985 A.D. — Aros, Kingdom of Denmark.

  One year before the events of the main story.

  “There is no worse curse for a kingdom than to have a weak and inept king.”

  The voice came from a hooded man dressed in a grey habit.

  He knelt before a young blond noble seated on a rough wooden throne.

  “Since King Harald Bluetooth ascended to Denmark’s throne,”

  the man continued,

  “he has wasted his reign on foreign campaigns—each one ending in defeat. His only so-called victory, in Norway, was stripped from him when the R?misches Reich forced him to relinquish the conquered lands in the south.”

  He paused, his tone turning sharp.

  “And speaking of the R?misches Reich—after Emperor Otto I humiliated him in battle, one of the terms of surrender was the Christianization of Denmark. To hide his shame, King Harald lied to his people, claiming that a holy prophet had baptized him, converting him to the faith of the magic carpenter. His deceit has unleashed persecution upon those who still honor the old gods.”

  The prince’s violet eyes gleamed faintly in the flickering torchlight as the man’s words echoed through the hall.

  “Now, not only do the people suffer from the poverty brought by his useless wars against Sweden and Norway—waged in the name of spreading that new faith—but they are hunted for keeping sacred traditions. Families are slaughtered merely for keeping a Yule tree in their homes. Our Lord Odin hung for nine days upon the branches of Yggdrasil, and to forbid his people from honoring that sacrifice is blasphemy!”

  Silence fell. The torches crackled.

  The young man on the throne leaned back slightly, regarding the stranger with curiosity rather than anger.

  “That,”

  the hooded man said, bowing deeply,

  “is why I have been sent—by the wisdom of our Lord Odin and the light of our Lord Freyr—to grant you the power you need to end your father’s tyranny.”

  The blond youth before him was Prince Sweyn Forkbeard, son of King Harald Bluetooth and heir to Denmark’s throne.

  The hall around him was wide but rustic, built entirely of oak and pine. Behind the throne, the Tree of Yggdrasil was carved deep into the wood—a deliberate act of defiance against his father’s Christian court.

  Two royal guards stood beside the prince, armored in silver helms that covered even their eyes, long brown cloaks over chainmail, and fur-lined boots. Their swords rested at their sides, their golden hilts gleaming dimly under the firelight.

  Prince Sweyn was young, handsome, his golden beard still light, and his violet eyes sharp as a hawk’s. He wore a crimson cloak over a brown tunic, and around his neck hung a Mjolnir pendant—the hammer of Thor, symbol of luck and protection against evil spirits.

  He had long been torn between loyalty and ambition.

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  In his mind, the idea of rebelling against his father grew stronger each day—especially since he commanded the most powerful Viking force in the north: the Jomsvikings.

  But what truly intrigued him was the stranger’s claim.

  Could this man truly be an envoy of Odin and Freyr?

  The prince took a slow sip from his golden chalice, eyes fixed on the kneeling figure.

  The guards beside him shifted uneasily, ready to draw their blades should he give the order.

  “You do realize,” said Sweyn coldly, “that I could have you flayed alive for speaking against my father’s reign?”

  The hooded man raised his head slightly.

  “Because I have seen into your heart,” he replied calmly.

  “You are a warrior of true courage—the supreme commander of the Jomsvikings, a brotherhood created by Odin himself. Your devotion to Asgard is pure, your will unbroken.”

  The guards’ hands tightened on their swords.

  But Sweyn, intrigued, lifted his hand and motioned for them to stand down.

  “Leave us,” he ordered.

  “All of you.”

  The guards hesitated, exchanged wary glances, then bowed and exited the hall. The servants followed, leaving the two men alone amid the flickering torches and the smell of burning resin.

  Sweyn leaned forward on his throne.

  “If what you say is true, then prove it. What proof do you have that you’ve been blessed by our lords Odin and Freyr?”

  The man smiled faintly beneath the shadow of his hood.

  “My lord Sweyn,” he said, “one of your guards is a devout Christian—he was planning to inform your father of this conversation. But I have already stopped his heart.”

  Sweyn frowned.

  “What?”

  “If you examine his body,” continued the man evenly,

  “you will find a crucifix bearing the image of that naked carpenter they worship.”

  A sudden commotion erupted outside.

  The prince rose abruptly, spilling his wine onto the floor, and rushed toward the great oak doors.

  When he flung them open, chaos awaited him—servants screamed, and one of his guards lay motionless on the ground as others knelt beside the corpse, pale with terror.

  The prince shouted,

  “Quickly! Let me see the man!”

  The men and women stepped aside, and the prince knelt to examine the soldier. Indeed, he was dead. Beneath his chainmail lay a crucifix, just as the mysterious man had said.

  “He’s dead,” the prince said sharply. “Take him to the infirmary at once and determine the cause of death.”

  “Yes, my lord!” the guards replied, carrying the body away.

  The prince ordered everyone else to return to their duties and not to disturb him. He went back to his chamber and shut the doors. The hooded man was still kneeling on one knee, waiting for him.

  “Now, can you see the extent of my powers, my lord?”

  the man said.

  The prince couldn't help but show a look of perturbation. He tried to hide it, but the truth was that this man had done 'something' to end a man's life without even touching him.

  “How can I trust that you won’t do the same to me?”

  asked the prince, his expression tense with unease.

  The self-proclaimed prophet just shook his head, although some sarcasm and malice could be felt in his expression, even though his face could not be seen with the naked eye.

  “I am a servant of the great lord Odin, as I told you,” replied the mysterious man.

  “I would never do anything that goes against my master’s will.”

  Nervous, the prince moved away from the man and sat on his throne, trying to look magnanimous and proud. But his hand trembled as he reached for another chalice of wine.

  “Very well. I want to see you again—but not here,” said the prince. “I have a place for that. There is a hut outside the walls of Aros, near the great cedar forest to the east. Go there tomorrow at dusk.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the mysterious man said as he rose. He bowed deeply and left the room.

  Once he was gone, Sweyn sat back on his throne and smiled with a dark, twisted grin.

  “Soon, I will be king of Denmark”, he thought.