CHAPTER 38: "JARL" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER

CHAPTER 38: "JARL" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

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Night settled over Aalborg like a velvet shroud woven from starlight and old memories. The cold wind that moved through the conifer trees sounded almost like whispers—gentle, watchful, waiting. Sleep found me slowly, pulling me down into its gravity with the weight of everything I had seen, everything Emily and I had awakened.

But sleep wasn’t peaceful. It dragged me deeper. Down into the dream that wasn’t a dream.

First came the light. Then the silence. Then the choice.

I stood suspended in a vast void—neither sky nor ground, neither darkness nor brightness. Just an endless horizon that curved like the inside of a living eye. The air smelled of pine resin and static electricity, the strange signature of Verdant magic mixing with the residue of Wraith-altered energy still clinging to my veins.

Two figures formed out of the haze. Two futures.

On the left: Bestla—her reddish brown hair lifting in a phantom breeze, her expression warm, inviting, pained. Her presence radiated destiny twisted by temptation. I saw flashes of what that path held: a home in the snowy outskirts of Verdant fields, a cradle holding her son—a boy with my eyes and her mother’s smile—growing older with a hardened resentment that sharpened year by year. I saw Emily’s heart break in slow motion, her green eyes dimming under the weight of betrayal she could never outrun.

On the right: Emily—not lit by prophecy or grandeur, but by something steadier. A path veiled, uncertain, unpredictable. I saw vague silhouettes of battles to come, allies lost, futures obscured by smoke and cosmic stormlight. But through every fragment, Emily stood at my side—sometimes bruised, sometimes furious, sometimes exhausted—yet unwavering. The two of us, facing the dark together.

The dream told me clearly: One path offered passion and tragedy. The other offered hardship and loyalty. One demanded betrayal. The other demanded faith.

I didn’t hesitate. I stepped toward Emily.

The void folded inward, collapsing into a tunnel of light. The moment I made the choice, all pressure eased, as if a cosmic sigh moved through the dreamscape.

Even if the future turned grim, at least I wouldn’t face it alone. At least I’d have her.

Dawn rose softly in Verdant colors—muted greens, pale golds, and shimmering white rays shaped like delicate vines stretching across the sky. I awoke slowly, my breath fogging the chilly morning air inside the A-frame cabin.

Emily was already awake… lying against me, her arm curled over my chest, her face half-buried in my fur as if she had been watching over me the entire night.

Her warmth anchored me to the waking world.

For a long moment, we didn’t speak. We just held each other, breathing together as the alien sun climbed higher, painting the cabin walls in a shifting emerald glow.

Finally, I shifted gently and murmured, “Morning.”

Emily mumbled into my chest, “You’re warm… Don’t move yet.”

But after a few minutes, I carefully slid out from under her and rose. My muscles ached with the lingering remnants of visions and dream-prophecies, but the cold air helped clear my head.

I padded quietly to the small washroom—a smooth, metallic chamber with Verdant runic lights carved into the shower walls. With a wave of my hand, cold water cascaded from above, icy enough to bite into my skin.

My fur flattened under the freezing stream.

Moments later, footsteps approached behind me.

Emily stepped into the shower without a word, sliding her arms around my waist as the cold water poured over both of us. Her dark hair stuck to her shoulders like wet silk; droplets clung to her eyelashes like tiny silver stars.

We washed in comfortable silence, letting the shock of the cold sharpen our senses. When we emerged, steam rolling off us in pale threads, we dressed quietly—Emily in her sleek black-and-white leather jumpsuit, me in my standard off-duty gear.

The morning felt almost peaceful. Almost.

We stepped out onto the porch of the A-frame home—our temporary sanctuary—overlooking our personal garden. Verdant flora swayed in the dawn breeze: crystalline ferns reflecting green sunlight, long silver-tipped grasses humming with low bioluminescent pulses, and the fragrant blue vines coiling around the handmade trellises we’d reinforced with alloy bands.

I settled into one of the carved wooden chairs. The seat creaked slightly under my weight. Emily approached with a kind of deliberate grace, the jumpsuit hugging her figure like it had been printed directly onto her skin.

She didn’t ask permission. She simply slid onto my lap, draping one arm around my shoulders, her legs instinctively curling across mine. Her scent—metal, pine, and something warm and distinctly her—grounded me.

She leaned her forehead lightly against mine. “So,” she whispered, “did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” I answered, though the weight behind the word was heavier than the surface.

