The Cursed Prince's Bride

Chapter Three: Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely

With the morning sun painting the world in golden hues, Natt galloped onward, carrying Olaf through the lush fields. The exhilaration of the ride, the wind tugging at his hair, was a sweet relief after the dreary hours spent in that cold, murky swamp. Drengr, cradled in a supple red stag hide, swayed gently by Olaf's side, a potent symbol of the power that now coursed through him.

As they crossed the majestic River Havbris, Olaf gave Natt some slack on the reins, letting his feet dangle freely from the stirrups. The river's cool breeze caressed his face, bringing a sense of serenity to the once tumultuous journey.

Olaf could feel it in his bones; everything was falling into place. Soon, Sigurd and Halfdan, powerful nobles of the land, would swear fealty to him in exchange for his protection. Their allegiance would be sealed with the promise of castles and fiefdoms for his son, securing a future beyond his wildest dreams.

The thought of his family thriving, the Shearborn name resplendent in glory, made Olaf's heart swell with pride. The burdens that had weighed on his shoulders for so long seemed to lift, and a newfound sense of optimism filled his soul.

The countryside embraced them with open arms, its beauty and tranquility a stark contrast to the sinister swamp they had left behind. The world seemed to whisper its approval as they rode forth, fate intertwining with destiny in this pivotal moment.

As Natt's hooves rhythmically pounded the earth, Olaf's mind danced with visions of the prosperous future that awaited his family. The once dim horizon now shimmered with endless possibilities, and Olaf was determined to seize them all.

***

"Runa." A voice called.

The morning sun painted the room in soft hues as Runa rose from her bed, answering the ethereal call of the gods. Beside her, Yiva snored, tightly clutching the dagger she had been given for protection. With hesitant steps, Runa tiptoed to the window, seeking the last traces of moonlight before the break of dawn. She hoped the gods would bless her with another vision, a glimpse of her son, Leif.

"I am here," she whispered into the morning air. "What do you want of me?"

In an instant, Runa found herself engulfed in a vivid panorama of her husband, Olaf, charging into a fortified castle. His powerful figure swung a fearsome black sword, cleaving through the guards with relentless precision, reducing them to their knees. Each stroke of the blade seemed to fuel Olaf with unyielding strength, turning him into an unrecognizable warrior, a grim harbinger of death.

Runa's heart clenched as she witnessed Olaf's transformation. He dispatched the guards with ruthless efficiency until he reached the throne room. There, he confronted the King in charge, offering a chilling ultimatum, demanding fealty or death. Trembling and awestruck, the King submitted, offering his sword to Olaf in surrender.

Yet, instead of finding solace in his victory, Olaf seemed uncertain, torn between conflicting emotions. With a sudden eruption of fury, he beheaded the King, leaving a trail of blood and fear in his wake. Olaf turned his attention to the trembling servants, who quickly pledged allegiance to their new ruler.

"Why do you show me this?" Runa cried out to the gods, unable to bear the harrowing scene before her.

"Olaf walks a dark road," the gods responded solemnly. "He has sought the aid of Silas Eirik."

The name sent shivers down Runa's spine. Silas Eirik, the mysterious and rumored figure of evil. What had driven Olaf to seek his assistance?

With tearful eyes, Runa watched as her husband rode into another city, a path of destruction trailing behind him. Women and children fled in terror, and those who resisted Olaf's demands met swift and merciless ends.

"He must be stopped," the gods' words echoed in her mind, resonating with a sense of urgency.

Torn between extreme heartache and determination, Runa found herself back in her bed, the morning sunlight filtering through the window. Birds chirped outside, blissfully unaware of the turmoil in her heart.

She turned to wake Yiva, seeking answers about Olaf's encounter with Silas Eirik. But to her dismay, Yiva remained unresponsive, snoring loudly and clutching the dagger tightly.

Frustration surged within Runa, feeling the weight of the world pressing on her shoulders. She had to protect her husband from the darkness that threatened to consume him. With a resolute determination, she resolved to uncover the truth and set Olaf back on the path of righteousness.

***

With a graceful leap, Olaf dismounted Natt, his boots colliding with the earth in a dusty cloud. Drengr, stained with the evidence of a two-day rampage, rested confidently in his hand. He wasted no time, gripping the wrist of the first man he encountered and severing it without hesitation. After all, any hand that dared threaten Runa and their unborn son deserved no place in this world. His relentless assault continued, leaving no room for mercy, as he cut down anyone who dared cross his path.

