Chapter 2: The Sight of Helheim

  Ragnar stood atop a cracked gray hill, its jagged crest thrust like a broken blade from a sea of flame that roared and writhed below. Tongues of fire licked at his boots, their heat a ceaseless clawing against his legs, yet he stood firm, unbowed. At his feet sprawled the great wolf, its white fur charred to ash, frame rent by wounds oozing tar, chains melted into the burning earth, one yellow eye glaring blankly upward—dead, loyal to the end, likely the last of his kin to fall beside him. His axe swung heavy in his hands, its blade slick with black blood, biting deep into a shambling hulk that staggered through the blaze. The beast’s gray flesh tore open, hollow sockets weeping ichor that hissed and steamed in the fire, its skeletal claws raking the ground as it shrieked—a sound like iron dragged across stone. Around him, his clan lay strewn across the hill—warriors of blood and oath, their bodies charred to husks, flesh blackened and split, eyes hollow pits beneath cracked helms. Their shields lay shattered, axes fallen from lifeless grips, all silenced before this moment. The enemy surged relentless, a tide of shadow and ruin rising through the inferno.

  The sky above churned a sickly green, its glow a faint, ashen smear that bled from the horizon, casting the world in a shroud of decay. Fire rained down in a ceaseless deluge—searing embers streaking like arrows loosed by wrathful gods, each strike feeding the pools of flame that devoured the earth. The heat twisted the air into a haze of smoke and screams, a relentless torment that gnawed at the senses, yet Ragnar’s stance held, his breath a steady rhythm amid the chaos. Here honor burned away, where the soul endured an endless scorch of pain and shadow. The land stretched vast and ruined beyond the hill—a wasteland of charred rock and molten mire, rivers of fire carving through the desolation. No borders held, all lands a searing end, for the fire had consumed all that lived. The horizon glowed red, a wound torn across the world, and from its depths came the howls of things unmade—echoes of a doom that spared nothing.

  Above, the ember-streaked sky writhed with gaunt horrors—bat-like abominations, their tattered hides blistering over brittle frames, wings trailing smoke as they wheeled and clashed. Their shrieks pierced the roar of the flames, talons ripping flesh mid-flight as they turned on one another in mindless fury. One dove, its maw gaping with jagged fangs, and Ragnar swung, his axe cleaving through its wing. It crashed in a spray of embers, its screech swallowed by the fire’s thunder. Another swooped low, its claws outstretched, and he met it with a bellow, blade slicing through its neck, black blood sizzling as it sprayed across his arms. His chest rose and fell, hands firm on the haft. The hill trembled beneath him, the ground splitting with fresh fissures that belched flame and ash, yet he fought on, a rock against the tide.

  The enemy pressed closer—beasts of shadow born from the fire’s depths. A hulking thing lumbered forth, its body a grotesque meld of sinew and bone, a dozen mismatched eyes glaring from a skull split by a maw of teeth like broken swords. Its roar shook the air, and Ragnar met it, axe burying deep in its chest, splitting it wide. Another charged—a twitching mass of worms and flesh, its limbs too many and too long—and he split its skull with a single blow, filth sizzling as it sprayed across the burning ground. “Come, ye wretched filth!” he bellowed, voice a thunderclap cutting through the blaze, boots planted in the molten pool that seared around him. “I’ll send ye deeper!” More came, an unending swarm—things of claw and fang, of shadow and rot—pouring from the cracks in the earth, their wails a chorus of despair. He swung in wide, brutal arcs, each strike a defiance, each foe felled a mark of his will. The ember-rain thickened, a storm of fire that coated the hill in smoldering ash, the winged horrors bursting into flame as they fell, their ashes mingling with the smoke.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The vision stretched beyond the hill, a tapestry of ruin unfurling in his mind’s eye. Seas boiled, their surfaces a froth of steam and blood, ships swallowed by waves of molten red. Mountains melted, their peaks dissolving into rivers of slag that poured into the abyss. The distant halls of the gods flickered through the haze, their golden light dimming as shadows clawed at their edges—a world unmade, a doom that spared no realm. The air grew heavier, the flames louder, a roar that drowned all else, and still Ragnar stood, the last man, his axe a beacon in the dark.

  Then, through the swirling smoke and fire, a vast figure loomed—a warrior forged of war and ruin, a behemoth towering like an ancient pine against the sky, his frame clad in scarred iron, his presence a weight that stilled the air. His eyes burned like molten steel, cutting through the haze to lock onto Ragnar’s. In his grip, a massive axe rose, its blade notched and slick with blood, wide as a man was tall. The ground quaked as he stepped forward, each stride a tremor that split the hill anew, flames parting before him like a broken shield-wall. Ragnar tightened his hold, a snarl curling his lips, his own axe raised high. They charged, the distance closing in a heartbeat, the air splitting with the fury of their roars. Weapons swung—his blade a streak of steel, the warrior’s a wall of ruin—rushing to clash in a strike that would rend the world. Just before steel met steel, his eye flared with light beneath the patch, and he jolted awake.

  His eye snapped open, breath steady. He slumped in his high-backed chair, wolfskin cloak tangled around him, the great hall silent but for the drone of snores. The feast of victory had burned out, drowned in ale. Torches guttered low, their flickering light casting shadows over the sprawl of bodies—men and women collapsed where they’d fallen, some sprawled across benches, others curled in the rushes, mugs clutched in limp hands or spilled beside them, furs askew and tangled. The long tables groaned under the night’s remnants—gnawed bones of boar and venison, crusts of bread scattered among the wreckage, tankards tipped in pools of foam. The air hung sour with the reek of drink and sweat, thick with the weight of a revelry spent. The great wolf curled beside the dais, its massive form rising and falling with deep, rumbling breaths, fur matted with dried blood from its feast. Ragnar’s hand rested on his axe, the heat of the vision still simmering in his bones, a fire that lingered like a warning.