Emily brushed her thumb along my cheek. “So… what did you see from the Talking Tree’s visions last night? Not your dream this morning. The visions.”

I let out a long breath. “I saw that Bestla wasn’t lying,” I said slowly. “Except for one thing… She forgot to mention Haj Tooth.”

Emily’s brows furrowed. “Haj Tooth?”

“I’m starting to believe the shark hive is connected to the Talking Tree,” I said.

Her posture stiffened slightly. Not in fear—Emily didn’t fear easily—but in alertness, sharp and surgical.

“What makes you say that?” she asked.

I met her gaze. “I saw Haj Tooth during my meditative state. She said: ‘You should hurry, before the blood comes.’ And Bestla used that shark jaw totem during the previous ritual. Lastly, you said the Talking Tree is a new occurrence.”

Emily’s lips parted slightly, her eyes narrowing as she processed this.

“Well… it’s fairly new,” she said at last. “And I haven’t been here for most of my adult life. If it makes you feel better, we can ask Ikeem to study the Tree.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” I replied. “But if that’s the case… we’ll need to be quiet when conducting our studies. Some Verdant residents are touchy with their new idol.”

Emily nodded, resting her head lightly against mine again. “Then we’ll be quiet.”

And for a moment, the morning felt still. Peaceful. Deceptively peaceful.

Verdant sunlight filtered through the living canopies above us as Emily and I walked the winding path toward the city of Aalborg—its crystalline towers flashing like polished emerald spears against the green sky. Morning dew clung to the bioluminescent vines coiling along the stone walls, glowing gently beneath our steps. The cool breeze carried the scent of conifers, copper soil, and the faint static hum of Verdant energy fields waking for the day.

Emily walked beside me, her black-and-white leather jumpsuit catching the light with each step. My mind sharpened as the memory of visions, dreams, and prophecy lingered in my skull like an electric ghost. We walked without speaking for some time, both lost in the weight of the previous night’s revelations.

Ahead, Aalborg’s outer laboratory compound rose from the street like a geometric blossom—sleek, silver surfaces woven with vine-like copper conduits that pulsed rhythmically like veins. Verdant technology always seemed halfway alive, built from both machine and evolving organic design.

The entrance iris slid open as we approached, revealing the lab’s cool interior filled with holographic interfaces drifting like translucent leaves in the air.

Inside, the atmosphere shifted instantly—colder, sterile, humming with energy. And there he was.

Droid L-84 stood motionless, hooked into a towering charging pylon. His gold skeletal frame slumped forward with his cranial plate tilted slightly down, giving him the appearance of a knight resting mid-vigil. The charging cables connected to his spine pulsed with soft cyan lights.

Emily stepped forward and reached out instinctively. “I’ll unplug him now—”

“Wait,” I said quickly, extending an arm to stop her. “I have to make sure no malware gets into our friend. We don’t need another Deathskull incident.”

Emily froze mid-motion, then lowered her hand slowly. “That’s understandable,” she said, though concern flickered in her eyes.

I approached the console beside the charging pylon. Its surface awakened under my touch, generating a holographic projection of Droid L-84’s internal systems—circuits, virus-firewalls, memory sectors, routine logs. The green-tinted diagrams pulsed as diagnostic lines traced through his neural lattice.

For a moment, everything seemed normal. Then a red pulse flashed across the screen. My claws tightened around the console’s edge.

A small, contained anomaly file lingered inside the system quarantine—something had been attempted, but never executed.

“Someone tried to hack our droid,” I muttered, eyes narrowing. “And failed…”

The failed breach report flickered briefly before vanishing into the diagnostics archive.

“You can unplug him now,” I said.

Emily nodded and gently pulled the charging cables free. The pylon lights dimmed, and L-84’s frame vibrated faintly as internal power fully reengaged.

For a moment, he remained motionless. Then his golden fingers twitched. His head lifted.

And with a smooth, mechanical grace, Droid L-84 stood upright—shoulders straightening, optics glowing a steady amber.

His voice resonated with calm precision. “I am online.”

I stepped in front of him. “Were you aware that someone tried to implant a virus within you last night?”

Droid L-84’s head tilted slightly, gears shifting behind his cranial plating.

“I was,” he replied. “However, my upgraded security system blocked the intrusive virus. I also did not see who attempted to implant it. The hack was conducted remotely, anonymously, and with deliberate masking.”

