Viggo’s ox-drawn wagons rolled slowly into the square before the King’s Hall. The youths who had been waiting stepped forward at once, pulled back the burlap coverings, and unloaded the cargo together—shields and weapons.

  The shields were clearly not the Vikings’ traditional small round shields. They were large Roman-style tower shields, tall enough to cover a person from head to toe.

  Synvar led the youths through a careful inspection, checking each piece for flaws. Once everything was confirmed, the shields and weapons were carried to the rune-painted witch, Ragnhild.

  Her movements were quick and practiced. A cold flash ran along the dagger in her hand as she opened a rooster’s throat—precise, silent. The rooster seemed not to feel pain at all; it simply bled away in stillness, as if sinking into sleep.

  Then Ragnhild lifted her face and sang:

  “The burning comb is Vidar’s fire of vengeance;

  We Viking warriors stride with heads held high,

  We Viking warriors fierce in battle;

  With sword and shield clenched fast, we guard the honor of the Einherjar…”

  Her voice was high and clear, loud as an eagle’s cry—yet edged with something faintly murderous. The whole square found itself holding its breath.

  Arkyn Pladsen, the Viking King, stood solemnly at the center, expression austere, eyes never leaving the rite.

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  Synvar kept directing the unloading and sorting in a low voice, the goods flowing from hand to hand toward Ragnhild. Viggo, meanwhile, swayed closer to Arkyn Pladsen and said carelessly, “Hey, Your Majesty, I just ran into something really funny. Want to hear it?”

  “Be quiet for now. Tell me later,” Arkyn said, refusing without turning his head, calmly watching the work continue.

  But Viggo insisted anyway. “That little white rabbit you gave Tallev… it can actually speak Viking.”

  “What the hell?” Arkyn snapped his head around, unable to stop a heavy sigh.

  “Shh!” Ragnhild turned at the same moment, pressing a finger to her lips—her gaze sharp as a blade, commanding solemnity.

  Arkyn Pladsen and Viggo both went rigid, shut their mouths at once, then secretly jabbed each other’s elbows and hurled silent curses in crude pantomime.

  Ragnhild turned back, continued chanting, and used the rooster’s blood to draw mysterious runes across the shields and weapons.

  Those runes were not neat, regular carvings. They looked like an ancient script forced awake. They weren’t perfectly symmetrical, yet they faintly answered one another—like an oath torn apart and reassembled. As the fresh blood seeped into wood grain and iron scratches, the lines swelled slightly, pulsing like a wound before it seals, resonating under her chant. The strokes varied in thickness; the corners turned at subtly unnatural angles, as if they had never been meant for human hands at all, but for bone, for stone, for beast-claw.

  Then the runes began to glow—soft as sunrise.

  At the peak of that light, they briefly corrected their positions, as if confirming the master they now clung to, and the purpose they had been given.

  Afterward, the glow withdrew, leaving only quiet, restrained traces behind. From that moment on, these shields and weapons could no longer be treated as ordinary things.

  This is what humans call magic—

  the highest grace the ancient gods bestowed upon mankind:

  mysterious,

  and even dangerous.