An electrifying rush coursed through his veins, a twisted pit of excitement nestled deep in his stomach. Each swing of Drengr was a dance of death, an intimate connection between man and blade. The sunlight that bathed his shoulders only heightened his ardor, fueling the intoxicating thrill of battle. Even the most stalwart guards cowered and fled before his onslaught, falling like leaves in a storm as he laid siege to the city.

The great hall beckoned him, the heart of this besieged kingdom. With determined steps, he strode into its grandeur, ready to deliver his unyielding ultimatum to the king of the province.

The king rose swiftly, drawing his sword as servants rushed to equip him with a shield, a futile attempt to defy the impending fate that loomed before them.

Olaf shook his head, his lips curled into a sardonic smile. "Do you think that will save your rotten hide?"

The king banged his sword against the shield, a resounding declaration of his intent to stand and fight. But before him stood a warrior fueled by the power of a Maekron blade, a force that cared little for the trappings of royal pomp and the insignificance of a shield. Olaf's eyes blazed with an intensity that mirrored the unyielding edge of Drengr.

The atmosphere crackled with tension, a moment frozen in time. The weight of a kingdom's destiny hung in the balance, and the fate of its ruler rested upon the next heartbeat. The clash of steel and the chorus of battle cries would decide who would emerge victorious and who would fall before the unyielding might of Drengr's master.

With a fierce grip on Drengr's hilt, Olaf surged forward, his eyes locked on the king before him. The king, undeterred, raised his shield, deflecting Drengr's initial strike with practiced ease, then tauntingly smacked Olaf's back with the flat of his blade. A low growl rumbled in Olaf's throat, his determination fueled by the taste of imminent victory. He swiftly windmilled around, the clash of steel resonating through the air as Drengr collided with the king's sword. The dance of deadly blades had begun.

Pressing the attack, Olaf's every move was a symphony of precision and power. Drengr's obsidian edge scraped menacingly toward the king's hand, the air heavy with tension. The king clenched his jaw, his defiance evident, and kicked out, forcing Olaf back and delivering a slicing blow to his shoulder. Olaf whirled away just in the nick of time, the adrenaline coursing through his veins fueling his relentless assault. With a swift, expert maneuver, he cut deep into the king's thigh, eliciting a pained bellow from the ruler.

Undeterred, Olaf raced forward, Drengr raised high above his head, his resolve unshaken. The king, desperate to evade his fate, attempted to limp away, but Drengr fell through the air with unyielding determination. The king raised his sword in defense, but the black blade of Drengr refused to relent, sparking against its rival before sinking its teeth into the shield. The sound of metal meeting bone echoed, and the shield fell uselessly to the ground. The king's arm hung awkwardly, sinew exposed, the pain etched across his pale face.

Olaf reeled around, his movements fluid and calculated, and with a sweeping motion of Drengr's flat side, he sent the king's legs sprawling out from beneath him. Taking advantage of the moment, he seized the king's hair, pulling his head back to expose the vulnerable expanse of the man's throat. Victory hung tantalizingly close, the intoxicating scent of triumph thick in the air.

“Submit or die,” Olaf said brazenly.

The king gulped nervously. “Why should I? Either way, I am a dead man. I would never bend to tyranny.”

As he stared into the eyes of the king, a man defeated yet unbowed, Olaf could feel the weight of his destiny bearing down on him. The choices he made in this very instant would not only determine the future of the king and his kingdom, but would leave an indelible mark on Olaf's own soul. The allure of power and the haunting whisper of consequences tugged at his very being, daring him to make a choice that would alter the course of history forever.

"I said," Olaf said with gritted teeth, "Submit or die."

The king chuckled mockingly, "And I said I would never bend to tyrann—"

Olaf cut his throat in half. The king gurgled as blood spilled, and his lifeless body crumpled to the floor.

Olaf wiped his blade on the king’s garment. And as he did, he noticed miniscule c****s along Drengr’s edge that had not been there before. Hence, he sheathed her carefully and turned to the guards in the room who had worn the stain of terror like clothing. “You there Cowards.” With long strides, he crossed over to them and took one of them by the collar he had bound on their necks. “You’re mine now. All of you. Inform your comrades. We ride at dawn. Those who refuse will be hunted and killed for the dogs that they are.”