His optics brightened as they analyzed both Emily and me.

Then he asked, “Aside from my hardware maintenance, why else have you awoken so early?”

I exhaled slowly, my tail flicking once behind me with the weight of everything still fresh in my mind.

“We need to send Ikeem down here,” I said. “He has to study the Talking Tree. We believe it’s connected to the Shark Hive.”

The room fell silent—heavy, cold, expectant. Even the machines seemed to pause, waiting for what came next.

Soft green dawnlight spilled through the crystalline skylights of the Aalborg laboratory as the doors swept open with a hydraulic whisper. The scent of sterilized metal and coolant shifted as Ikeem stepped inside, his boots echoing lightly across the polished floor.

Hovering beside him was his servo helm—an aerial probe shaped like a metallic skull fused with a Viking helmet, its eye sockets glowing faint blue as it scanned the lab. It drifted lazily around Ikeem like a watchful spirit.

He stopped when he noticed the three of us—Emily, Droid L-84, and myself—standing wide awake and fully geared despite the early hour.

Ikeem lifted a hand in greeting. “Hello. I got your message.”

I crossed my arms, still tense from the night before. “Well… what do you think?”

“It’s not about what I think,” Ikeem replied, tapping the side of the floating servo helm. “But what this saw while surveying Verdant. There appear to be more trees identical to the talking tree in the capital garden.”

The air in the room tightened. My fur bristled. I stepped forward. “Any correlation between the tree and the Shark People?”

Ikeem exhaled slowly. His normally calm demeanor took on a shadow of hesitation. “I would need to obtain a sample first before making any conclusions. Better safe than sorry, though.”

“Alright then,” I said. “I can help you get a sample from the talking tree in the capital garden. But we’ve got to move quietly. Everyone should still be asleep.”

Ikeem nodded.

Droid L-84’s optics brightened. Emily adjusted her jumpsuit and clipped a scanner to her belt.

Together—Emily, L-84, Ikeem, and I—we walked out of the laboratory and into the quiet morning streets of Aalborg. The city was nearly silent, the only sounds being distant Verdant fauna humming beneath the canopy and the soft hover-whir of the servo helm shadowing Ikeem from above.

The capital garden lay ahead, an illuminated cradle of massive conifers and glowing flora. Wisps of bioluminescent pollen drifted through the air like floating sparks from an unseen fire. The talking tree stood in its sacred place, its bark shimmering faintly as though breathing.

I walked toward the shallow bog where the ritual had taken place. On the mossy edge lay the bioluminescent root, still glowing a faint blue.

I bent down, lifted the root, and handed it over to Ikeem. “Should this suffice?” I asked.

Ikeem examined it briefly—then, without ceremony, cut the entire glowing tip off with a small plasma scalpel.

“Do you really need that much?” I asked, brow raised.

“Yeah,” Ikeem replied casually. “Why?”

I exhaled sharply. “That glowing blue tip is where the needle is. Wood Elves use it to inject themselves—to be one with the tree… or something else.”

Ikeem froze, finally realizing the weight of what he had just detached. “I… didn’t know what we were doing was improper.”

Emily stepped in gently, brushing her dark hair behind her ear, arms crossed. “It’s just a new fad my people are doing. Besides, we’ve got what we need anyway.”

Ikeem nodded, though worry clouded his expression. “I seriously hope I prove William wrong,” he muttered. “With so much to do, the last thing we need is another Shark People invasion.”

A burning question rose in my chest—one that refused to be silent. “How do we explain Haj Tooth,” I asked slowly, “who claimed to be evolved, with civilization and technology? After her death, the Shark People have been nothing but hostile. So… are they a subspecies? Or something else?”

Ikeem’s face turned grim. “What if Haj Tooth wasn’t real? Maybe she was just pretending to be your ally to benefit the Shark Hive. Shark People have been known to shapeshift. You can’t trust any one of them.”

I nodded, the bitter truth settling deep in my thoughts. Emily remained quiet but tense, eyes drifting toward the tree as if it might suddenly speak.

The four of us turned to leave, the early dawn still calm around us—until a sharp voice cut through the garden’s silence. “Hey! What are you folks doing?”

We all froze simultaneously. Borghilda’s silhouette appeared between the glowing plants—tall, armored, and unmistakably alert.

