The Son of Tyr

Chapter Two: The Weight of Gods

The next morning, the sky was heavy with clouds, gray and oppressive, as though the heavens themselves mourned the village's fate. Eirik knelt in the snow, his knees cold and numb, staring blankly at the charred remains of his home. Ash floated in the air like dark snowflakes, settling on the ruins and the bodies. The golden glow that had surged through him during the battle was long gone, leaving behind a hollow emptiness that weighed on his chest.

Freyja’s body still lay before him, untouched. He couldn’t bring himself to move her. Every time he tried, it felt like admitting she was truly gone.

“Eirik.”

A voice broke the silence, and he turned slowly to see his grandfather, Thorvald, standing behind him. The old man’s face was etched with sorrow, his once-proud shoulders now hunched under the weight of grief. Thorvald had survived the attack, but barely—his arm was wrapped in makeshift bandages, and blood stained his tunic.

“You need to come inside, lad,” Thorvald said softly, his voice rasping with age and loss. “She deserves a proper farewell.”

Eirik’s throat tightened, but he shook his head. “It’s my fault,” he whispered. “If I’d fought sooner, if I had known what I was…”

Thorvald’s eyes narrowed. “What you are? You’re no monster, Eirik. The creature, Surtur’s Spawn, was an enemy no mortal could have faced alone. But you did. You fought like a god. And now… now we must honor the dead.”

“I couldn’t save her,” Eirik muttered, his voice shaking with rage and guilt. “I couldn’t save anyone.”

Thorvald knelt beside him, placing a hand on Eirik’s shoulder. The old man’s grip was firm, despite his injury. “There are powers at work here, lad. Powers far older and far more dangerous than anything we’ve ever seen. You think I didn’t know what you were? That I didn’t see it? The blood of Tyr runs through your veins, boy. That battle wasn’t just a raid. It was a test. A trial by fire.”

Eirik turned to his grandfather, his eyes burning with unspoken questions. “A test? By who?”

Thorvald’s eyes were distant, filled with memories of things long past. “The gods, perhaps. Or maybe something darker. There are forces in the Nine Realms that would see you destroyed before you even know your true purpose.”

“My purpose?” Eirik stood abruptly, his fists clenched. “What does it matter? I have no family left. My home is gone. What good is being a god if I can’t even protect the people I love?”

Thorvald rose with him, his face set with a grim resolve. “This is only the beginning, Eirik. You are destined for more than this village. You may not see it now, but the blood in your veins will call to you, and you must answer.”

Eirik’s hands shook with frustration, his heart heavy with anger and grief. He had never asked for any of this. The stories of gods and legends had always seemed distant, like fables told to children. Now they were his reality, and it felt like a curse.

Before he could respond, a distant sound interrupted the tense silence. Hoofbeats, faint at first, but growing louder.

Thorvald’s eyes widened. “Get inside. Now.”

Eirik turned, scanning the horizon. A group of riders was approaching, their silhouettes barely visible through the mist and snow. At the head of the group, a figure draped in dark, furs and steel rode a massive black stallion, the horse’s breath steaming in the cold air.

“Who are they?” Eirik asked, his voice low.

“Not friends,” Thorvald growled, gripping Eirik’s arm. “They’ve come for you.”

Eirik tensed. “For me?”

Before Thorvald could answer, the riders were upon them. They circled around the remains of the village, their eyes cold and calculating. The leader dismounted and approached, his boots crunching in the snow.

He was a tall man, his face obscured by a dark hood. A faint glow, much like the one Eirik had felt in the battle, emanated from his armor. When he spoke, his voice was like the crack of thunder.

“Eirik, son of Tyr.”

Eirik’s blood ran cold at the sound of his name on the stranger’s lips. “Who are you?” he demanded, stepping forward despite Thorvald’s warnings.

The man pushed back his hood, revealing a scarred face and piercing blue eyes. “I am Skaldar, servant of the gods and keeper of their will.”

“The gods?” Eirik repeated, his voice filled with suspicion. “What do the gods want with me?”

Skaldar’s gaze never wavered. “You carry the blood of Tyr, the god of war. And with that blood comes a duty—one you cannot escape. The creature you fought last night was only the beginning. Surtur’s Spawn was sent by forces that seek to destroy the gods and all who carry their bloodline. You have been marked, Eirik. Your destiny is no longer your own.”

Eirik’s heart pounded in his chest. “I never asked for this destiny.”

Skaldar’s expression softened, if only slightly. “Few do. But the gods do not care for what we want. They care only for what must be.”

Thorvald stepped forward, his eyes hard. “He’s not ready. You can’t take him.”

Skaldar’s gaze shifted to Thorvald, and something like recognition flickered in his eyes. “The boy has no choice. If he does not come with me, the forces that hunt him will find him. And when they do, they will not show mercy.”

Eirik felt the weight of his sword at his side, its presence both comforting and suffocating. He glanced down at Freyja’s body, her stillness a painful reminder of the price he had already paid.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Skaldar studied him for a long moment before answering. “There is a war coming, Eirik. A war between the gods and the creatures of the fire realms. You are one of the few left who can stand against them. But first, you must learn to harness the power within you. If you fail, there will be more death. More loss.”

Eirik’s mind raced. He had never wanted to be anything more than a simple villager, to live his life in peace. But that life was gone. Freyja was gone. His village was gone. If he turned away from this path, what was left?

Thorvald’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Eirik, listen to me. If you go with him, you may never return.”

Eirik looked at his grandfather, seeing the fear in his eyes. He didn’t want to leave. But deep down, he knew there was no choice. His blood, his very being, called him to something greater—whether he wanted it or not.

He turned to Skaldar and nodded, though the weight of the decision felt like a mountain on his shoulders.

“I’ll go.”

Skaldar gave a single nod, then mounted his horse. “Then let us be on our way. The realms do not wait.”

Eirik cast one last look at Freyja, her lifeless body a symbol of everything he had lost. Then, without another word, he followed Skaldar into the unknown, leaving behind the ashes of his past.

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End of Chapter 2.