{[]Location: Midgard []}
{[]Year: 517 BR[]}
A searing heat coursed through my spine like molten iron being etched into bone.
I bit down on my lower lip hard enough to draw blood, stifling the scream that clawed at my throat. The pain was like nothing I had ever felt. It wasn't just flesh being burned. It was my very essence being carved into.
I could feel it—lines of power threading across my back, glowing with a dull amber light. The rune was forming.
The [Miðgarðr Rune]
A symbol of endurance. Of the unyielding. The realm of mortals etched its will into me—granting me heightened strength, sharpened reflexes, and the primal instinct to survive anything this cruel world could throw at me.
"Ahh—!"A strained cry escaped me as the last line of the rune seared into place, and then—silence.
The pain didn't vanish—it simply settled, like a fire that no longer raged, but smoldered.
I collapsed to one knee, gasping for breath as steam rose from my skin. My vision swam with dancing motes of golden light. The forest felt louder, clearer. I could hear the heartbeat of the earth. I could smell the dampness beneath the moss. Every sense sharpened.
Behind me, a calm, proud voice broke the stillness.
"Congratulations, Eva. You are now… Runebound."
I turned my head slowly, still gasping, my heart thunderous in my chest.
She stood just outside the ritual circle, her silhouette outlined by the faint golden glow of the rune flames.
Her eyes, golden as the sun at high noon, gleamed with quiet pride and divine power.
Her skin, pale as freshly fallen snow, shimmered faintly under the moonlight.
Her hair, a cascade of brilliant gold, moved like silk in the night breeze.
But it was the crown—the radiant [Ásgarðr Rune] embedded into her forehead—that stole my breath.
It pulsed softly, each beat echoing like distant thunder. It marked her not just as a guide, but as something more. Chosen by the gods. Touched by Asgard itself.
She was no mere master.
She was a Runekeeper—and I was her heir in the making.
A tired, joyful smile tugged at the corners of my lips. For the first time, I could feel it. Power. Purpose. Possibility.
The road ahead was long and full of shadows—but I would walk it with fire carved into my back.
"Thanks, Master," I said, my voice both proud and hoarse, my knees still trembling from the trial.
Her gaze softened, and a low hum escaped her throat. "Mmm."
She stepped toward me, her shadow stretching across the circle of rune-ash as she placed a hand on my shoulder. It was a gesture both grounding and electric. I felt the strength in it—not just physical, but ancient. Eternal.
"Now that you are a bearer of the [Miðgarðr Rune]…" she began, her voice calm, layered with knowing.
"…you are eligible to enter Vættaskóli Academy one year from now."
My heart skipped a beat.
"The academy accepts students at thirteen. And you, Eva, have just turned twelve. This year… is your crucible. Your preparation."
She released my shoulder and turned slightly, her golden hair catching the starlight like a cloak of fire.
"You will train. You will suffer. You will grow. Learn your rune. Feel it. Let it become a part of every breath, every strike, every instinct."
I nodded, a flicker of determination sparking in my tired chest.
Vættaskóli.
The school of the Runebound.A place of legends, of trials, of power.And soon… my next home.
"I won't let you down," I said quietly.
She smiled then—rare, soft, dangerous. "Oh, child. You will fail. Many times."
Her golden eyes narrowed.
"But you will rise each time stronger. That is the way of Midgard. The way of the rune you now carry."
I straightened my spine, as pain throbbed from the still-healing mark etched across my back.
I would remember that.Burn it into my heart, the same way the rune had burned into my flesh.
One year.
One year until I stepped into the halls of Vættaskóli.One year until I stood among the chosen of all Nine Realms. One year to become more than a survivor.
To become Runebound in truth.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"ODIN'S BEARD!!"
I screamed at the top of my lungs, voice echoing through the ancient forest canopy.
"I HATE YOU, MASTER!!!"
Rage pulsed in my veins like molten steel, my body fueled by adrenaline and defiance. The long silver sword in my hands trembled—not from fear, but from the force of my grip. My arms ached, my legs burned, and my chest felt like it was caving in. But I refused to fall.