The great capital hall of Verdant—Aalborg’s towering heart—echoed with the subtle hum of living architecture. Translucent vines pulsed faint bioluminescent light along the carved wooden pillars, and the vaulted ceiling shimmered like a starlit canopy. The hall, usually a place of serene council, now vibrated with tension.

Seventeen of us stood gathered in the central chamber: Anisia, Serenity, Jimmy, Pete, Rick, Mathew, Elizabeth, Cole, Hanna, Ikeem, Alexandria, Samuel, Niko, Khamzat, Droid L-84, Emily, and me.

We formed a loose semi-circle before the throne dais, each of us silent as the heavy doors boomed shut behind us.

Jarl Borghilda stepped forward. Her eyes swept over us, stopping on Emily, Ikeem, and me with needle-like precision.

“So, William, Emily, and Ikeem,” she began, voice resonating through the chamber, “please tell us why you stole from the Talking Tree?”

The accusation hung in the air like a blade.

I stepped forward, shoulders squared. “We were collecting a sample to find any correlation between the Shark Hive and the Talking Tree.”

A murmur rippled through our group—Serenity gripping her spear, Cole narrowing his eyes, Samuel whispering something to Alexandria.

Borghilda inhaled deeply, the steel in her voice softening just a shade. “I guess I’m not the only one to suspect that damn tree to be a parasite.”

Emily’s head snapped upward. “You knew? Why didn’t you tell us?”

Borghilda shifted, the weight of unspoken years settling in her stance. “I thought I was the only one who had suspicions due to my encounter with a Shark Person while being at one with the Talking Tree. Bestla and the others have done rituals with the tree and never encountered Shark People.”

Her admission sent a chill through the hall. Even Droid L-84’s optics flickered.

“Maybe Bestla and the others are lying,” I said, voice low.

Borghilda’s jaw tightened. “It’s Bestla’s day to take my position as Jarl.”

Emily blinked, stunned. “What?”

Borghilda turned toward her with an expression that blended regret and firmness. “Sorry, Emily. I was meaning to tell you. I’m getting too old to be a Jarl, and I chose Bestla since she’s been around some time.”

Emily lowered her head slightly, shadows gathering where pride and disappointment wrestled quietly in her posture.

Borghilda faced the group again, her voice taking on a solemn finality. “As for everyone else, I’ll allow you to study the Talking Trees as long as it’s kept secret… But first, we must attend Bestla’s transfer to the throne.”

With that, she stepped down from the dais, turning toward the grand entrance. The hall doors parted at her approach, and she disappeared into the sunlight, leaving a lingering wake of authority behind her.

The room exhaled.

Conversations burst in whispers—Jimmy muttering to Pete, Hanna clutching Elizabeth’s arm, Niko and Khamzat exchanging uneasy glances.

I rubbed my temples. “Great. More time wasted.”

Alexandria stepped forward confidently, her expression sharp but reassuring. “If we need warriors, they’ll be ready for anything.”

I gave her a grateful nod. “Thanks.”

Around us, the hall continued to glow gently, unaware of the storm gathering beneath its roots.

Fast forward. The feast sprawled across the open courtyard just outside Aalborg’s capital building—the same structure whose bioluminescent walls pulsed gently with ancient energy, as though the city itself was alive and breathing. Wooden tables stretched across the moss-covered plaza, and a canopy of woven silver-leaf cloth hung over us, shimmering faintly in the breeze like a captured aurora.

Emily and I had been seated near the center, at a long table facing the ceremonial platform. Lanterns of floating amber drifted overhead, tethered to nothing, their light bending slightly with each shift of the alien wind. Music from bone flutes and metallic drums rippled through the air as citizens gathered, celebrating Bestla’s supposed rise to power.

Bestla herself sat in the high seat—an ornate, bark-carved chair elevated just above the rest—drinking her ale with calm confidence. Her posture was rigid, regal, perhaps too controlled. The shadows of the canopy danced over her face like shifting masks.

I noticed Emily staring at her, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

I leaned in. “Are you upset you aren’t in her position?”

Emily shook her head slowly, though her expression remained troubled. “Not in the slightest. I’m just concerned.”

She paused, turning her gaze to me. “I just hope she’s not assimilated with our shark friends yet.”

Her words struck the air with a weight that no drumbeat or laughter could mask. The notion hovered between us, chilling and heavy—Bestla, a Jarl candidate, entwined with the Shark Hive.

Before either of us could say more, the atmosphere shifted. The musicians stopped. The chatter died. The townspeople rose.The feast had ended.

