the Storm: Sigurd's Tale

They gathered their strength, magic flaring around them. Yacha's spear blazed with fire and thunder, Ursang's sword pulsed with the power of earth, Eline's sword glowed with the shimmer of water, and Speira's blades whistled with wind. They charged, converging on the beast from all sides in a final, desperate attempt.

Yacha struck first, driving his spear toward the horn again. This time, his magic flared brighter, and with a surge of power, he managed to crack the surface of the icy horn. Ursang followed, slamming his sword into the creature's leg with all his might, forcing the beast to stumble.

Speira moved in a blur, her wind-infused blades slicing into its sides, creating a flurry of shallow wounds. Eline, her water magic now enhanced, aimed at the creature's other leg, freezing it momentarily in place.

For the first time, the beast faltered, letting out a thunderous roar of fury. But even then, their combined efforts only scratched the surface of its immense power. The white fur was stained with only a few drops of blood, barely enough to show they'd done any real damage.

The creature retaliated with a deafening roar, its ice magic flaring once more. The ground around them froze solid, and sharp pillars of ice erupted beneath their feet, forcing them to jump back. Panting, bruised, and out of options, they realized that while they had managed to injure it, they were still outmatched.

"We need to retreat!" Yacha called out, frustration and fatigue evident in his voice. 

The beast wouldn't let them escape, its massive claws ripping through the air as it charged relentlessly. Yacha tried to parry with his spear, but the force of the beast's blows pushed him back with every strike, his arms growing numb.

Ursang swung his sword with everything he had, but his hits barely left a mark on the creature's iron-hard hide, the weight of exhaustion settling into his bones. Eline summoned torrents of water to freeze its legs, but the beast shattered her efforts with a single shake, ice shards spraying into the air.

Speira moved with lightning speed, her blades striking rapidly, but they only grazed the surface of the thick fur, her wind magic unable to penetrate deeper. The air around them grew colder, and the beast's ice spears flew faster, forcing them to constantly dodge.

Their magic reserves were dwindling, and every block and parry came slower than the last. Yacha took a direct hit from one of the beast's claws, his armor cracking as he was thrown to the ground. Ursang covered him, taking another blow to the shoulder, his sword knocked from his grip as he staggered.

Eline's breathing became ragged, her focus slipping as her water magic faltered under the beast's overpowering ice aura. Speira, panting and wounded, circled back for another attack, but the beast's red eyes locked onto her, sensing their desperation, and it moved in for the kill.

The beast roared, raising its colossal claws for a final, crushing strike, when suddenly, a figure shot out from the dense forest, soaring through the air with impossible speed. A man, wild and imposing, descended like a storm.

His long red hair, tinged with brown, whipped in the wind, the sides shaved clean and marked with strange, untold symbols. He wore only animal-skin boots and trousers, his upper body bare, shredded with muscle and scattered scars. Tattoos snaked across his flesh, ancient and powerful, with two broad shields strapped to his forearms, reflecting the moonlight. 

With a primal scream, he swung his twin axes down, and in one swift, brutal motion, severed the monster's head clean from its body. The massive white-furred beast fell with a thunderous crash, lifeless before it even hit the ground. 

"Stop running away, you ice polar freak!" he bellowed.

His voice echoing through the silent forest, his presence radiating a raw, overwhelming power that made the air around him feel heavy. 

As the blood-soaked axes hung at his sides, the man slowly turned, his piercing gaze falling on the four young soldiers, who could only stare in disbelief. Fatigue and exhaustion overtook them, and Yacha and Ursang collapsed to their knees. But before they blacked out, a realization hit them like a final blow: this man, standing above them like a force of nature, was the very target of their mission—Sigurd. Then, darkness claimed them.

YACHA POV.

I slowly regained consciousness, blinking against the dim light filtering through the fabric of the carriage's tent-like cover. The soft, rhythmic thud of the beasts pulling the carriage filled the silence, mingling with the low hum of a man murmuring a song.

