The wind rolled in from the fjords that morning, sharp and briny, carrying the faint scent of smoke. Not from hearth fires or burned meat—but from war.
Tanya stood at the edge of the cliff above the valley, her golden hair tangled by the wind, eyes narrowed on the faint plume rising from the horizon. A weapons depot belonging to Jarl Arnar had just gone up in flames—strategically placed barrels of volatile powder she had subtly encouraged the villagers to store together under the guise of "centralizing supply lines."
She had not lit the fuse herself. That task had been left to one of Mayuri's more cooperative test subjects—an unhinged local lad who thought he was setting fire to heretics. Tanya watched the smoke with quiet satisfaction.
In the distance, Skalds would already be composing the song.
"The fire that danced like judgment,
Fell silent as prayer.
Steel turned soft,
Ash turned oath."
They would not know the truth. That it was she who whispered lies into the ears of men. That she who wore the shape of a girl could ignite wars with a smile.
Behind her, the heavy footfalls of Ivar echoed against the stone. The newly promoted war-chief bowed slightly, as always—never meeting her eyes for more than a breath. "It is done. Arnar is enraged. He believes Sigmund struck first."
Tanya didn't turn to face him. Her voice was a quiet knife. "Good. He'll prepare for war. And Sigmund?"
"Suspicious. But cautious. His scouts reported movement, but no direct action."
"And they won't find any," Tanya replied. "Because we didn't leave a trace. Only fear. Only questions."
Ivar hesitated. "You mean for them to destroy each other?"
"I mean for them to sharpen themselves against each other. Iron on iron. Distrust will keep them too busy to look at me. And when one falls…" She finally turned to him, her expression unreadable. "We claim what's left."
There was a beat of silence. Ivar, grim-faced and born for blood, spoke with something closer to reverence than concern. "You speak like a god."
"No," Tanya murmured. "Gods ask for prayers. I ask for obedience."
---
That night, the skalds did indeed sing.
In the longhouses and halls scattered through the icy wilds, they beat drums made from reindeer hide, plucked lyres, and chanted of divine wrath. They said the fire came from the sky. That the gods were displeased. That Arnar had grown too proud, too bold, and that Sigmund had been blessed with Odin's cunning.
In both jarldoms, warriors sharpened axes and cursed the cold. Mothers pulled their children closer by the fire. And old men, once warriors themselves, drank in silence.
Mayuri sat in the dark below the fortress, stitching flesh onto bone, and chuckled as he listened to the skalds echo through the night.
"Songs," he muttered, "are a primitive nervous system for the masses. Pity they rarely understand the organ grinder."
Tanya stood above, watching torchlights bob in the distance like fireflies. The seeds of war were sprouting—just as she'd planned.
And yet, something in her stirred.
She had seen wars unfold from maps, from battlefields, from the skies. But this… this was different. The people here believed. Not in strategy. Not in nations. But in stories. Myths. Skalds could shape a death into a parable. A spark into a saga.
She clenched her fists.
If she was to rule these people, she would have to be more than commander. She would have to be legend.
So she turned to the Iron Cult, whose roots were taking hold in every terrified village and scorched ruin. She would not just command men. She would command meaning.
And when the skalds sang of fire, they would sing her name.