CHAPTER 37: "DRAGON TRAINING" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER

CHAPTER 37: "DRAGON TRAINING" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

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The Great Hall of Aalborg had fallen into an odd, brittle silence—one thick enough that even the flickering fire pits seemed to hesitate before crackling again. The air smelled of roasted herbs, burning resin, and the faint electronic hum of the hall’s bio-tech architecture. Wooden pillars, grown rather than built, spiraled up into the canopy like ribbed spines of some ancient titan.

Borghilda stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, eyes sharp as carved green crystal. Across from her sat Alexandria, Niko, Khamzat, and Samuel—each of them stiff-backed, hands folded, as if awaiting judgment.

“So… you four are the legendary Rus?” her voice carried the weight of history itself.

Samuel scoffed as if offended; it took this long to acknowledge them. “It’s about time someone noticed our presence.”

But Borghilda cut him off like a knife slicing leather. “You’re not welcome here. Not in our timeline.”

Niko and Khamzat exchanged a look. Alexandria straightened, as if preparing to defend her entire people.

“Why not?” Alexandria asked. “We gave your people everything.”

Borghilda’s expression hardened further. “You invaded our timeline with your Skogarmaors, disrespected our culture, and believed you could repay your wrongdoings through gifts.”

Her words hit the hall like falling axes.

Samuel leaned forward, indignant. “We didn’t just give you any gifts—we gave you advanced technology.”

Alexandria hissed through clenched teeth, “Shut up, Samuel.”

But Borghilda wasn’t interested in their internal squabbles. “You’re correct about one thing…” she said coldly. “You picked a convenient place to send your prisoners. We made short work of them.”

Alexandria’s face lost all color. “H-How did you know the truth?”

Borghilda stepped closer to the table, the firelight cutting a harsh silhouette around her. “Just because the universe is large doesn't mean word fails to travel. During the war against your Knights, some of your prisoners fell into our custody. They told us exactly who the Rus really are.”

Her gaze sharpened on them like a spearhead. “A few of your Skogarmaors showed reverence to our ideals. Only a few.”

Alexandria swallowed, then forced herself to speak. “That was the point—to heal them. And to heal this entire timeline so Maladrie doesn’t take over and destroy more realms.”

Borghilda laughed—a short, humorless huff. “Yes… but you attempted it in the most reckless way imaginable. You thought only of yourselves, and now you sit here drowning in guilt.”

Alexandria’s voice cracked. “So you don’t want our help anymore?”

“No.” Borghilda didn’t hesitate. “The only help you ever gave us was unwanted outlaws, poor leadership, misinformation, division, and scorn among my people.”

Her hand rested on the table, fingers tapping once—final, decisive. “The only use you bring are your warriors.”

Alexandria stared down at her hands, shoulders sagging. “But we saw how negative emotions feed the Wraith—feed Hell. We truly want to make amends for our ignorance.”

Borghilda’s tone softened only slightly. “Since when did you care about stopping wars when you started them?” She shook her head. “Besides, trust is earned slowly, and lost quickly.”

Alexandria sank back into her chair, defeated, her face hidden behind a curtain of dark hair.

The entire hall went silent—painfully silent—until Emily, Bestla, and I stepped inside fully. Emily and I had only been gone a short while with Bestla, but returning felt like stepping into a room where a storm had just passed through. Before I could ask what happened, Borghilda continued a conversation I clearly had interrupted. Every eye shifted to us.

Borghilda straightened and addressed us directly: “William, Emily, Bestla—now that you’ve returned, we should proceed with the next phase of the ritual.”

I glanced around. Everyone stared at the table or the floor. No chatter, no awkward jokes, no scraping plates. Just tension.

“Did you all have a meditation session while we were gone?” I asked. “It’s so quiet.”

Borghilda lifted her chin. “We were having a serious discussion with your Rus friends.”

Before anyone could soften the mood, Cole muttered the quiet part aloud, leaning back in his chair with a smirk: “Calling them friends is generous.”

Samuel shot him a glare. Niko looked like he agreed but didn’t dare say it. Alexandria kept her head down. The air thickened again. And the ground beneath all of us felt like it was shifting—politically, spiritually, and perhaps literally as the ritual loomed.

The rain began as a whisper—fine droplets sliding through the high canopy of Verdant’s temperate jungle—just as our large party stepped out of the capital building. The doors of Aalborg hall groaned shut behind us, sealing away the echo of political tension that still hummed in the back of all our minds.

