The body of the beast had long since grown cold, its blood black and stiff on my clothes. I didn't waste time mourning or admiring the kill. I dragged what I could use into the hollow beneath a stone overhang, far from the scent trails that might attract something bigger.
Then, the next day began.
No crying.
No complaints.
Just breath. Steel. And instinct.
I stalked through the underbrush barefoot, the earth cool beneath my soles, my sword strapped across my back. The rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs were like whispers, and I listened as if they were teachers.
A squirrel? Too small.Boars? Too strong—unless cornered.Ah... there.
I froze. Twenty paces ahead, a stag stood beside a stream, its antlers like twisted branches of bone.
I exhaled slowly, letting the forest settle into my lungs.
Then I moved—not like a child, not like prey.
But like a predator.
One hand gripped a crude throwing spear I'd carved from fallen ashwood. My other brushed the rune on my back for courage—not power. I wanted to earn this.
With a silent pivot, I launched the spear with all the strength and precision I could muster.
Thwack.
The stag bolted... then collapsed.
A clean kill. Through the ribs.
I muttered a soft thank-you to the forest. One of the first lessons my master ever taught me: "Take, but never without gratitude. Midgard watches."
That evening, after the fire was built and meat roasting over it, I turned to the second part of my day.
Sword training.
I stepped into the clearing—the same one I fought in yesterday—and unsheathed my blade, holding it with reverence. Not just because it was steel, but because it was mine now. Earned. Bloody. Real.
Then I exhaled… and began to move.
Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees low. A stance meant to resist the heaviest blows.
"Let your strength rise from the soil," she always said.
I inhaled.
Then slashed in a wide arc, the force sending dust spiraling upward.
A sharp forward step. Vertical slash. Twist. Elbow strike.
A style built to disarm—not to kill, but to dominate.
I moved through it again. Faster. Cleaner.
A pivoting roll, a low sweep, followed by a backhand upward slash.
I performed it. Tripped once. Corrected. Tried again.
Again.
And again.
Until sweat slicked my skin and my arms trembled.
But my blade sang through the air a little cleaner each time.
Eventually, my knees gave out and I collapsed to the ground, gasping, heart pounding in my chest like a war drum.
I laid there in the grass for a moment, face turned to the stars peeking through the canopy above.
I had endured.
And in this world, that was enough for now.
Later, back at my makeshift camp, I crouched near the firepit, feeding in small twigs until the flames came to life again.
The stag meat sizzled on a flat stone, its scent rich and earthy. I'd seasoned it with wild herbs I couldn't name, but they smelled good—and that was enough.
As it cooked, I tended to the small cuts on my palms. My fingers ached. My shoulders were stiff. But it was a good kind of pain—the kind that whispered, "You are becoming something more."
I took the meat off the stone and let it cool slightly.
Then I ate. Slowly. Gratefully.
Each bite warmed my body from the inside out, restoring something that training had burned away.
I sat back, chewing the final piece, letting the fire crackle and the forest hum in the background.
For the first time in days, I allowed myself to feel… peace.
Tomorrow would come with its own trials.
New forms. New bruises. New failures.
But tonight, beneath the stars, with my sword beside me and warmth in my stomach—I had survived.
And survival, for a Runebound, was always the first victory.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
One Week Later
The forest had stopped feeling like a threat.
Now, it felt like a trial.
And I was learning to pass it.
It had been seven days since Master left me here—alone, armed with only a blade, my rune, and the will to survive. The sun had risen and fallen seven times. Storms had come. Cold nights. Empty days. Hunger. Strain.
And yet—I remained.
Today, the hunt was quiet.
I crouched low in the brush, eyes narrowed, breath slow. A hare was nibbling at a patch of green across the clearing. Its ears twitched. Its nose twitched.
But it didn't sense me.
My feet were bare. My body light. I moved like the wind—silent, patient.
I notched a crude throwing knife I'd carved from stag bone and took aim.
One breath in.
I threw.
The blade spun once—twice—
Thunk.
The hare kicked once. Then stilled.
I exhaled.
Another clean kill.
