The Tragedy of the Black-Mane

The hall was dark, wet, and uncomfortably humid. Torches lined the walls, crowned with purple flame that cast no light, no warmth, only the brittle crackling of something unholy. The doorway stood at the end of the corridor, just visible through the haze—ironbound Redoak, veined with ornate filigree.

Svarthofnir took a step toward it, and it took a step back. Every movement the General made was mirrored by this corridor, stretching so that the door would always remain just out of arm's reach. This did not sway him, however, and he continued chasing.

Seconds turned to minutes, minutes bled into hours, and the strength of his legs slowly dissipated, being replaced with nothing but burning. He fell to his knees, gasping for air, but found no respite. Lungs burned, and a dull ache had found its way behind his eyes.

His throat was dry, chalked with the taste of ash and bloodless copper. Somewhere above him, something groaned—a wooden moan, like the death rattle of an old ship. He blinked slowly, and in that moment, it felt like he had always been there. Pursuing. Dying.

There he rested for a long moment, his breath shallow and his sweat dripping into a pool around him. Once the fire in his legs and crawling in his skin ceased, he looked up. The door was next to him, so close. He raised his hand to grasp the handle, and his palm finally met the frigid steel. He let his hand fall, laughing softly in relief.

The laugh died in his throat as the door sighed open. He hadn't pushed it; it simply parted as though it were a beast opening its maw. Svarthofnir stood, his knees still shaking slightly from fatigue, and peered through the door. It was dark, so much so that it made the hallway seem blinding, but he could still make out the slight silhouette of a creature, hunched low.

Svarthofnir walked through the threshold, and the room burst with light, searing his eyes. After rubbing them briefly, Svarthofnir's breath caught in his throat. The Thegnhus Gatehouse—walls damp and crumbling, the result of years of disregard.

And the figure in the centre... crouched low, grumbling and growling to himself, his long dreadlocked hair matted with blood and his hide armour stained with crimson. His hands, usually curled around a hammer's shaft, were strained and poised like claws. His head was encased in a fiery crown, stolen from the battlefield.

Frixnar paced the Gatehouse like a caged beast, snarling and growling at the circling battlements as though he could smell the fear of any guards still lurking there. Svarthofnir watched, breathless, scared witless. Then it heard him. Frixnar's head snapped to look at Svarthofnir as he slowly turned his body. His face was horrific, covered in char, and his eyes gone, reduced to naught but streams of molten light travelling down his cheeks and dripping to the floor. Where his eyes once sat, there was nothing but purple flame, sporadic and spitting light embers in front of the fell King.

The two Jotuns stood still for a moment, eyes—or what remained of them—locked, neither daring to move. For Svarthofnir, it was out of fear. For Frixnar, his lack of motion could be chalked up to either hesitation at attacking his son, or his fractured mind trying to figure out how to kill him the fastest.

And so, without a second of warning, King Frixnar Thegn the Godslayer charged at his son, claws outstretched and jaw agape. Svarthofnir stumbled back, his heel catching on the threshold he had crossed mere minutes ago. Just as he fell, Frixnar's claw slashed the air that Svarthofnir's neck had just occupied.

The Lord of Svarthlheim collapsed heavily onto the stone floor, wincing in pain. A burst of heat trailed his throat. He reached for it instinctively—no blood, no wound. But the warmth lingered.

When he reopened his eyes, he felt a strange comfort. His back was no longer pressed against harsh stone, instead resting on furs. He no longer wore a steel breastplate, but silk clothing. Instead of a winding hallway at his side full of torches crowned with cold fire, he found his wife studying him with a worried expression.

"You were shifting in your sleep. What's going on?" Seraphine asked, propping her head up with her hand.

"Just a nightmare. Nothing some Thunseed won't fix."

"You wanna talk about it? Might help. Besides, I don't want my sleep to be disturbed twice in one night." She laughed softly.

Svarthofnir chuckled, "I don't even want to disturb your sleep again. You can be a real pain when you're tired."

"Stop ducking the question, love."

"It was about Father. I was back in Thegnhus—the Gatehouse. Father was there, had that fucking helmet on."

Seraphine rubbed Svarthofnir's back. "There was little more you could have done."

"I know. It was a stupid mistake on his end. Nothing I could have done. But it doesn't solve the fact that he died dishonourably. Put down like a beast. Do you honestly think he would be accepted into Heimsgrove?"

Seraphine sighed, "I think that Frixnar was killed long before his body was made a corpse. He died fighting Madness, so yes. I think he is in Heimsgrove."

"Yeah, I am sorry." He scratches his beard, "Back before the war, he used to tell us about how he had hoped to die and become a Bladesman. Fight forevermore alongside his forebears and all that." A sigh escapes his lips, "I didn't make too much noise, did I?"

"I've yet to hear anything from the boys' room. And if they are awake, I'm sure that one of our staff will sort them out."

"While I was gone, did anything happen with them?"

Seraphine looked at Svarthofnir quizzically. "How do you mean?"

"Well," he began as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, "it's clear that they will have some sort of... difference from other kids. Whether that's from my blood or yours, it doesn't quite matter."

"They will be fine, Svarthofnir. We will deal with it if and when it comes up. And trust me, you'd be the first I'd tell if I saw anything." Seraphine rolled over and pulled the furs closer to her chin. "We will have more than enough time in the morning to talk about this. Goodnight, love."

Svarthofnir relaxed his head and looked to the ceiling, the image of his father still carved into his mind. His hand drifted once more to the hollow of his neck.

"Night."