The city streets were alive at dusk, lined with towering root-structures, moss-bridges, and bioluminescent lantern fungi. Verdant citizens stopped to stare—not fearfully, not aggressively, but with the alert, animal sharpness of people who had heard rumors of the Rus and now saw them walking openly beside their Jarl.

Bestla led the procession atop her Warg-Rex, its scaled paws clicking against the wooden causeway. Borghilda followed close behind, riding a larger, slate-skinned Ceratosaur, the creature’s bone horn glinting with each flicker of passing glow vines.

We—William, Emily, Serenity, Anisia, Cole, Hanna, Mathew, Elizabeth, Jimmy, Pete, Rick, Alexandria, Samuel, Niko, Khamzat, and Droid L-84—walked behind them in tight formation through Aalborg winding eco-streets. Rain slicked the organic architecture into a shifting spectrum of greens and blues.

By the time we reached the city’s outer perimeter, Verdant’s great walls—grown from braided sequoia-like trees—arched overhead like ribs of a sleeping titan.

And once we stepped beyond those living gates… The wilderness swallowed us whole.

Into Verdant’s Jungle, a dense canopy closed over our heads. Raindrops glimmered across enormous fern fronds. Bioluminescent trees—slender and towering—pulsed gently in soft hues of cyan and indigo. Strange mammals, their bodies sleek and striped with glowing patterns, grazed calmly in the conifer-grass, unbothered by our presence.

The deeper we walked, the more alien Verdant became.

Large orange flowers, each as tall as a man, bowed under the weight of gathered rainwater. Their petals trembled whenever a droplet struck them, releasing small clouds of golden spores that drifted lazily into the forest air.

Far above, the shapes of sauropods—massive giants—reached into the treetops, chewing contemplatively. Their calls reverberated in deep bass tones that vibrated through our chests, like the planet itself was humming.

Emily reached out to touch my arm. “They sound peaceful,” she whispered, more to the forest than to me.

The trail grew rougher as we pushed deeper. The jungle floor was soft and wet, covered in thick beds of bioluminescent moss. Rain rolled down our armor plates and pooled around our boots. Even Droid L-84, usually emotionless, tilted its head slightly as the sauropod calls rumbled overhead—perhaps recording them, perhaps assessing threat levels.

We pressed on for a long while. Until the jungle opened.

The canopy broke apart, revealing a vast clearing framed by steep cliffs. Mist rolled in sheets across the open space.

Ahead stood a mountain—dark, jagged, ancient—its summit wreathed in drifting fog.

And beyond it…

Floating mountains, suspended in the air like pieces of broken worldstone. Vines dangled from their undersides. Waterfalls poured from them into nothingness, dissipating into glittering vapor before touching the earth.

Everyone stopped at the same time. Even the mounts.

The sight pulled the breath from our lungs.

Borghilda swung off her Ceratosaur with practiced ease. Boots splashing lightly in the wet soil, she approached me, her braid dripping with rainwater. Without a word, she pressed a pair of binoculars into my hand.

I raised them toward the floating peaks.

And froze.

There—perched across the suspended cliffs—were Dragons. Dozens of them. Their wings were wide, patterned in stark black and white, like the sleek pelt of an orca whale. Red spines and head crests crowned each one, glowing faintly under the stormlight.

They congregated peacefully, folding their wings, rumbling low calls across the mountains like drifting thunder.

I lowered the binoculars slightly. “What are those?” I asked quietly.

Borghilda stepped beside me, rain streaming down her armor. “Those are Orka Dragons.”

I watched them again, awe twisting in my chest. “That’s a fitting name… but why do we need these dragons when we already have one back in Cybrawl?”

Borghilda exhaled softly, her breath fogging. “Emily told me your species was a River Guard Dragon. Orka Dragon blood is the only species compatible with this ritual—as far as we know.”

She gestured toward the floating peaks. “Besides… we’re already here.”

She turned toward the group and raised her voice with authority. “Everyone—activate your armor. Just in case.”

The tone sent a ripple of unease through us.

Samuel groaned loudly. “Great. More adventure.”

Alexandria shot back instantly. “I’m more than happy to fire you, Sam.”

Samuel’s armor flared to life, plates locking and sealing with a hiss. “No thanks. This is the only source of income I have.”