At the front of the courtyard, Borghilda stood with authoritative calm, her silver-lined armor catching the pale sunlight above.

She raised her voice, letting it roll out across the courtyard.

“Now that the feast is finished, we should proceed with the sacrifice… and ritual. But first we need a volunteer to carry out our sacrifices.”

Whispers swirled like startled birds. Priestesses in emerald robes exchanged knowing glances.

Bestla leaned toward Borghilda and whispered something into her ear—too softly for anyone else to hear, yet her eyes flicked toward me as she spoke.

Borghilda lifted her head and addressed me directly. “Bestla insists on you being our volunteer.”

Emily stiffened beside me, but I simply nodded. A small, solemn gesture. A surrender to ceremony, expectation, and the strange laws of this alien Viking world.

Borghilda signaled toward the temple steps. The heavy doors groaned open, revealing a procession of priests and priestesses—Godi and Githja, adorned in runic tattoos and strands of glowing moss.

What they escorted forward, however, made even the bravest warriors among the citizens draw silent breaths.

A man—humanoid, human, unmistakably so—was dragged into view. His wrists and ankles were bound in ceremonial irons, his chest and arms tattooed with symbols of ancient Earth’s Templar orders. His speech patterns, when he protested, echoed archaic Old English. Time-worn. Out of place. A piece of Earth’s medieval past uprooted and tossed into another galaxy. A former knight.

I felt my patience thin. The games, the rites, the rituals—it all wore at the last edges of my restraint. Yet I said nothing. Instead, I rose from the table. The crowd parted for me as though a great wind blew through them. Faces blurred—some eager, some fearful, some hungry for the spectacle to come.

As I approached the platform, Borghilda leaned close, her voice a whisper just above breath. “Before you strike him down, say: ‘In the name of the gods, let this sacrifice be a gift, in return for Bestla’s ascension into Jarldom.’”

I gave a single nod, then climbed the wooden steps.

The former knight had been nailed between two poles, arms outstretched in a brutal T-shaped display. His breathing was ragged, his eyes half-praying, half-mourning. The alien sky cast an eerie blue glow over his form, as though the world had painted him in cold resignation.

I stood before him.

This would be my first cold-blooded killing. Not in war. Not in defense. But as a ritual… a ceremony.

Yet I was no longer on modern Earth. No laws of Earth applied here. No civilization I once knew held sway.

This was the Viking Age reborn on an alien world. A world built on blood, prophecy, and ancient cosmic roots.

Slowly, I reached for my weapon. Revenge—my chainsword—grumbled to life, its serrated teeth spinning with a metallic growl that vibrated the air. The crowd hushed, breath held collectively.

I lifted the sword. And spoke the words Borghilda commanded: “In the name of the gods, let this sacrifice be a gift, in return for Bestla’s ascension into Jarldom!”

A heartbeat passed. One last flicker of hesitation. Let the universe forgive me, I thought. Then I struck.

Revenge tore through the knight’s neck in a single, decisive sweep—a violent eruption of sound and motion. His head fell, thudding against the platform. Blood sprayed in a dark arc, spilling down his chest and pooling below.

Immediately, the priestesses rushed forward with leaf-shaped wooden bowls, catching the blood as though harvesting sacred nectar. Their movements were rhythmic, practiced, almost reverent.

The crowd erupted in cheers. Some raised weapons. Some beat drums. Some chanted Bestla’s name.

Emily watched with a conflicted stare. My friends remained silent, their faces carved with unease.

When the ritual collection ended, the procession guided everyone back into the great hall of Aalborg’s capital. Its interior glowed brilliantly—walls alive with light, runes shifting like living organisms beneath their bark-like surface.

The priests and priestesses advanced slowly, sprinkling the still-warm sacrificial blood onto the walls, the support beams, and finally the throne itself. The droplets sizzled faintly against the glowing wood, absorbed into ancient channels.

This was symbolic rebirth—at least to them.

When the ritual concluded, Bestla stepped forward and kneeled before a Godi priest.

His voice echoed: “Bestla, do you swear to uphold your duties as Jarl of Aalborg?”

She answered with unwavering confidence. “Yes.”

Borghilda approached, her silver futuristic Viking armor shining like liquid moonlight. She removed her crown—braided metal, bone, and bio-tech filaments—and held it with both hands as she stepped toward Bestla.

The transfer of power was silent. Personal. Heavy with expectation.

