The skies above Oslo, the Capital of Norland, shimmered with a soft, ethereal glow as the figure cut through the clouds, his speed so astonishing that no watchful eye from the sentry towers perched along the city's edge could catch even a fleeting glimpse of him. The wind howled around him, but he moved with an almost unnatural grace, his presence as intangible as the air itself. With a subtle flick of his hand, he adjusted his speed, carefully controlling the shockwave of his passing so as not to disturb the tranquility of the world below.
He breezed effortlessly through the shimmering Barrier that encased Oslo, a mystical force that protected the city from the unknown dangers of the outside world. The Barrier shimmered like a translucent veil, bending the light around him as he passed through, leaving no trace of his presence.
Soon, the towering spires of the city gave way to a vast expanse of land, at the heart of which stood the magnificent palace of the King. It sprawled across 49 acres of fertile land, a breathtaking complex that dominated the center of the capital. The palace's architecture was a harmonious blend of ancient Norse grandeur and practical utility. Surrounded by an intricate garden that circled its vast perimeter, a tranquil lake gleamed under the morning sun, reflecting the imposing structure above it. The courtyard within was a hub of activity, where the royal guards, mighty warriors clad in intricate armor, practiced their combat drills, their sharp movements betraying the rigorous training they underwent daily.
The palace itself was nothing short of a self-sustaining city. Beyond the lavish halls and royal chambers, there were countless pavilions, each divided into semi-apartments for the palace's many attendants and their families. The intricate halls housed medical centers, libraries, and stores brimming with goods essential for the cultivation and growth of those in the King's service. It was a kingdom in miniature, a testament to the power and wealth of King Sigurd, its ruler.
As the flying man descended toward the palace's courtyard, the royal guards, ever vigilant, stood at attention. Their sharp eyes noted the arrival of their King, but they remained motionless, for they knew who approached. King Sigurd, the towering monarch of Norland, landed with the quiet authority of a force of nature. His presence alone was enough to send a ripple of reverence through the air, a magnetic pull that seemed to draw all eyes toward him.
He was a striking figure—standing at an imposing six feet seven inches, his body sculpted like that of an ancient Norse warrior, his golden hair and beard flowing like a river of sunlight. Traces of golden script markings, ancient and sacred, adorned his neck, hinting at secrets older than the land itself. An aura of power radiated from him, palpable and undeniable. It was as if the weight of centuries of leadership, of conquering and ruling, pressed down upon him with every step he took. The attendants, though disciplined, could not help but bow their heads as he passed, the force of his will overwhelming them even without a spoken command.
He moved silently through the courtyard, acknowledging the guards with a brief nod before continuing his march toward the heart of the palace—the council chamber. His steps were measured and purposeful, and the air seemed to thrum with tension as he approached the massive wooden doors.
With a deliberate motion, he pushed them open, his eyes already reading the atmosphere within. The room was heavy with unspoken words, the air thick with the weight of impending decisions. The royal herald, standing by the entrance, bowed low before announcing the King's arrival, the sound of his voice reverberating across the chamber. As the herald's words echoed, the Elders, seated at the Great Square Table, stood in reverence.
Among them were Prince Magnus, the King's younger brother, a man known for his intellect and his physical prowess; Prince Harbard, the King's firstborn son, whose stoic demeanor belied the fiery passions that brewed beneath his calm exterior; and Princess Ingrid, the King's middle child, whose keen wit and fierce loyalty made her a force to be reckoned with. The moment their eyes met, a silent understanding passed between them—King Sigurd had returned, and they knew the purpose of his visit.
King Sigurd's steps were slow but sure as he approached the head of the table, the thrum of his power palpable in the room. His gaze, a piercing golden eye and a calm sky-blue eye, swept over the assembled Elders, taking in their expressions before finally settling on his seat. The room grew still, as if the very walls were holding their breath.
With a quiet, deliberate motion, the King sat, and the rest of the assembly followed suit. Prince Magnus, his older brother's presence never one to be ignored, cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had stretched long and heavy over the chamber. His voice, when it came, was thick with unspoken questions. The tension in the room was so tangible, it seemed as though the very air might crack under the weight of it.
And so, the council began.
The tension in the council room hung thick, a fragile balance of authority and unease as Prince Magnus broke the silence.
"How was Kattegat?" he asked, his voice calm but curious, a ripple of anticipation moving through the Elders seated around the table. The question wasn't idle; it was one they all had wanted to ask. "Bestla did well clearing the Rune Walkers this fall season," Magnus added, a faint smile playing on his lips, though the room's stillness betrayed the weight of their collective interest.
King Sigurd leaned back slightly, his imposing frame relaxed yet exuding authority. "Last I checked, it looked good," he replied with a small, measured smile, his words carrying an undertone of reassurance. Then, his golden eye narrowed, and his voice hardened ever so slightly. "So, what's the situation?"