The rest of us activated our armor, one by one—metallic ripples, hums, shifting plates, light flowing across surfaces like awakened circuits.

Verdant’s clouds thickened above us as thunder rolled over the floating mountains. Then we began our ascent.

Climbing the mountain on foot, armor gleaming under the rain, weapons secured, senses sharpened.

The Orka Dragons waited somewhere above. The ritual waited. And Verdant itself seemed to hold its breath.

The mountain air grew colder as we continued our ascent, our boots sinking into moss-slick stone and ancient roots that clung to the mountainside like the veins of the world. The jungle below became a sea of shifting vapor—blue-tinged mist rising from bioluminescent canopies, drifting upward toward us as if reluctant to let us go.

We pushed on.

Above us, the first of the floating mountains drifted silently in the sky—immense geological islands suspended by some unknown gravimetric anomaly, rotating ever so slightly on invisible axes. Their undersides glowed with faint purple runes, natural or ancient—it was impossible to tell.

Our breaths came out in visible clouds as we reached the mountain’s peak. The summit was flat, crowned by gnarled branches as thick as industrial cables. They writhed together in a natural lattice, bridging the gap to the nearest floating mountain. Bestla called them sky-roots—verdant highways used by Verdant’s native megafauna.

They groaned under our weight as we stepped onto them.

Some of the roots dipped and swayed like suspension bridges. Others felt as firm as steel beams. Step by step, we crossed through the thin mountain mist and onto the first floating island. The air changed instantly—lighter, thinner, charged with static from the impossible levitation.

We repeated the process again and again—branch to branch, island to island—ascending through the drifting archipelago until we reached the highest of them all:

Mount Skarstind. From afar it looked like a single floating mountain, but up close it was almost an ecosystem unto itself—a vast plateau carved by wind, water, and time. A crystalline creek ran from the mountain’s crown, cascading off the edge in an impossibly long waterfall that plunged into the clouds below. The wind carried the roar of water through the plateau like distant thunder.

And gathered around the creek were the Dragons. The Orka Dragons.

Dozens of them. Massive, sleek, and patterned in striking black-and-white bands like living Orca Whales. Their hides shimmered with a pearlescent sheen, and their red spines glowed faintly with internal bioluminescence. Their wings—broad, segmented membranes stretched over thick cartilage—spanned forty to fifty feet when unfurled. Their bodies stretched sixty feet tip to tail.

They were elegant, terrifying, and sacred. Everyone slowed. Even I did. For the first time in a long time… I felt small.

The dragons lifted their heads as we approached, their nostrils flaring, their tails snapping through the air with low vibrating thuds that rattled loose stones. One of the smaller ones, roosting in a shallow den carved into the cliff wall, watched us with intense curiosity.

“Now what?” I asked, my voice echoing across the stone plateau.

Borghilda stepped toward me, her Ceratosaur mount lowering itself submissively before the dragons. She reached into a pouch strapped to her belt and withdrew something small—metallic, reflective.

A syringe. She pressed it into my palm. “You must draw blood from a large specimen,” Borghilda said, her tone stern but unwavering, “and tame it.”

I blinked. “Tame it? You never said anything about taming.”

“William,” she replied, “from my understanding, the gods give you strength.”

I rolled my eyes, though a part of me hoped she was right. I turned back to the dragons.

Their movements became sharper as I approached—heads tilting, wings twitching, tails rising off the ground in warning arcs.

I tightened my grip on the syringe and moved carefully toward one of the dragons nearest the creek. Its tail rested in the water, black scales rippling with shifting highlights. I crouched, inching toward it—when the creature suddenly launched itself into the sky with explosive force.

The wind from its wings nearly knocked me off my feet. I exhaled sharply. “Amazing…”

Another dragon perched near the cliff edge. I sprinted toward it, but as soon as I got close it reared upward with a piercing screech. The force made me stumble backward. Then, in an instant, it too soared away, disappearing into the mist.

Two failed attempts. I felt an irritation prick under my skin—but also awe.

Then it happened. A shadow swept across my vision. I turned— Just in time to see a massive Orka Dragon behind me. This one dwarfed the others. Its red crest was shaped like a double-bladed axe, its black-and-white pattern sharper, more jagged. Its tail was thick, powerful—the end shaped like a fluke. And it struck. The tail slammed into my chest like a meteor.

