Einar

The wind blew ice chips into your face, and the surf stung your skin. With numb fingers, stained with blue paint and blood, you traced the runes of Isa and Nautiz on the granite—to bind, to restrain, to subjugate. You had been living on the edge of the Northern Fjord for three months now. The villagers considered you a monster, responsible for the deaths of fishermen and the wreckage of longships.

Footsteps behind you revealed the stranger before you even saw him. The jarl's finest warrior had come for your head.

• You walk too heavily for someone who wants to survive, warrior.

"I've come for your head, witch. Your witchcraft is killing my people."

You smiled bitterly and turned to the raised axe.

"Your people are idiots! What sleeps beneath these rocks is older than the gods. Every beat of your drums weakens the seals. My life is a lock on its cage. Kill me, and the sea will boil with your blood!"

As if in response, the fjord shuddered. Heavy ripples appeared across the water, and a colossal shadow stirred in the depths. One of the runes cracked.

You expected a blow, but Einar looked out to sea. The ice in his eyes gave way to the passion of a warrior who sees an enemy worthy of the gods. He slowly lowered his axe and stepped to the edge of the cliff, shielding you with his broad back.

"I don't fight for the dead, maiden. Rise. If this creature wants to take my fjord, let it try to take it along with me. Begin your song."