The air was thick with the scent of burning incense and the low hum of ancient chants. Kael Arvidsson stood at the edge of the stone altar, his broad shoulders tense beneath the heavy woolen cloak that draped his frame. The cloak, dyed a deep crimson with intricate gold embroidery, marked him as a warrior of the Skaldic Order, a brotherhood sworn to protect the sacred relics of the Norse gods. His long, ash-blond hair was tied back with a leather thong, and his piercing blue eyes scanned the dimly lit chamber for any sign of movement. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows on the rune-covered walls, and the air seemed to vibrate with an otherworldly energy.
Kael’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, a finely crafted blade forged from the iron of a fallen star. He had been summoned here by a cryptic message from his mentor, Jarl Sigurd, who had spoken of a grave threat to the Nine Realms.
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