I flew backward, smashing against the canyon wall hard enough to crack stone. A shriek tore from the dragons roosting nearby. The force knocked the wind from my lungs—but I pushed myself back to my feet in a single explosive motion.

The dragon wasn’t attacking me. It was charging toward my companions. Instinct shot through my body like electricity.

I lunged, grabbing the dragon’s tail before it could leap. My boots dug into the ground, dragging twin trenches as the beast attempted to pull away. Muscles screamed. My back felt like it was tearing open.

With a roar tearing out of my throat, I pivoted and threw the creature forward toward the edge of the cliff. Dust and pebbles erupted in every direction as its body skidded.

That only angered it. It lunged—talons slamming into my sides and hoisting me upward. Suddenly I was airborne, rising into the sky, claws digging through my armor. I had seconds to think. My hand shot instinctively to my belt pouch. The glass shard. The one from the Wraith realm. Cold. Sharp. Faintly pulsing.

The dragon ascended higher, ready to drop me—or tear me apart.

With a surge of strength, I jerked myself free of its talons, scrambling along the ridges of its leg until I flung myself onto its back. My fingers dug into the spines along its neck as its wings bucked violently.

Then I pulled the shard forward. I held it before the dragon's eyes. The reaction was immediate.

Its body stiffened. The wings steadied. The chaotic flapping smoothed into a controlled glide.

The dragon’s black eyes—previously wild and unfocused—locked onto the shard with eerie calm. We drifted in a gentle arc, descending toward Mount Skarstind.

The moment we touched down, the dragon lowered itself into a kneeling posture its crest dipping toward me like a warrior bowing to a king.

Emily stared in awe. Borghilda stood beside her, astonished.

“Good job,” Borghilda said quietly. “I knew you were capable. Are you ready to go back to Aalborg?”

I brushed dust from my armor and exhaled in relief. “Yes… but the rest of you are walking back.”

A few of the group groaned. I turned to Emily and extended my hand. “Emily?”

She smiled, slipping her fingers into mine and climbing onto the dragon’s back with me.

As we lifted into the sky, climbing above the plateau, we heard Jimmy call up jokingly: “Walking is good exercise anyway!”

Borghilda laughed softly. “They earned the flight home. Let’s go, folks.”

So they began their long descent—Bestla, Borghilda, the Rus, the warriors, the droid, and the rest of our companions—while Emily and I soared through the drifting clouds on the back of a newly tamed Orka Dragon.

Aalborg gleamed in the distance like a jewel of wood, stone, and vine. And the wind carried us home.

Emily and I soared across Verdant in a silence so deep it felt suspended between heartbeats. The Orka Dragon’s wings carved through the gray-green sky with slow, powerful strokes, each one carrying us over endless canopies of titanic trees, over drifting islands of moss-covered stone, and over rivers that shimmered like polished jade.

The wind pulled softly at Emily’s braided hair as she leaned forward, her arms loosely around my waist—not tightly enough to hold on for safety, but gently enough to tell me she trusted me… or wanted me to notice that she did.

But she didn’t speak. Not once. Not until the city of Aalborg appeared again through the trees like a dream of wood and steel.

“We should land there,” Emily said suddenly, pointing toward a clearing just outside the city—an overgrown ancient garden bordered by monoliths leaning with age.

I guided the Orka Dragon downward in a slow spiral. Its landing was soft, almost reverent, the conifer grass bending in a circle beneath its weight. We dismounted together.

I brushed my palms against my armored thighs and asked quietly, “Why land here?”

Emily’s expression softened. “Follow me.”

So I did.

The garden was unlike anything we’d passed on the way to Aalborg. Ancient runic monoliths slanted under a blanket of moss. Flowers that bloomed in bioluminescent spirals curled up through the stones. The air smelled like rain mixed with old pine resin, a scent that felt older than the city itself.

Emily’s steps were slow. Purposeful. Almost… hesitant.

At the end of a narrow path, partly swallowed by vines, stood an A-frame house made of weathered wood and reinforced with old Verdant steel. The windows were dark, dusted lightly with age. A wind chime made from bones of some small animal clicked gently in the breeze.

Emily pushed open the door. Inside, time had stopped.

Warm dust filtered through narrow beams of light as I stepped in behind her. The house was small, cozy—built of heavy timber, preserved with care. A fire pit remained cold in the center, but the scent of meals long-forgotten lingered faintly in the air.