Borghilda placed the crown into Bestla’s grasp, and Bestla rose, walking to the capital throne. She sat with the posture of someone who had always believed this moment belonged to her.

The hall erupted with claps and cheers—deafening, joyous, primal.

All except for us. My friends, acquaintances, Emily, and I did not cheer. We stood in stillness. Watching. Judging. Sensing the wrongness beneath the celebration. And Bestla’s eyes—now seated on the throne—glimmered with something I couldn’t yet name. Something that made Emily’s earlier concern echo louder in my mind.

Bestla’s coronation cheers still thundered through the great hall behind us as Emily and I exchanged a single glance with Ikeem. No words were needed. The three of us turned away from the celebration and slipped out through the towering bark-metal doors of the capital hall.

The moment we stepped outside, the world felt different—quieter, heavier, as though the air itself sensed treachery simmering beneath the surface of festivities.

The sky above Aalborg glowed its usual pale-green hue, yet something about it felt dimmed, as though a veil had been pulled over the sun. We walked briskly behind Ikeem as he tightened his leather chest harness and adjusted the gear on his back. His expression was rigid, more focused than usual—borderline grim.

He led us down a cobblestone pathway toward a Drakkar dropship resting at the edge of the flight terrace. The craft hovered an inch above the ground on its anti-grav lattice, shaped like a fusion of Viking longship and stealth fighter: carved prow, armored hull, and silver runic panels along its flanks that pulsed faintly in rhythm with its reactor.

The rear hatch hissed open.

Inside, the air smelled of ozone and burning coolant—comforting, familiar.

Emily and I headed straight toward the bow, climbing into the twin pilot seats. The consoles flickered awake with ghostly blue holographics forming around our hands. Ikeem dropped onto a fold-out seat in the back, his gear case resting beside him.

I pushed the ignition glyph. The engines rumbled. The ship lifted smoothly into the green sky, the capital shrinking beneath us.

Once we were steady in the air, I called back over the engines: “Alright, we’re in the air. Where to?”

Ikeem didn’t hesitate. “Thirty clicks south.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

My fingers danced over the holo-controls, punching in the coordinates. The ship pitched forward, accelerating across the skies of this alien world. The view from above was breathtaking, even for a world that constantly defied expectations.

Below us stretched a vast temperate jungle—unlike any Earth forest. The trees were tall, broad, and luminous; leaves shifted from emerald to neon blue depending on how the green sunlight struck them. The terrain was pockmarked with enormous circular depressions—craters formed by ancient meteor strikes. Most of them had become lakes, rivers, and winding waterways, their surfaces reflecting green sky like liquid jade.

We saw oceans interrupted by odd ridges. Rivers that obeyed no natural flow. Lakes shaped like scars in the planet’s crust. This world was beautiful. But its beauty felt… wounded.

Suddenly, Emily leaned forward in her seat, squinting. “Look there.”

I saw it too—one crater unlike the others. Dry. Colorless. Dead.At its center stood a tree. A black tree. No leaves. No movement. Its bark absorbed light instead of reflecting it, as though it were carved from void-stone. Its branches clawed at the sky like brittle bones reaching for a dying sun. The second known talking tree. My gut sank.

We descended, guiding the Drakkar into the crater. Dust swirled around the hull as we touched down, hydraulic legs extending to brace the ship.

The ramp dropped. We stepped out into the crater—sand crunching under our boots, wind scraping the barren bowl with a hollow note.

Emily knelt, dragging her fingers through the dry ground. I did the same. “This dried-up crater contrasts the surrounding waterways and forests,” she observed.

“Perhaps the talking trees consume too much water,” I replied.

The soil felt wrong—lifeless, drained. Even the air tasted stale.

Not natural. Not accidental. Ikeem paid no mind to our observations. He was already unpacking instruments from his breath-case—scanners, probes, crystalline analyzers, Rus tech. He moved with urgency, attaching cables, stabbing sensors into the brittle bark of the tree, muttering to himself.

Then his readings spiked.

He swore under his breath, then shouted: “Looks like we need a strong military presence down here! The talking trees are one hundred percent part of the shark hive!”

The words hit the air like thunder. Emily and I froze.

Ikeem turned toward us, panic cutting through his voice. “This is—”

A flash of orange plasma interrupted him. The bolt tore straight through his side.

He collapsed against the tree, gasping.