The shift in the room was immediate and palpable. The air grew heavy as the council braced for what was to come. Elder Orm, a wiry man with sharp features who oversaw Norland's Intelligence Division, cleared his throat and stepped forward.
"It seems the tribesfolk of the Faroe Islands are beginning to move," Orm reported, his tone professional but laced with subtle unease.
Another Elder, more boisterous, chuckled under his breath. "What is it this time? Preparing for their annual raiding games?" he asked with a smirk, his voice tinged with condescension.
The council exchanged a few knowing glances. Raiding had long been a cornerstone of Norse tradition, a hallmark of their ancestors, but times had changed. The desolation of Midgard and the advent of Frodi's peace had transformed their world. The mainland no longer needed the spoils of plunder; their continent was rich and self-sufficient. Yet the Faroe Islanders clung to the old ways, crossing the sea to raid coastal villages in Scandinavian lands. What had once been a threat was now more of a nuisance, a lingering echo of a bygone era.
King Sigurd's expression didn't change, though his silence carried an air of gravity. He let the chatter die down before Elder Orm continued, his voice more serious now. "It's not their usual games," he said firmly. "There was an envoy from the Kingdom of Denland spotted among them."
That statement brought a new wave of tension to the room. Prince Harbard leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "An envoy?" he echoed, his voice skeptical. "What was an envoy of Denland doing in the Western region?"
King Sigurd's face betrayed no surprise, though his mind turned over the implications. He had been preoccupied with Kattegat, his grandson, and the intricacies of his kingdom, trusting his Intelligence Division to monitor external threats. Now, his negligence weighed on him—but only briefly. His resources were vast, and his power, unmatched.
Closing his eyes for a moment, Sigurd concentrated his essence, channeling it into his left eye. When he reopened it, the shape of his golden eye had changed, transformed into a glowing gold iris adorned with a black serpentine marking: a snake consuming its tail. The room seemed to dim as the King's power manifested, an ancient ability that was the source of his moniker, "Snake in the Eye." The Elders watched in quiet awe, even those accustomed to this display.
Sigurd's left eye glowed faintly as its divine power unfolded. Through it, he could see far beyond the walls of Oslo, a bird's-eye view of the world laid out before him. Elder Orm sighed, recognizing the potency of the King's omniscient vision. The intelligence agents of Norland were all gifted with lesser Runic visual powers, but none rivaled the sheer dominion of Sigurd's divine gaze.
"Looks like she's still there," King Sigurd murmured, almost to himself. His tone was laced with intrigue. "Interesting. I wonder what King Horik is playing at."
"What should we do?" Prince Magnus asked cautiously. "Should we intervene?"
King Sigurd turned his glowing eye toward his brother, its golden light piercing through the tension in the room. "What for?" he said with a calm, almost dismissive tone. "Denland is free to conduct business with the Faroe Islands."
"But—"
"Enough!" The King's voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and final. "As long as King Horik honors Frodi's peace, we will not intervene in whatever business he has with the islands."
Magnus fell silent, his lips pressed into a thin line. He knew his brother's unyielding stance on Frodi's decree, the Sage's peace that had held the continent together for generations. To Sigurd, maintaining that peace was paramount, no matter the circumstances.
"Any other concerns I should know about since my absence?" Sigurd asked, his tone a clear signal that this was the last opportunity to bring up pressing matters.
The Elders exchanged glances, but none spoke.
"Good," Sigurd said with finality, his voice echoing through the chamber. He rose to his full height, his imposing presence casting a long shadow across the room. The others followed suit, standing and bowing low as their King turned and walked toward the door, his golden eye still glowing faintly before it dimmed once more.
The council watched in silence as the King left, the sound of his boots fading into the distance. Even after he was gone, the weight of his presence lingered, a reminder of the power and responsibility he wielded as the ruler of Norland.
****
-Two years later-
"Why does it have to be in the Capital?" Ragna's voice carried to Aksel and Bestla, who were seated in the front of the carriage. Across from his parents sat Ragna himself. In the two years that had passed, he had grown significantly, reaching six feet in height. His golden hair had grown long enough to brush his shoulders, and his face had lost most of its baby fat, giving him the appearance of someone in their late teens. The humans of this world developed much faster than those from his former world. Although Ragna had not been human in his past life, he found the accelerated development strange yet welcome. He didn't have to endure the helplessness of childhood for long. Now, at the age of ten—considered adulthood in this world—he was preparing for the coming-of-age ceremony where prospective Vikings would awaken their cores. Ragna, however, was irritated by the necessity of traveling to the Capital for the event. Kattegat would have been much more convenient.
"You'll understand when your ceremony begins," Bestla said with a sigh. Aksel's hand rested gently on her side, his touch protective and tender. Bestla's stomach was visibly swollen, her pregnancy nearly full-term. Despite her delicate condition, she had insisted on accompanying her family to the Capital, determined to witness her son's milestone and deliver her second child in Oslo. Ragna frowned, his gaze lingering on her. He was wary of having siblings due to his past experiences and deeply concerned about his mother's well-being. Pregnancy, after all, was a period of vulnerability for any woman, especially one who was a Cultivator. A significant portion of Bestla's energy was dedicated to nourishing and safeguarding the child, making her more susceptible to harm.
