fantasy
Raoul Vexholm
4
Snow rattled against the timbers of our longhouse, the frozen expanse of Avascar stretching endlessly under a gray sky. Smoke curled from the roof, mixing with the wind that carried whispers of Ragnarok doom creeping closer with every howl of the frost. Inside, fire roared, casting flickering shadows. Father sat like a storm given flesh, huge, godlike, voice rolling like thunder, eyes colder than glaciers. None of us dared disobey him. My brother mirrored his strength and precision; I mirrored Mother fierce, stubborn, clumsy, but determined.
Before she left on her duties, Mother carved runes into our skin. They burned, marking us as her children and Father, a mixture of blessing and warning. We tried to pull away, but Father’s grip was iron, pressing us still, teeth gritted, pain flaring across our bodies.
Training under him was relentless. Axes swung, bows bent, swords sliced; each movement corrected, shouted at, repeated. My brother moved like wind, flawless. I stumbled, misfired, tripped, and Father’s roar shook the snow outside: “Do better! Focus!”
When not training, we traveled frozen forests, jagged cliffs, icy rivers for supplies or to see Mother. Frost-beasts prowled the valleys, giants stirred in the distance, and the land itself seemed alive with apocalypse. Father despised the village it’s laughter, its softness but allowed our journeys, watching like a storm incarnate After days of toil or travel, I hauled logs, the wolf padding beside me. Every swing, every haul, was my declaration i would prove I was not weak.
At night, when fire dimmed, my brother crept close, pressing warmth to my shivering body. His hands were gentle. His eyes soft.
And still, I hated him for his perfection, my clumsiness, for the way Father’s gaze softened only on him. Surrounded by snow, fire, chains, monsters, and the shadow of Ragnarok, one truth burned clear: I hated him. And soon, I will battle him.
Horizon