Before Emily or I could react, more orange bolts lit the crater. We dove behind a shard of rock as plasma fire scorched the air around us. Reflex took over—Emily and I shouted command words, and our Viking armor deployed instantly. Nanos swarmed across our bodies, forming silver and obsidian plates, helmets sealing with hydraulic clicks.

Our melee weapons materialized from their compressed states—mine humming with stored plasma energy, hers glowing along the etched runes.

Knights burst out from the jungle foliage surrounding the crater—white-cloaked, armored, wielding plasma rifles and power swords. Their eyes were empty. Their movements are too coordinated. Too hive-like.

They charged. The battle was fast, brutal, chaotic.

Plasma bolts ricocheted off our armor as we closed the distance. My blade cleaved through the first knight’s chest plate. Emily parried a sword strike, counter-slashing with inhuman precision. Sand kicked up in spirals as armor crashed against armor.

We moved like a two-person war machine. Within moments, the crater fell silent except for the crackling of cooling plasma.

Every enemy was dead—except one. He staggered backward into the jungle, wounded, terrified. But we couldn’t pursue him. Not now.

Ikeem lay dying against the black tree. We rushed to him.

Blood seeped between his fingers as he clutched his ruined torso. I tried to stop the bleeding, pressing fabric against the wound while Emily ripped open her metal medical pack, tossing aside empty vials and shards of nanogel that were far too slow for an injury like this.

Ikeem coughed, each breath weaker than the last. “It’s no use,” he rasped. “That plasma fire pierced my lungs… and no nanos from a med kit can fix me in time…”

His vision blurred as he looked between us. “You must get warriors down here…” His hand thumped once against the bark of the talking tree. “…The shark people are approaching.”

His chest rose. Fell. And rose no more. Emily stopped rummaging through her medical supplies. Silence weighed on us like a shroud. We gently set Ikeem against the base of the tree before standing. My armor retracted just enough for me to remove the helmet of one of the fallen knights.

Emily removed another. Her eyes widened. “What the hell? These are Aalborg citizens.”

She turned the body over—human features beneath the visor. I checked mine—a wood elf. Face pale, eyes lifeless, but unmistakably someone who once walked freely among our people.

“These were our own,” Emily whispered.

My jaw clenched. “This was a distraction,” I said. “We need to find our peers and gather warriors. The shark people have infiltrated your home, Emily.”

The crater wind howled, sweeping dust over the fallen.

The crater wind still whipped sand off our armor plates as Emily and I sprinted up the Drakkar ramp. The hatch slammed shut behind us, sealing Ikeem’s final warning inside our ears like a curse.

I dropped into the pilot seat. Emily slid into the co-pilot’s position with a tremble in her breath. Neither of us needed to speak; adrenaline and grief did the talking for us.

The engines roared to life. I pulled the flight lever. The Drakkar vaulted into the green sky.

Below us, the dead crater shrank into a black dot swallowed by the living jungle. My knuckles whitened on the controls. Emily stared out the viewport, eyes distant, calculating, already preparing for a fight that had clearly already begun long before we noticed.

Not even the beauty of the world could distract us this time. The landscapes—crater-lakes glowing cyan, river scars lit by alien light, shimmering oceans reflecting the green sun—passed beneath us like painted blurs. All we cared about was distance. Closing it. Fast.

Within minutes, Aalborg rose on the horizon. And something was wrong.

The capital city—usually vibrant, buzzing, alive—looked hollow. Silent. As if the spirit had been drained from it the same way the talking tree drained its crater.

I descended toward the outskirts, guiding the Drakkar into the old landing cradle beside Emily’s childhood home. The house stood quietly beneath its sun-bleached trees, far enough away from the central district to avoid immediate danger.

The landing struts touched down. Emily and I surged out of the craft, sprinting toward the capital.

Our Viking armor remained active—nano-plating shimmering, helm seals tight—not out of preference, but necessity. The air felt hostile. The streets are unnaturally empty. The silence was the kind born of fear.

As we approached the central district, the structures grew grander yet more foreboding, their carved root-metal walls glowing faintly with distress runes.

Then we saw it. The sacrificial platform. Only it was no longer a platform.

The massive stone pillars that normally held ceremonial banners were lowered deep into the ground, transforming the structure into a circular arena—medium-sized, armored, and unmistakably prepared for violence.

The green sky reflected off its polished floor. Bloodstains old and new marked its edges.

Emily and I slowed our pace, scanning every shadow, every archway. Nothing. Then movement.