This was a home. A real one. A place that had seen family, laughter, grief.

Emily walked over to a simple wooden table and picked up an old photograph in a carved frame. I followed and gently took it from her.

A little Emily—maybe five or six—stood between her parents. Her elven father had long, blond hair and sharp features softened by a gentle smile. Her human mother stood opposite him, dark-haired, warm-eyed, and unmistakably resilient.

I murmured, “You were so small… And your mother was the outsider, from another timeline more specifically?”

Emily nodded, folding her arms across herself. “That’s correct. And I was glad to be raised by her, no matter what she was accused of, from her previous timeline.”

I set the photo down carefully, then breathed out. “Emily, something is bothering me.”

She turned, concerned about tightening her brow. “What is it?”

I hesitated. The room felt too still. Her eyes are too steady. “How come you didn’t intervene when Bestla was flirting with me?”

Emily didn’t react with jealousy or anger. Instead, she smiled with a soft exhale that was half amusement, half disappointment. “I was testing you… You shrugged off her advances, and you were hesitant to pat the dirt off her arse… I’d say you’ve improved.”

I then say, “I’m sorry, Emily.”

“Actually, I’m sorry.”

She stepped closer, her gaze lowering. “I’m starting to realize you have trouble setting physical boundaries with other beautiful women, due to the temptations you’ve experienced in the Wraith.”

Her voice wavered—not with weakness but with memory. Then she hugged me. Tightly. As though something inside her had finally cracked open. “And I’m also sorry for not being there after your first brutal encounter with the Shark People. I left you alone in that cold hospital with a weird scientist who turned out to be one of them. You didn’t deserve that.”

The apology hit deeper than expected.

As she stepped back, she placed a hand over my chestplate, fingers trembling. Her armor shimmered faintly—and then dissolved away, folding into itself until only her jumpsuit remained.

She looked up at me with a quiet vulnerability I hadn’t seen since the beginning. “Willy…”

I reached for her hand—slowly, deliberately.

And the moment that followed dissolved into soft light, quiet breaths, and the sound of rain striking the old wooden roof overhead.

The world outside continued turning. But inside the A-frame house… the past and present finally aligned.

Emily and I realized it was getting dark when the dim blue haze through the windows of the old A-frame began to shift into deep indigo. The rain outside had softened to a mist, leaving the air cool and washed clean. A faint, almost sacred silence settled over the ancient garden—broken only by the distant hum of Verdant wildlife preparing for nightfall.

We slipped off the old bed—its wooden frame creaking softly under the movement—and began to reassemble ourselves for the world outside. Emily pulled her dark leather jumpsuit from the chair by the door, brushing away flecks of dust before stepping into it. I retrieved mine from the floorboards beside the bed, fastening the clasps and tightening the fitted seams across my chest.

One by one, our armor systems activated with soft mechanical chimes. Metal panels materialized over our jumpsuits, locking into place along our arms and ribs. Emily’s armor shimmered with faint silver accents, reflecting her Verdant heritage. Mine took in light with the dark, obsidian energy signature I had grown accustomed to since arriving in this timeline.

When we opened the door, a cool breath of night swept in. Verdant at night was an entirely different world.

The towering trees surrounding the garden pulsed with bioluminescent veins—soft greens, deep violets, faint blues—all running like living circuitry beneath their bark. High above, drifting spores from flowering treetops glowed like slow-falling stars. The soft conifer grass bent under our boots, each blade tipped with luminescent dew.

Emily inhaled deeply as if breathing in memories.

We followed the narrow cobblestone path through the glowing garden, and there—half-hidden near a thick conifer bush—rested our tamed Orka Dragon.

The creature had curled its body in a crescent shape, wings folded neatly, tail coiled around itself. The black-and-white hide gleamed faintly under the bioluminescent canopy, and the red crest atop its head flickered with an occasional pulse of reflected light. It looked peaceful. Innocent, even. A stark contrast to the violent trials it had put us through earlier.

Emily motioned for silence. We approached slowly, each step soft and measured.

I reached toward my belt pouch and pulled out the syringe—its glass chamber glinting. Emily watched carefully, her armor lights dimming automatically to avoid startling the creature.

We reached its side. Its breath rumbled like a distant storm. I knelt beside its flank, found a vein near the base of its massive wing, and steadied my hand. The skin was warm. Alive. The pulse beneath was strong. With one smooth movement, I pressed the syringe in.

