The Wolf Queen of the North

Snow falls slowly, covering the ruins of Skarvheim village with a white blanket unable to hide the smell of blood, burnt flesh, and the smoke of death. Fires still lick at the remains of the wooden houses, gnawing at the support beams that once witnessed the laughter of children and the songs of women at dusk. The night sky is starless, as if Midgard itself has closed its eyes, unwilling to watch the cruelty that just took place. Skarvheim village was not a random target. It was chosen for its bloodline, not just human blood, but the ancient blood that flowed in the veins of Eira Sköll and her family, direct descendants of the Fenrir line, hidden for three generations. The enemy clan, led by Thyra Varg , and silently supported by the North Council, had long been searching for traces of the "Child of the Moon," a figure prophesied to reawaken the ancient wolf power. They came not just to kill, but to erase a destiny before it could be born. They came to extinguish a flame, but instead ignited a larger fire. And that night, they came like a storm from the north with a hundred silver-armed warriors, led by Olaf Skjold, who held a personal grudge against Eira's father over an old dispute about the borders of a sacred land. They arrived before dawn, when the village was still asleep in peace. The attack was swift, brutal, and without mercy. The men of the village had been sent three days earlier to an inter-village meeting in the southern valley, a fake invitation orchestrated by the spy Ingrid Thora. Only a handful of old men and teenagers remained. They fought as best they could: striking with kitchen axes, throwing stones, even biting if necessary. But their numbers were too few. In less than an hour, Skarvheim fell, burned, looted, and wiped out to its roots. Amidst that destruction, Eira Sköll stood like an ice statue, her body trembling with a rage that gnawed at her bones from within. She was only nineteen seasons old, but this night had aged her prematurely. At her feet, her mother's body lay with open eyes, her hands still clutching the loaf of bread that hadn't had time to bake, bread that was meant for the family's breakfast the next morning. Her father lay a few steps away, his battle axe lying beside a body torn by three enemy spears. Her little sister, with hair as blonde as Eira's, lay on the doorstep, her neck neatly severed by a runic sword, as if death had come without mercy, without sound, without compassion. Eira looked down. Her hands tightly gripped the handle of her father's axe: heavy, cold, and full of memories. The axe had been used to fell trees, split firewood, and protect the village from wild wolves. Now, it would be used for something far darker. She lifted it slowly. The sound of enemy footsteps echoed from behind a burning shed. They were two warriors returning to ensure no one had survived. Something inside Eira shattered. It was not just anger, not just sadness, but the call of ancient blood that had long been dormant. She ran. Not as a village girl, nor as a child who had lost everything, but as a storm born from grief. Her axe severed the first neck without hesitation. The enemy's head flew into the air, splattering warm blood that evaporated in the freezing air like hellish steam. The second tried to raise his shield, but Eira was already there, her body leaping with an impossible speed for a normal human, her foot kicking the opponent's face until his nose bone was crushed, then the axe plunged into his chest with a sickening sound of tearing flesh. Ribs cracked. A heart was split. Blood flowed like a small river over the snow, creating strange patterns resembling ancient runes. She did not stop, did not cry, did not scream. She only slaughtered. Every swing of the axe was an unspoken scream. Every life she took was a substitute for the lives of her family she couldn't save. Her normally gentle ice-blue eyes now glowed like embers hidden behind thick ice. In her veins, something began to tremble: a thirst for justice that could only be quenched by death. When the last enemy fell, a young warrior still trembling, kneeling and begging for mercy. Eira showed him no mercy. She looked at him, then whispered, her voice hoarse like the wind from Valhalla. "You killed my sister. So you don't deserve to live in this world." Her axe came down. A head separated from its body. The gradually silent village was once again broken by the sound of footsteps. A group of remaining warriors, returning from looting, froze at the village entrance. They stopped, their breath caught in their throats. Before them, lay a scene they had never imagined: the corpses of their friends, lying on the now-dark red snow. "Look!" one of their leaders shouted, seeing Eira standing in the middle of the chaos. His anger exploded. "What has she done to our brothers! Kill her! Kill that woman now!" The warriors surrounded Eira. They attacked from various sides, trying to end her life quickly. However, they didn't know they were no longer facing the weak and frightened Eira Sköll, but something else. Eira no longer moved like a human, but like a wolf among a flock of sheep. She leaped, spun, and ducked with incredible speed. The axe in her hand became an extension of her instinct, slashing and stabbing with deadly accuracy. She avoided sword strikes with fluid movements, then countered with a swing of the axe that struck her opponent's shield, splitting it in two. Two warriors tried to attack her from behind. Eira sensed them with her new instinct. She spun, kicked one warrior's knee, and as he fell, Eira jumped onto his back, then landed with her axe buried in the chest of the other warrior. The fight was more than just a physical battle; it was a brutal dance of death, a dance of unbearable rage and sorrow. Eira slaughtered them one by one, leaving no room for mercy. She dropped her axe, and ended the last warrior's life with her own hands. Her fingernails suddenly elongated into claws, and her teeth ached as she clenched her jaw. She tore the last warrior's throat with a claw, feeling the warm blood soaking her hands. The fight left a larger trail of blood on the snow. The village was finally quiet. Only the sound of the fire still gnawing at the wood and the wind whispering among the ruins. Eira knelt, her breathing heavy, her body soaked with her own blood and that of her enemies. She looked at her hands, now stained red, and for the first time in her life, she felt no guilt. She felt reborn. In the distance, a wolf howled. Its sound was long, mournful, as if welcoming the presence of something new. Not a monster, not a demon, but the heir of an ancient destiny. Eira looked up. The full moon shone above her, bathing her body in cold silver light. Beneath that light, something moved in her bones. It felt hot, wild, and unstoppable. That night, Eira Sköll died. From the ashes, blood, and unavenged hatred, the Wolf was born, not as a curse, but as an answer to the cruelty of the world.