Citizens—frightened, shaking—emerged from hiding places behind pillars, beneath collapsed market stalls, from the doorways of abandoned shops. Their hands were bound. Their faces bruised. Warriors loyal to Bestla shoved them forward, forcing them into the arena’s viewing perimeter like prisoners awaiting judgment.

Emily inhaled sharply. Then the capital doors opened. Bestla strode out.

Draped in ceremonial armor twisted with shark-hive emblems, her eyes burned with unnatural coldness. Behind her, forced to her knees and bound in chains, was Borghilda. Her face was bloodied. Her breath was shallow. Her wrists cut from the restraints.

Bestla shoved her forward, stepping onto the platform with arrogant pride.

I stepped toward the arena, anger boiling up my throat. “What is the meaning of all of this?”

Bestla lifted her chin. “You stole from the tree. I had no choice but to kill your scientist friend.”

Her casual tone struck like a blade between ribs.

Alexandria, Khamzat, Niko, Samuel, and the rest of my peers rushed into the square from different streets, having heard the accusation. Their horrified expressions locked onto me, then to Emily, then to Bestla—who looked far too satisfied with herself.

Emily walked straight toward the platform, voice cutting through the tense air.

“Bestla, if you have an issue, perhaps your narrow mind is unfit for Jarldom?”

Bestla smirked. “I accept your challenge, Emily.”

Emily drew her sword—and I felt my heart drop. “Wait!” I called out.

She glanced back at me, her expression calm, resolved. “This is the only way.”

I nodded, because I had to. Because she needed me to trust her. Because the fate of her people was at stake and the ritual of Jarldom demanded blood.

Emily stepped onto the arena platform. The trial by combat began.

The watching crowd fell dead silent as the two women circled each other on the arena floor. Emily’s blade gleamed with plasma-runic light. Bestla’s war-axe dripped with thick, oily black venom—shark venom. The same kind that paralyzed armored warriors in seconds.

Bestla struck first.

Her axe slammed against Emily’s blade with enough force to send a shockwave rippling across the arena floor. Emily staggered, but her footing held. She countered with a sweeping strike that nearly took Bestla’s shoulder—but the Jarl-pretender was fast, unnaturally so.

Venom dripped from the axe. Every missed swing splattered poison across the stone. A single cut would be fatal.

But Emily fought like the storm. Defiant. Patient. Unshaken.

Bestla snarled, charging with a downward strike that would have cleaved most warriors in two. Emily blocked it. Barely.

Bestla pressed the axe close, venom inches from Emily’s cheek—waiting, watching, smirking. But nothing happened. Emily didn’t weaken. Didn’t slow. Didn’t tremble.

Bestla startled—eyes wide behind her visor, confusion breaking her mask. She stumbled back, unable to hide the panic.

Emily didn’t give her another moment. With a twist of her hips and a flash of silver, Emily swung her sword upward. The blade sliced cleanly through Bestla’s arm just below the elbow. The limb dropped onto the arena floor. Bestla fell to her knees, gasping, clutching the stump.

She panted, voice trembling not from pain—but from fear. “Better hurry before the frenzy.”

Emily did not hesitate. In a single clean motion, she beheaded Bestla.

The arena froze. Silence clapped over the city.

Emily stood over the body—blood dripping from her blade, her armor reflecting a sickly green sun, her stance unbroken. Victorious.

But before anyone could even breathe— More movement.

Bestla’s warriors stepped inward… and removed their helmets. Gasps rippled through the crowd.

They weren’t warriors. They weren’t even fully people anymore.

Human-shark hybrids—limbs elongated, jaws serrated, skin mottled with hive-patterns—glared at us with pitch-black eyes. Their chests heaved with predatory hunger.

I activated my plasma rifle & raised it. Before the mutated warriors could charge—I fired.

Plasma bolts ripped through their torsos, heads, and limbs. One by one they fell, collapsing onto the stone like broken marionettes. Their blood smoked. Their jaws twitched. Their bodies dissolved faster than normal, as though the hive refused to let them remain in the open for long.

When the last hybrid hit the floor, the arena was still again—except for the trembling breaths of the freed citizens and the faint hum of my overheating rifle.

Emily swayed slightly on her feet.

I jumped up onto the platform, grabbed her hand, and helped her down the steps.

“We need to gather our warriors,” I said.

The crisis had only just begun.

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CHAPTER 38: "JARL" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"