This is the sneak peak of the finished first chapter of one of my upcoming books. You could have a look if you want.
Have you ever watched your whole world die before you could even scream?
...
The air reeked of iron and fire.
My hands shook over the anvil as I drove the hammer down again, sparks flying. The rhythm of the forge steadied me, but even the fire seemed uneasy tonight.
Blod and Ild rested on the bench beside me, their twin edges sharpened. They were seaxes gifted to me by my father on my 19th birthday. My only dream was to wield them in Odin's name, to die a warrior's death, and to earn my place in Valhalla.
But dreams die fast.
A shout tore through the night, then another.
Victory cries.
I stepped out, the night breeze cooling the sweat on my skin.
Hrafnsvik's warriors—our warriors—had returned from battle.
Their cloaks were torn and were smeared with mud and blood, their weapons glinting red in the twilight.
The villagers gathered, cheering, hands raised high.
Fire stirred in my chest as I watched them. I wanted a saga sung of my deeds, a name Odin would call.
I almost raised my voice with theirs to join in the cheer.
Until I saw their eyes.
Cold. Hollow. Not the eyes of victors.
Their faces were unfamiliar—no joy, no triumph. Only silence.
Then it happened.
One of the returning warriors who seemed to be their leader stepped forward—his cloak still soaked in blood, his eyes cold.
He raised his axe.
Before the cheers had even faded, the blade came down.
A wet crunch split the air as it buried itself in our chieftain's shoulder.
His body hit the ground with a thud, blood splashing across the dirt.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the screams began.
Chaos erupted—homes burned, blades flashed, and the air filled with death.
It made no sense. Was this treachery… or some cruel game played by the gods?
"Skjorn!" Father's voice cut through the storm. He burst from the forge, hammer in hand, his face set with grim fury. "Inside! Now!"
I didn't move. Terror rooted me to the earth.
A woman screamed, sharp and desperate. One of the warriors had her cornered, his axe raised.
My legs trembled. Blod and Ild were already in my grip, but my body refused to obey.
The heat of the forge still clung to my skin, but inside, I was ice.
Was this how I'd die? Weak? Forgotten?
Then—
A voice in my skull:
"Odin's watching."
Silence.
"Die a coward, and you'll never see Valhalla."
The words struck like a hammer. Valhalla, my dream, my fire. My grip on my blades tightened.
My breath returned—ragged and burning. The world narrowed. Just him. Just the axe. Just her scream.
I lunged at him. Not with grace or with courage, but with fire.
My blade bit deep into the man's thigh. Hot blood splashed my hand. His snarl was pure rage.
His eyes locked onto mine, and for a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then he moved, fast and merciless.
The axe arced toward me, and pain lanced through my arm as the blade grazed my flesh—burning hot.
I fell back, gasping.
He raised his weapon for the killing blow—
—and then, thunder.
Father was there, bursting through the smoke.
His hammer struck bone with a crack that echoed like Mjölnir on the world-tree.
The warrior screamed, stumbling.
"Run, boy!" Father roared.
"No! I'll fight—"
"This isn't your time!" he snarled, shoving me back.
Then an axe came from nowhere.
It carved through his back in a brutal arc that split his back open. His blood sprayed across my face, still warm and fresh. He turned, staggering, still trying to stand between me and the killer.
"Run, by Odin's beard!" Father growled, voice breaking with pain.
I hesitated. My legs refused to move.
His blood soaked the earth, but his eyes were still fierce, still fighting.
I wanted to stay, to fight.
But I was no warrior. I couldn't even wield my blades properly.
"Go, Skjorn!" he roared, staggering to shield me again.
"Live."
Something inside me shattered.
I sheathed Blod and Ild with my good hand, my fingers trembling.
Tears blurred my vision. My chest burned.
I turned—and I ran.
My boots pounded the dirt, heart hammering.
Then I heard it—a voice, sharp and cruel.
"There! The boy! Kill the runner!"
I glanced back. The leader's eyes met mine—cold, gleaming. He pointed, and his men surged forward.
Their boots thundered behind me, axes raised.
I tore through the smoke, through the screams, through the burning that used to be my home.
Villagers fell around me—some fighting, most dying. The air reeked of ash and blood.
Arrows hissed past like serpents. One slammed into my side, driving deep. I cried out, the pain sharp and blinding.
Another grazed my neck, a hot sting across my skin. I stumbled, my breath ragged, blood soaking my tunic.
But I kept running. Not for glory.
Not for the gods. Just for life. Valhalla could wait—I just wanted breath.
The forest swallowed me whole.
I crawled into a hollow beneath an old pine, pressing my bleeding arm to my chest.
The air was damp and heavy with pine.
Then came the voices, rough and close.
"He ran this way. Find the whelp!"
"He's bleeding bad. He won't make it far."
"Doesn't matter. Our orders were clear—no survivors."
A pause. Then a third voice, colder than the rest:
"Let him bleed. The forest will finish what we started."
Their boots crunched the undergrowth, fading into the trees.
I didn't move. I didn't breathe.
Only when silence returned did I dare to crawl out, the pain in my arm pulsing like a drumbeat.
When I finally stood, everything hurt.
My arm throbbed. My side burned. The forest pressed in—dark, damp, and silent.
I didn't know where I was going. Only that I had to move. Away from the screams. Away from the fire. Away from the evil that had befallen Hrafnsvik.
I staggered forward, my boots sinking into moss and mud.
Branches clawed at my face and my breath came in gasps.
Then the wind shifted—and I smelled it.
Blood.
I followed the scent, slow and wary, each step heavier than the last.
And then I saw it—dark red smears across the leaves, streaks on the bark.
A trail that led to a clearing.
What I saw nearly made me vomit.
Bodies lay scattered in the grass—pale, most stripped to their inners.
Flies buzzed in clouds, the air thick with rot and silence.
I gagged, bile rising fast. My knees shook violently. I wanted to look away.
But I couldn't.
I knew them.
There—was Hakon, the fisherman. His face slack, mouth open like he'd died mid-laugh.
Sigurd, the net-mender, lay nearby. His hands, once stained with pitch, now stiff.
Torald, who taught me to track deer. His eyes vacant.
I crawled forward, trembling.
Every face was familiar.
These were Hrafnsvik's warriors. Our people. My people.
I had seen them before—laughing by the docks, sharpening blades, singing old songs by the bonfire.
Now they lay still and cold, stripped to their inners, their cloaks missing.
And then it struck me.
The cloaks.
The warriors that came back.
The look on their faces.
The bloodied cloaks. The torn fabric.
The warriors we welcomed weren't ours.
They were enemies dressed in our cloaks, cloaks taken from the bodies of our dead warriors.
We had welcomed murderers.
We had raised our voice and cheered for our enemies.
The fire in my chest died screaming—and the wind scattered its ashes across the corpses of everyone I loved.