Only a day.
Only one damn day since I awakened the [Miðgarðr Rune].
And what did my dear Master do to celebrate?
She tossed me into the deep forest, alone, unarmed, and told me to survive for three weeks.
No magic scrolls. No warm meals. No words of encouragement.
Just me, a forged blade I scavenged from a skeleton, and the endless howl of wilderness.
And now—this.
The beast snarled, saliva dripping from its long, crooked fangs. It stood twice my height, its mangled fur slick with rot, eyes glowing with hunger. A twisted spawn of the dark roots of Yggdrasil. Some called them Græfur-wolves. I called it a walking nightmare.
It lunged.
I pivoted on instinct, my feet sliding through dead leaves and blood-soaked mud. Its claws sliced through the air where my neck had been a second ago.
Too slow.
I twisted mid-step, putting every ounce of speed and desperation into my swing. My blade carved a clean arc through the air and struck true.
Slick!
A howl of agony tore through the clearing as steel kissed flesh—the edge of my sword slashing through one of its glowing eyes. Black blood sprayed across my face, searing hot and acidic.
"DAMN IT—"
I dropped to one knee, blinking furiously through the stinging pain as the beast reeled back, its cries shaking the trees around us.
But I didn't stop.
I couldn't.
I rose, heart thundering. My legs felt like lead. My muscles screamed in protest.
But the rune on my back pulsed.
A deep, steady rhythm—like the earth's heartbeat syncing with mine.
The Miðgarðr Rune didn't roar like fire or whisper like ice.
It endured.
And so would I.
The beast circled me now, slower, wary. I could see hesitation in its remaining eye. It had felt the rune's power in me. I was no longer prey. I was marked.
I steadied my grip on the blade, shifting into the stance my master had shown me—one she said was used by Runeblades of old: knees bent, back straight, eyes locked on the soul of the enemy.
"You want a meal?" I spat. "Then choke on my bones."
The creature snarled, then lunged again.
This time, I didn't retreat.
I met it head-on.
The beast lunged again—jaws wide, saliva stringing like webs between yellowed fangs.
But this time, I didn't run.
I ran toward it.
Its one good eye widened in surprise—if a monster like that could feel fear, it felt it then.
As the jaws snapped shut toward me, I dropped flat onto my back and slid under its belly, boots scraping over tangled roots. In that moment, as its foul breath passed over me and its chest hovered above, I slammed my sword upward with both hands.
Slick—CRUNCH.
The blade pierced the softest part of the beast—its exposed gut—sliding up, dragging flesh and entrails with it as I screamed from effort.
Its shriek was deafening, a sound between thunder and dying wind.
It twisted violently, nearly crushing me beneath it. But I rolled away just in time, sword still in hand and dripping black gore.
Blood sprayed across the clearing.
The creature staggered. Its intestines spilled to the ground like ropes, steaming in the cold air.
But it didn't fall.
It turned.
Still alive.
Bleeding. Half-blind. Guts dragging. But alive.
"I told you," I panted, my breath ragged, "you'd choke on my bones."
And then I ran—not away, but past it.
Straight toward the moss-covered tree I had noticed earlier. The one with the jagged trunk half-rotted through.
The beast gave chase, enraged, bloodlust overriding pain.
Good.
Right as I reached the tree, I twisted my body and kicked the thick branch I had loosened hours ago while hiding. I had thought it might be useful later. I just didn't know how yet.
Now I did.
CRACK—THUD!
The limb, thick as my torso and sharpened by age and rot, snapped free and fell like a guillotine—right into the beast's throat.
Impaled.
It convulsed once, then collapsed with a wet, heavy thud that shook the ground.
Silence.
Then birds scattered in the distance, as if they too had been holding their breath.
I stood there—face, hands, and blade soaked in black blood, heart racing. My knees nearly gave out beneath me.
But I didn't fall.
I survived.
And in this cursed forest, that was victory.
A faint hum tickled the back of my spine.
The [Miðgarðr Rune] pulsed again, warm this time.
Like it was proud of me.
Or maybe it was laughing.