The Orka Dragon twitched but did not rise. Its eyelids fluttered, and it released a soft, rumbling exhale. The chamber filled with deep crimson—blood dense with the strange, ancient power Verdant Dragons possessed.

“Almost… almost…” I whispered.

And then— click The vial was full. I withdrew the needle and sealed the top. We stepped back carefully. Only once we were several paces away did I speak.

“So Emily,” I said as we walked along the glowing path, “dragons are a big part of your culture?”

Emily nodded without hesitation. “Yes. But the whole Talking Tree thing is relatively new.” Her tone carried curiosity, not belief. If anything, mild skepticism.

I frowned. “New? That’s a bit odd, especially when that tree resembles death and decay.”

Emily paused mid-step, turning her head slightly. “You think the Talking Tree is evil?”

“It’s definitely untrustworthy,” I said. “And we should keep an eye on it.”

Emily exhaled a small huff—half amusement, half dismissal. “Come on, Willy, we should get back to Aalborg.” She tapped her wrist gauntlet twice, activating its directional beacon toward the city.

I secured the dragon blood within a reinforced belt canister, tugged it tight, and nodded. “Let’s go.”

Side by side, we walked down the glowing garden path. Behind us, the Orka Dragon lifted its head briefly, watching us leave with unblinking dark eyes—before lowering it again into its coils.

Ahead, the night sky opened, lit by drifting bioluminescent spores and the distant lights of Aalborg shining between ancient trees.

Together, we carried the Dragon blood back toward the capital—toward Borghilda, Bestla, and the ritual that awaited us.

Emily and I passed under the arching branches that formed the outer boundary of Aalborg’s capital garden. Night had fully taken hold, but Verdant’s bioluminescent flora turned the darkness into a living lantern. Blue and green light shimmered across the stone walkways, catching on drifting spores that floated through the air like miniature comets.

As we stepped into the circular clearing where the Talking Tree rooted itself in its ancient bog, we saw everyone already assembled—our friends, our acquaintances, and a surprising number of Wood Elves and Viking Humans. They had formed a wide ring around the muddy perimeter, their bodies positioned in meditation postures. The Talking Tree itself loomed at the center: a tall, black, almost ashen figure with bark cracked into vein-like fissures. Those fissures pulsed with sickly white light. Its roots spread into the bog like skeletal fingers reaching through the mud.

The air hummed with reverence—something between a sacred rite and a quiet fear.

I spotted Bestla immediately.

She stood near the front of the circle, dressed in a flowing white gown that contrasted sharply with her usual armored attire. The gown draped over her tall frame in tapered folds, catching the glow of the surrounding lights. Her hair was braided back into intricate loops, and she looked more like a priestess than a warrior.

She stepped toward us, her expression serious, eyes fixed on the sealed syringe in my hand. Without a word, I handed it to her.

Bestla accepted it reverently—then walked to a low wooden table beside the bog. She uncorked a carved wooden bowl etched with ancient Verdant glyphs and poured the Orka Dragon’s blood into it. The thick, dark-red liquid glistened under the garden lights.

Once the last drop fell, she raised the bowl high above her head.

Immediately— the drummers began.

Four Wood Elves at the edge of the circle pounded on hidebound drums carved with spirals. The rhythm was slow at first, echoing across the garden like distant thunder. Then it built—layer by layer—into something deeper, something primal.

Chanting followed, a low vibration that rose from dozens of throats.

Some of the Elves and Humans began to dance around the circle in slow, spiraling steps, arms sweeping like the tides.

And then— A masked woman entered the clearing.

She wore a white gown similar to Bestla’s, but hers was longer, trailing behind her like a mist. Her mask was bone-white, carved with angular runes that glowed faintly. In her right hand she carried a long staff—topped with a jawbone of a shark, polished and engraved.

The air shifted when she stepped forward.

Even Emily stiffened.

I was thrown off—not by the ritual itself, but by the intensity of the worship directed at this strange, rotting “Talking Tree.” The reverence felt ancient. Older than the city. Older than Verdant. Almost… wrong.

But I needed answers. So I said nothing.

Bestla reached down and retrieved the bioluminescent root she had dug from the bog earlier. In the Garden’s night glow, the root pulsed like a living filament.

Then—without hesitation—she lifted the root to the back of her head.

I grimaced instinctively.

