fury warred within him, blinding him to the subtle danger of what was to come.
Then, without warning, the hall doors swung wide. A shadow poured in, heavier than any mere man could contain. Daniel strode through the threshold, his Netherborn armor gleaming with a dark, otherworldly light that seemed to absorb the torchlight rather than reflect it. His presence was like a living storm, energy radiating from every polished plate of obsidian and jagged steel spike, a coiled power that could crush and consume. The air itself seemed to tremble.
Silence fell instantly. The ninety-four remaining Tengri-Born, delegates and guards alike, felt the oppressive weight of his presence before they even saw him fully. Their swords hovered mid-air; their arrows were half-drawn, hands trembling. The arrogance that had carried them across the entire area, the pride that had sustained them for nine days of travel and tests, evaporated in the presence of raw, undeniable authority. Daniel's eyes glowed faintly through the helm, searing into each heart with a heat that could not be resisted.
His armor seemed alive, plates twisting into jagged, predatory shapes, spikes and edges coiling with a subtle, serpentine energy. The Netherborn form was not simply a suit, it was a manifestation of judgment, of wrath and intelligence honed to perfection. The room's torches flickered violently, shadows dancing like living things on the walls, yet Daniel's presence swallowed even that light. Every Western delegate felt it: an immediate, visceral fear, the kind that paralyzes, that anchors your feet to the floor, and silences the mind.
Khödan Altan, normally unshakable, felt his knees weaken. Lady Shioren's bow hand shook uncontrollably, an arrow slipping from her grasp. Lady Jala Tsagaan's pale eyes widened, and Saruq the Quiet, who had always remained the picture of serenity, slowly lowered his staff, the calm mask finally cracking under the pressure of pure, overwhelming power. None could move. None dared speak. Daniel's aura did not merely threaten, they were suffocating beneath it, every breath carrying the weight of absolute judgment, a silent declaration: I could end all of you before you even thought to act.
Melgil, seated with her usual poise, allowed the moment to stretch, her eyes flicking to Daniel and back to the stunned delegates. Her smile widened subtly. "You see now," she said softly, almost conversationally, "why arrogance is a dangerous companion." The Westerner's plan, their staged outrage, their intended provocation, it was meaningless here, dwarfed by a force they could neither comprehend nor challenge.
The hall, once filled with noise, with ambition and rage, now lay under an oppressive, quiet dominion. The Tengri-Born were trapped not by chains, not by walls, but by the undeniable truth that here, in the presence of the east's unyielding will and the Netherborn's living authority, their ego and pride had no weight. Daniel's energy radiated, and for the first time, the delegates understood, they were completely, utterly outmatched.