I retrieved the body and returned to my small camp, hidden beneath the roots of a fallen pine. I skinned and gutted the hare quickly—my motions no longer clumsy, but practiced. Efficient.
My fingers still bore cuts and calluses. But the blood on them no longer felt foreign. It felt earned.
After setting the meat to cook, I stood and stretched, rolling my sore shoulders.
The river called to me.
The water was cold—but it felt like clarity.
I stripped down to my underclothes and stepped in, wading to the waist before submerging completely. The chill bit into my skin, but I didn't flinch.
Instead, I smiled.
It was a clean pain. Honest.
I surfaced and swept my Emerald hair back, gasping softly as the current ran over my shoulders. The forest sounds dulled under the weight of water. Everything slowed.
For just a moment… I wasn't a fighter, or a student, or prey.
I was just a girl, standing in a river beneath the sky.
I cupped water in my hands and splashed my face, scrubbing away the dried sweat and dirt. Bruises traced my ribs. My palms were red.
A sigh escaped my lips.
Two more weeks.
That's all that remained of this trial.
Just two more weeks, and I could leave this forest behind.
I took a long, deep breath and submerged myself one last time.
Letting the water swallow me.
Cleanse me.
Then I rose, collected my clothes, and made my way back to my camp.
The fire had dimmed to embers. My meal had long since been eaten. My sword lay beside my moss-lined bedding of furs and branches, waiting for my hand.
I collapsed into it into the comfort of something I'd built with my own hands. I pulled my blade close, hugging it like a talisman, like the last warmth I had in this wild world.
The stars overhead blinked slowly as clouds drifted past.Their light danced in my half-lidded eyes.
I blinked once.
Twice.
Sleep reached for me like a lover's hand.
Then—
DANGER!!!
A primal spark lit in my chest.
THREAT!!!
My rune flared hot against my back, like a brand being pressed into my spine.
MONSTER!!!
My eyes snapped open.
I moved before thought caught up.
"[Ljósbrandr – First Form: Dawnbreaker Slash]"
I rolled forward from the ground into a low crouch, sword drawn in a single fluid motion—A silver flash cutting through moonlight and shadow alike.
My blade whistled through the air, and the world seemed to slow.
The arc of my slash carved through something—a glimmer of motion, a blur of movement, and the sound of impact.
Metal met flesh.
For a heartbeat, I thought I had struck true.
Then the illusion shattered.
My eyes widened.
There, illuminated by the pale silver glow of the moon, stood a man?
His hair, the color of sunlight, fell like a curtain down to his waist—immaculate and untouched by dirt or time. His skin was too pale, too smooth. His eyes…
Dull blue. Empty. Cold.
Like the sky just before a storm that would never end.
He didn't bleed.
He didn't even flinch.
My blade—my clean, perfect slash—had stopped at his forearm.Stopped. Dead.
He had caught it.
No—he had let it hit him.
I felt it then. A crawl across my spine, like the brush of something ancient and monstrous whispering through my bones.
Dread.
Cold and suffocating.
Despair.
Thick as tar in my lungs.
My heartbeat pounded like war drums in a losing battle. I grit my teeth, trying to suppress the tremor in my arms.
He hadn't moved.
But his very presence screamed louder than any beast I'd ever faced. A quiet, suffocating domination.
My blade still pressed against his flesh—unmoving.
No cut.
Not even a scratch.
He looked at me.
And I felt small.
"Impressive form," he said, voice smooth and disturbingly calm. "Ljósbrandr… First Form. Dawnbreaker."
He lifted his forearm slightly, letting my sword fall away with an almost lazy motion.
I stumbled a step back, gripping my hilt tighter, but my knees didn't want to listen.
He began walking toward me.
Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the air thickened around him—suffocating, bending.
"Wh… who are you?" I asked, my voice cracking under the growing weight that pressed on my lungs.
He tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable. Then, almost casually, he answered:
"Gerald Weston."
The name meant nothing to me.
But the way he said it like it should be carved in stone set off alarms in every corner of my mind.
His dull blue eyes studied me, not with cruelty, but with something worse: Indifference.
Then he added, in the same calm tone:
"And I was hoping you had food."