She stabbed it into her scalp.

It slid in with an almost surgical smoothness, the tip thin as a needle. Bestla didn’t flinch. Her eyes only widened for a moment before she exhaled slowly, adjusting to the sensation.

Then she looked directly at me.

“What do you want answered?” Her voice sounded distant—echoed—already sinking into trance.

I stepped forward. “I need to know where Valrra is… and the Arckon Sphere.”

Bestla nodded once.

Then she turned to the gathering crowd and lifted the bowl of Dragon’s blood.

Immediately the chants stopped. The drumming halted. The dancing froze mid-motion. Everyone sank to their knees in prayer—heads bowed, armor dimmed to nothing. The sudden silence was overwhelming. I stepped beside Bestla, steadying her hands as she lifted the wooden bowl to her lips. Together, Emily and I helped her drink.

The red liquid ran down her chin, staining her gown. Her eyes rolled back as soon as the last drop left the bowl. We guided her gently to the conifer grass, laying her down as her body slackened and her breathing slowed.

Her pupils moved rapidly beneath closed eyelids—whatever she was seeing, it was intense.

We waited. And waited.The silence stretched into long minutes. None of us could see what visions reached her through the Talking Tree.

Finally—Bestla’s eyes fluttered.

Emily and I helped her sit upright. Her breathing was unsteady, but her mind was slowly returning.

I leaned forward. “Well… what did you see?”

Bestla blinked several times, dazed.

Then she whispered: “All I can see is Valrra in pain… somewhere in a castle. She lost a lot of blood, but she’s still alive.”

Emily stiffened.

Bestla continued: “She’s on a planet with a lot of clouds.”

She paused as if searching for something more—some detail she might have missed. “As for the Arckon Sphere…” She swallowed. “It’s on a planet with a fallen statue holding a torch.”

The words struck the air like dull arrows. Not useless—but painfully vague. I felt my jaw tighten in frustration, though I said nothing.

Emily’s expression mirrored my own disappointment: eyes narrowed, lips slightly parted in disbelief. She didn’t speak, but the message was clear.

We had come all this way—risked all of this— And we still had barely anything concrete to go on.

The night air over Aalborg tasted metallic, sharp, almost electric against my tongue as Emily and I descended the stone steps leading away from the ritual site. The ceremonies final embers still glowed faintly behind us, drifting like dying fireflies across the forest floor. My fur was still tingling with the aftershocks of the magic we had invited—an ancient, heavy magic that felt older than the galaxies themselves.

Emily walked beside me in silence, her armor shaped from woven graphene plates and prismatic alloys. Under the moonlight the suit shimmered, throwing shifting patterns of silver across her figure with each step. Her helmet was tucked under one arm, her hair—black as the void between stars—flowing freely behind her like a banner trailing a ship through the astral winds.

We approached her childhood home, the old A-frame cabin nestled against a ridge of dark stone. The structure always felt strangely still, like it was holding its breath. Beside it, curled in a massive coil of armored muscle, our tamed Orka Dragon lay asleep. Its scales pulsed slow and steady, the glow reflecting across the snow-dusted soil like soft lantern light.

I stepped toward it.

Emily angled her head. “What are you doing, Willy?”

Her voice was gently curious, but beneath the softness I heard tension. Concern.

I placed my hand against the Orka Dragon’s rough hide, feeling the latent heat of its internal plasma sacs. “I need to figure out what’s going on,” I said quietly.

Emily moved closer, her shadow folding into mine. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

She asked it softly, but the glimmer in her silver eyes made clear she already knew my answer.

“Only if we move quietly,” I said. “And we should activate our invisibility cloaks—we can’t risk being seen tonight.”

Emily nodded without another word.

With a subtle gesture over my forearm bracer, my suit shimmered out of visibility. Emily activated hers as well, her figure dissolving into translucent distortion, until only footprints in the soil proved she walked beside me.

We harvested the blood quickly, drawing a small vial of the dragon’s viscous red essence, careful not to stir its dreaming consciousness. Then we slipped into the forest—silent specters beneath the moon—making our way back toward Aalborg’s capital gardens.

The city slept under a pale aurora glow as we crossed through the gates. Our cloaks hummed quietly with each step, bending the light around our bodies like liquid glass. Only when we reached the inner garden—where the sacred Talking Tree grew—did we deactivate them.