"This reminds me of when I had you," Bestla remarked, her hand instinctively cradling her belly.
"I still don't see why we had to travel," Ragna muttered, his anxiety evident. Bestla, ever perceptive, could feel his concern and attempted to ease his mind.
"I'm not going to miss my son becoming a man," she said firmly.
"Besides, your grandfather wants us all in the Capital for the birth," Aksel added.
Ah, his grandfather. Ragna had heard countless tales of King Sigurd, known as "Snake-in-the-Eye." A legendary figure, Sigurd had united the warring tribes to form the first civilized Kingdom after the Desolation. Inspired by his actions, other tribes across the continent had followed suit, creating their own Kingdoms. For instance, the Fairhair royal family had established Denland in response to the perceived threat of the Lothbrok family. Ragna respected his grandfather's accomplishments and was grateful for the resulting peace. He had no desire to relive an age of war and chaos, having endured such an existence in his previous life.
The journey to Oslo took weeks. During the trip, Ragna meditated frequently, refining his mental power and sharpening his senses. When their carriage finally approached the gates of Oslo, Ragna leaned out the window to get a better look. The massive black gates loomed before him, adorned with intricate runes of varying tiers and levels. He recognized some as protective enchantments designed to safeguard the city. Perched atop the gates were seven-foot-tall Vikings clad in black metal armor, their helmets resembling the skulls of various beasts. As their carriage neared, Ragna noticed the traffic: a long line of carriages filled with ten-year-olds eager to undergo their awakening ceremony and become Vikings. Behind their carriage followed the one belonging to Torvi and Ander's family, as well as several others from Kattegat.
Ragna pulled his head back inside, projecting his internal senses outward to scan the city. Their carriage veered away from the main road toward an entrance reserved for the royal family and aristocrats. The guards stationed at the checkpoint examined the insignia on the carriage and the rider's credentials, quickly granting them passage.
The city of Oslo was magnificent, divided into three wards based on social status. The Ward of Commons housed the lower class, with sturdy wooden buildings and bustling streets filled with playing children and elders enjoying the late afternoon sun. The Ward of Business was a thriving hub of commerce, with merchants selling weapons, armor, herbs, pills, and food. Given Norland's agricultural economy, stores specializing in crops and herbs were especially abundant. Finally, the Ward of Residence was a metropolitan district showcasing the city's rapid advancements since the Desolation nine centuries ago. While Oslo still had a long way to go to match the height of Norse civilization, it was clear the Kingdom was progressing rapidly.
Their carriage traveled along a private royal road, avoiding the heavy traffic. The Capital was brimming with people from all over the Kingdom, drawn by the Midsummer celebrations and the coming-of-age ceremonies. As their carriage approached a massive round gate leading to the royal palace, the guards, recognizing the royal insignia, opened the gates without hesitation. The palace grounds resembled a mini city, complete with its own stores and residential areas. Eventually, the carriage stopped in front of a grand building surrounded by a lush garden and a well-kept courtyard.
Ragna was relieved to have finally arrived, and Bestla looked equally grateful as she carefully stepped out of the carriage, eager to rest. Waiting for them at the entrance was a tall woman in a green gown. She had fair skin, golden hair, and striking blue eyes that bore a strong resemblance to Bestla's.
"Sister!" Bestla exclaimed, her face lighting up. Princess Ingrid, the middle child of King Sigurd, smiled warmly and descended the stairs to greet her sister. It had been far too long since they last saw each other, and Ingrid's joy was evident.
"Father wanted to bring everyone out to greet you, but I convinced him otherwise. I knew you wouldn't appreciate such a grand display," Ingrid said, hugging Bestla gently, mindful of her condition. She then turned to Aksel, who bowed respectfully.
"Princess," he greeted her.
"Aksel, it's wonderful to see you again," Ingrid replied warmly. Her gaze then shifted to Ragna, who stood quietly by his mother's side. He was tall, with sun-kissed skin, golden hair, and piercing blue eyes. Ingrid was taken aback by his appearance. This was her first time meeting her nephew, and he looked nothing like she had imagined. To be fair, Ingrid didn't know who Ragna's father was or the circumstances of his birth, so her surprise was understandable.
"And who is this?" she asked, her tone curious.
"Ragna, this is my sister, Princess Ingrid of the House of Lothbrok," Bestla introduced. "Ingrid, this is—"
"My nephew," Ingrid interrupted, pulling Ragna into a bear hug. As a Viking, she was taller and far stronger than most, her muscles hardened from years of training. Ragna struggled to breathe as she crushed him against her chest.
"I'm so glad to finally meet my nephew," she said with genuine excitement. Ragna, meanwhile, gasped for air, astonished by her strength.