I glanced around, my eyes landing on my companions. They were still out, wrapped in blankets made from monster leather. My gaze drifted further, and then I saw it, the head of the great ice beast, the creature that had nearly killed us. Its mouth hung open, frozen in its final snarl, but the horn, once so menacing, was cleanly severed.

Fear surged through me at the sight, and before I could stop myself, I let out a startled scream.

The man driving the carriage turned at the sound, his blue eyes locking on mine. His voice, steady and warm, cut through the haze of my panic. 

"Ah, you're awake, young lad."

I took in his appearance, ginger hair, shaved on the sides with the top tied back in a ponytail, freckles dotting his weathered face, and muscles chiseled like stone, the body of a man shaped by countless battles. A round shield rested against his back, and despite the cold air surrounding us, his presence felt oddly warm, like a protective aura I had never known.

Not even Hadleigh, who had been like a father figure to me in some ways, had this kind of warmth.

I panicked for a moment, recognizing who this man was. Sigurd. Our target. But the thought of fighting him seemed laughable, there was no way we could stand against someone like him. His aura, calm and powerful, radiated strength. Yet, for reasons I couldn't understand, it also felt…safe.

"Don't worry, lad," he said again, glancing at the beast's severed head. "That monster is long gone."

I hesitated, then approached, sitting beside him on the wooden bench at the front of the carriage. After a few moments, I lowered my head. 

"Thank you for saving us, sir…?"

"Sigurd Normen, lad. Just Sigurd."

"Thank you, Sigurd. I'm in your debt."

He chuckled softly, waving it off as if saving us from certain death was just another day in his life. 

"Ah, no need for that. A Nordic man must help those in need."

I followed his gaze forward, my eyes widening at the sight of the creatures pulling the carriage. Two wolves with six legs, their massive forms gliding smoothly over the terrain. I blinked in disbelief. Magical beasts, tamed and obedient. How on earth had he managed that?

Sigurd must have noticed the shock on my face because he let out a hearty laugh. 

"Those aren't your usual horses, are they?"

"Ye-yes, sir," I stammered, embarrassed by my obvious surprise.

"Stop calling me 'sir.' Just Sigurd is enough," he corrected with a grin.

I nodded, grateful for the casual nature of his tone. A moment later, he handed me a piece of bread, urging me to eat. My stomach growled in response, and I accepted it, tearing into the bread like a starved lizard.

"How long have I been out?" I asked between bites, still trying to piece together how long we had been unconscious.

He shrugged. 

"Not long, just a couple of hours. We're close to my home now. You'll spend the night there, get some rest. You all look like you could use it." He paused, his eyes narrowing just slightly, a new expression crossing his face. 

"But I can tell you're on the run."

I froze. His gentle smile had shifted, replaced by something sharper, something knowing. My mind raced—there was no way we could fight him, but being captured was not an option either. I couldn't let us be handed over to the Albions.

Sensing my panic, Sigurd chuckled again, this time softer. 

"Relax, kid. I'm not turning you in. You've got nothing to fear from me."

I nodded slowly, the tension easing just a bit from my shoulders. He was telling the truth, I could feel it in his tone, in the way he carried himself. Still, I kept my guard up. We continued to talk as the carriage rolled on, and I fed him half-truths, saying we had come from a distant land, and that we had lost our way. He didn't press for details, though, content to fill the conversation with stories of his own.

He spoke of Nordic warriors, of their gods and battles, of legends passed down through the ages. His voice, rough but filled with passion, painted vivid images of mighty battles and feats of strength. Despite myself, I found my eyes lighting up with joy at his tales.

My mind racing with curiosity. Were they true? Or just the exaggerated myths of an old soldier? It didn't matter. At that moment, I admired the way he spoke, the way he brought these stories to life, and for the first time in a long while, I felt a strange kind of peace.