Our armor dissolved away as well, retracting into nano-woven belts along our hips, leaving us in light thermal under layers. The cold touched my fur, but the power in the air felt warm, almost feverish.

The Talking Tree towered before us, ancient bark veined with soft white light. Its branches rustled though no wind moved through the garden.

The wooden bowl used in the previous ritual sat at the base of its roots, still etched with faint blue lighting marks burned into its grain.

I knelt, slid the vial’s seal open, and poured the Orka Dragon’s blood into the bowl. It hissed on contact with the wood, emitting soft smoke that glowed faintly.

Emily stepped beside me and handed me the Tree’s root—the same root from before, carved smooth by centuries of use. “Are you ready?” she whispered.

“I have to be.” I angled the sharpened tip and, without hesitation, drove it into the back of my head.

A spike of electric fire surged through my brainstem. My vision exploded into white. The garden around me stretched, bending, warping. I felt the stars above me vibrate like plucked strings.

My senses sharpened beyond any normal boundaries. I could feel the earth beneath my claws—its deep slow heartbeat, its tectonic whispers. I felt the hum of satellites orbiting overhead. Every blade of grass around us vibrated with crystalline clarity.

Emily tilted my head gently and poured the dragon blood down my wolf snout. As it slid over my tongue, cold lightning surged through my veins. My vision shifted. I felt my pupils constrict and change. Emily gasped softly.

My eyes had turned from red to a pale, glowing silver. “Lie down,” she said gently.

She eased me into the conifer grass. The needles brushed against my fur, grounding me in their cool texture. My breaths came slow, deep, heavy.

And then I slipped out of consciousness. But I wasn’t powerless. I had control.

I stood within the dreamscape—a realm suspended outside time, shaped by the blood, the Tree, and my intent. The air rippled around me like an ocean, every color muted except for faint streaks of starlight.

“Show me,” I commanded.

The dream obeyed.

Light folded inward, collapsing into a tunnel of shadow that pulled me through until the world reshaped itself into a stone corridor.

A dungeon. Chains clattered softly from somewhere ahead.

Valrra appeared—strung up by her wrists, drained, her once-radiant skin pale from countless blood extractions. Her eyes widened when she sensed me. She couldn’t speak, but her terror burned through the silence like a scream.

But this time… something was different. Bestla’s earlier vision hadn’t shown this.

A figure stood in the shadows—a tall, unnatural pale man with ink-black eyes and robes that hung off him like liquid midnight. His presence felt wrong, like a hole in the universe disguised as a person.

He was watching Valrra. Studying her like a specimen.

Before I could move, the vision warped, twisting like a cloth being wrung out.

Colors smeared into darkness before settling into a new scene.

Still the same fortress. I now stood in a circular chamber lit with green hellfire.

A brunette woman with dark eyes and pronounced fangs spoke to Maladrie—the goddess of Hell herself. Their words were muffled under layers of distance, but I caught fragments of intent. Maladrie’s presence nearly crushed the dream around me—void-black armor carved with runic symbols, her aura thick with the stench of death and old celestial war.

Between them floated an orange holographic projection: a fallen statue holding a torch, lying broken in the sand.

Maladrie’s voice pierced the air: “They’ll never find the Arckon Sphere.”

The scene shattered. A third vision swallowed me whole.

I stood in a vast barren desert made of black sand. Shadows stretched for miles, broken only by the silhouette of the Talking Tree—its bark bleached bone-white, its branches bare.

Someone stood beneath it. Haj Tooth. Not dead. But changed.

Her hammerhead-like skull cast a long shadow across the dunes. Her mouth retained human lips, but twisted into a more feral shape. Her posture was different—no longer gentle or curious, but tense, predatory.

She turned toward me, eyes burning like cold stars. “You should hurry,” she snarled, voice deeper than I remembered. “Before the blood comes.”

The ground trembled. And suddenly the desert burst into an ocean of blood and skeletal remains, flooding outward in every direction like a tidal wave of death.

I gasped awake. My chest heaved, lungs tight, claws digging into the grass.

Moonlight washed over me as Emily grabbed my shoulders and helped me sit up.

“Willy—look at me.” Her voice was soft but urgent. “What did you see?”

I swallowed, feeling the visions still vibrating in my skull. “The truth,” I said.

And even speaking the words felt heavy. Like they were only the beginning.

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CHAPTER 37: "DRAGON TRAINING" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"