Stone Circle ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ

the world lurches sideways. everything crashes into one breathless moment, and sigvard hits the ground with a thud, the air knocked clean from his lungs. a brutal strike—clean, decisive. his throat grazes dirt. the weight pins him, iron-strong and immovable.

his limbs writhe beneath pressure but the strength is gone from them, stolen by the blow to his neck and the sheer gravity of the beast above him. jaws snap near his skull, hot breath and spit mingling with the scent of blood-soaked earth. there is no shame in the violence. no fear in the silence that follows.

only the choice. leggja fram eða deyja. submit or die.

sigvard’s breath shudders in and out. he doesn't flinch from the bite that nearly takes his spine, but something in his eyes shifts—a flicker, fierce and begrudging. not defeat. not despair. acknowledgment. the gods, he thinks, will not find him weak for choosing life. it was a battle well-fought.

"eg legg fram."