The wind screamed down from the fjords, carrying with it the chill of sea-ice and the scent of ash from the great hearth at the temple's center.
Róisín had never seen so many men gathered in one place without a single cross to anchor them. No incense, no chalice, no altar—only stone, fire, and blood.
She stood on the fringes of the crowd, a shadow among shadows, watching as warriors in wolf pelts and antler-helmed goðar gathered.
At the center stood Vetrúlfr—bare-armed, crowned not in gold but in Damascus steel. At his side was a man almost as large: Bjǫrn, his shoulders draped in a tattered, matted brown bear cloak, weather-worn and blood-stained from campaigns past.
Drums thundered. Not a march—a heartbeat. Primal, pulsing, alive.
Ísland's foremost seiðkona stepped forth, wrapped in veils of gray linen, bone charms clinking softly from her wrists. She bore a long iron brand etched with runes, its tip glowing red from the hearth. The crowd fell silent.
