The Tragedy of the Black-Mane

The air in the Manse was cold—almost excruciatingly so—despite the many fireplaces scattered throughout the building. Winter had hit Hralgorn hard, and Svarthofnir dreaded to think how the Northern Keeps were coping with the frost. He'd returned just in time. Had he lingered in Kriegsholm any longer, he'd be trapped there for the season.

He strolled through the long corridors of Svarthlhus, walls lined with paintings of warriors long past. He knew most of their names—he'd spent much of his childhood memorizing the lineage of generals and kings at the insistence of his father, the great Frixnar Thegn, Lord of Rebellion.

As if summoned by the thought, he passed the Old King's portrait.

The man's hair and beard—never once shaved—were bound into thick dreadlocks, like albino snakes cascading from scalp and chin. The artist had draped him in a haphazard mix of fur-trimmed Thegnguard and Drenwyn plate—ceremonial, inaccurate. In truth, Frixnar had worn leathers and mail, reserving fur only for winters like this one.

In his hands was the Fen Hralthron Hammer—the ancestral weapon of their bloodline. To most in Mortheim, it would seem absurdly crude: an unshaped iron slab perched atop a shaft too narrow to match. No common man could lift it, and even most Jotun would struggle to wield it. Frixnar was no common Jotun, however.

"Gods-damned cold." Svarthofnir thought.

Svarthofnir blew a stream of warm breath into his cupped hands and turned from the portrait.

He pressed on, stuffing his numb fingers deep into the pockets of his long coat. As good as it was to be home, he couldn't help but think how much sweeter the return would've been in spring—or even late autumn. He shook the thought away. He'd been gone nearly two months—no use spoiling his first night back by grumbling about the weather.

He began tightening his coat and then heard it. The Dining Hall was just up ahead, the smell of roasted venison and bison already filling his nostrils. But the excitement of finally having good food after a week on the road paled in comparison to the sound of laughter. He opened the door and stepped through the threshold.

"What's all this racket?" Svarthofnir called playfully.

The room fell silent—not even the chefs daring to move. After a moment, the hall exploded into motion. Seraphine, Svarthofnir's wife, jumped up so fast her chair nearly toppled—quite a feat considering the heavy Reddoak wood furniture—and raced to him, her cloak billowing behind her. She almost threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder.

"You could've sent a raven, you know," she murmured, voice muffled against his coat.

Svarthofnir didn't answer. He just held her tighter. For a moment, he didn't want to let go.

Then came the tugging—small, urgent hands pulling at his coat. He released Seraphine and dropped to one knee.

There they were.

Deimos and Phobos—his twin sons, no more than four winters old—beaming up at him with wild, unfiltered joy. Their eyes mirrored his own, though Deimos had more of his mother's sharp cheekbones, and Phobos wore that crooked half-smile so common among the Thegn men.

They latched onto him like wolves, arms around his neck, fingers grasping his shoulders, chests pressed to his broad frame.

"Did you fight?" Deimos asked, breaking the embrace.

"Did you win?" Phobos added, releasing his father's coat.

Svarthofnir chuckled, rising from his knee.

"Unfortunately, no fighting, boys. Your Uncle Fringar was just asking the court for opinions on new policies. Bit boring if you ask me."

Seraphine jabbed an elbow into his ribs.

"But very, very important," Svarthofnir added, rubbing his flank.

A voice like gravel and oak cut through the moment.

"Well, I'll be damned. Welcome back, Captain."

Svarthofnir looked up to see Baeldrin Raukson, head chef of Svarthlhus, approaching from the kitchens with a ladle in one hand and a towel flung over his shoulder. His forearms were dusted with flour and ash, and his long grey beard braided thick to keep it out of the stew. His apron bore decades of stains—a tapestry of grease, blood, and broth.

"Baeldrin," Svarthofnir grinned. "How've you been holding up?"

"Same as always, Captain. Cooking, yelling, surviving. Still better than the greenbloods Kriegsholm calls chefs. Come, sit. Warm your bones. I'll bring you something that doesn't taste like road dust or Wyrm meat."

He clapped Svarthofnir on the shoulder and barked orders for plates before disappearing behind the swinging door.

Svarthofnir took his place at the long table, the boys hopping up beside him with the boundless energy only children have after dusk. Seraphine slid into the seat across from him, folding her arms.

"So," she began, "how'd the Council go?"

Svarthofnir sighed. "Like I told the boys—boring. No new wars, nothing urgent. Fringar was just gathering opinions on the price of bread or some such nonsense."

Seraphine frowned. "And Fringar himself? How's he holding up? Must be hell trying to fill Frixnar's boots."

"He's managing. Doesn't realize he's doing well. Always snapping at shadows, comparing himself to Father. Might not be one of the Greats, but he's a damn good King."

Seraphine shook her head. "Fringar's always been a bit paranoid. Too hard on himself, too caught up in what others think."

Svarthofnir leaned back. "Not when it comes to family."

Seraphine raised an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

"Alva," Svarthofnir said. "She's been pushing Fringar for more say in the Council, but he only listens when it suits him—and brushes off her ideas at the first sneer from some old Councilman."

"Alva's smart," Seraphine nodded. "If I were Queen, she'd be my right hand."

Svarthofnir's expression darkened. "Fringar's mind is still stuck in war mode. The Kaosbron War hit us all hard. He's not convinced it's over, which is why I'm still his Right Hand."

Seraphine smirked. "So why don't you talk some sense into him?"

Svarthofnir chuckled dryly. "I'm the High General, not a politician. He keeps me at Council meetings so I talk troop movements—not court politics."

Seraphine changed the subject. "Speaking of troop movements, I hear Rolnir's got new responsibilities?"

"He's in charge of a Legion now. There's an old General from Rondulf's Regime who's been growing bolder since the war ended. Fringar wants Rolnir to flush him out and bring him in for sentencing."

Seraphine tilted her head. "Don't take this the wrong way, love, but Rolnir's more a duelist than a commander. Not sure he's cut out to lead a Legion."

Svarthofnir nodded. "That's why I offered to help."

"So you just got home and you're already leaving?"

"Not leaving yet. Besides, it's a day's ride there and back. We're just sweeping a fort for Rondulf loyalists. I shouldn't be gone more than two days. And I'll send a raven this time."

"When do you leave?"

"A couple of days after Rolnir arrives."

"Rolnir's coming here?"

"Yeah, Svarthlheim is the closest city to the fort. Gives his men some time to rest." He turned to the boys. "And you two want to see Uncle Rolnir, don't you? I think he's even bringing some gifts."

Deimos and Phobos immediately burst into excited shouts, voices overlapping in eager speculation.

"Maybe a sword!" Deimos said, eyes wide.

"No, no! A bow!" Phobos insisted, pounding a tiny fist on the table.

"Or maybe a dragon egg!" Deimos shot back, grinning.

Phobos laughed. "You're dreaming! Rolnir wouldn't bring us dragons—not yet!"

Svarthofnir chuckled, shaking his head. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll be something worth waiting for."

Seraphine smiled across the table, watching their sons light up with anticipation.