No words of comfort or hands of support were offered to the wailing boy, curled up on the floor. Such an unsightly display deserved no such thing, and following that vein, they opted to do nothing but silently wait. The scene was reminiscent of one where five generals of Helheim had just cast irrevocable judgement upon a damned soul and were revelling in their captor’s anguish. Even the land seemed to reject him, tears sizzling over the igneous rock. The boy eventually regained some semblance of dignity, standing on shaky legs, cheeks stained, sweating and huffing; he wouldn’t last much longer down here. His quivering lips parted, involuntary heaves breaking speech. “W-What’s going to hap-happen to me,” he stuttered.

“According to custom, you would pay the equivalent price in blood,” Bjǫlr growled, holding nothing back in the face of the offender, who looked to be on the verge of collapsing again.

The poor child sorely needed a steady pillar to lean on at this time, but the spot beside him remained vacant. While many knew the general circumstances he faced, the ones who knew the truth were few and far between. Shunned by his peers and neglected by his family, having to kick and fight for everything, only to trip at the finish line.

‘What a shame,’ Garðkell released a disappointed exhale. Still, regardless of the myriad of reasons that attempted to elicit his pity, it did not mean the boy was exempt from the law. Noticing the opportunity to grasp the reigns of this runaway situation, Háseti cleared his throat, saying, “Nothing has been set in stone. While Expert Bjǫlr is not wrong, we don’t have the authority to pass judgement. Before passing the Vesperal Labyrinth, one is not considered a warrior and thus does not fall under our jurisdiction. Currently, we are at an impasse between barring you from entering warrior society and leaving it to the city to decide your fate or placing you under our protection.”

A loud yawn watered down the sober moment, inciting a deathly stare from Ívarr. “This has grown tiresome. Since we can’t come to a unanimous agreement, we should just vote on it. I stand with the boy. That way, I can at least say I did a good deed this year,” he declared, kicking back in his seat.

“You Illugi bastard! This is not how we do things!” Bjǫlr bellowed.

His opponent winced, clicking his tongue in annoyance. “Don’t think your fooling anyone with that hard mask you hide behind; a coward will always remain a coward.” The remark sent Bjǫlr into a tirade as he shot to his feet, exposing a stout figure that looked about ready to leap over and strangle Ívarr.

“Enough!” Háseti exclaimed with an intangible force that shook the cavern, effectively quashing any prior notions of conflict. When the debris, so to speak, has settled, he continued. “Not all of us are here, but neither is this a matter of extreme importance. Voting on it will be the quickest way to resolve the issue,” he turned to the boy, stoically announcing, “While his actions were heinous, they were also involuntary due to his berserker fit. He showed great potential and, with the proper nurturing, will surely become a fine warrior. With this in mind, I favour taking him under our wing.”

“Has everyone forgotten about Arta Tree-leg!” Bjǫlr exclaimed, searching his peer’s faces.

“Of course, we all remember Arta Tree-leg, but these are two completely different situations. You, more than anyone, know how hard it is to remain present while in berserkergang. The boy deserves a chance,” Háseti explained, patience running thin. In actuality, he intended to sweep this whole fiasco under the rug, have a private discussion with Bjǫlr, and hopefully sway the man to his side. Sadly, Ívarr, ‘no, the Illugis,’ struck before he had the opportunity, blowing the situation out of proportion. Now his concern was on what they were playing at.

What was their angle? Why make the life of this boy who has shown outstanding talent even by his standards so hard? The warning bell had been struck, and the fog that seemed to revolve around the boy known as Sǫlmundr would be unearthed sooner or later, ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

Garðkell squirmed in his seat, bulges rippling with every movement. He looked at the council head with an apologetic expression earning a nod of understanding, saying, “I’m sorry, Herra, but I also stand against it. While I do feel for him, our laws are clear.”

All attention shifted to Thormoth, his vote pivotal in deciding the outcome that was currently in a stalemate. He gulped, the pressure mounting like a weight on his shoulders. Ívarr’s emerald eyes briefly caught his attention, his curled lips conveying all the captain of the guard needed to know. “I stand with the Herra,” he blurted, cursing his impetuosity while bracing for the inevitable impact.

Bjǫlr slammed his fist onto the table, a resounding boom echoing out from the point of impact. The ensuing shockwave hit Sǫl like an invisible fist, and he found himself on the floor for the second time in the short period he has been there. “So be it if you want him here, but he will have no place in my halls!” the fiery bearded man spat, face red from exertion. “I will not contribute to another tragedy. One… is one too many.” He trailed off at the end, resignation evident as he sank back into his seat.

Remarkably his outburst had no effect on the table or area at large, though whether this was his own doing, that of the others or the environment itself was anyone’s guess. Forlorn helplessness blossomed in the boy’s heart as his very life was played with by these people that seemed like the incarnations of mighty fire jötunns.

Goosebumps prickled Sǫlmundr’s skin as he felt the piercing eyes of the Herra, who had been staring at him with increasing intensity as time went on. He lowered his head as the council’s verdict broke the dam keeping his already agitated emotions at bay. “It is unfortunate pessimism clouds your judgement and will hurt the boy more than you Bjǫlr, but it is within your right. It is decided then that young Sǫlmundr will be officially recognised as a seedling from this point on. However, his entry into the training halls to continue his formal education is barred, and any attempts to sneak in will be met with immediate banishment.”

Thud

“Oho, and I thought your speeches could only put Bergelmir to sleep,” Ívarr mocked, glancing at the boy sprawled on the ground.

“Your lack of decorum and respect is a stain on the honour of this council, Ívarr. Apologise to Herra Háseti,” Garðkell stated, trying his best to remain composed.

“Nice to know you still enjoy having shit on your nose, Garðkell,” Ívarr said, exaggeratedly grimacing while waving away the air.

Veins that could easily be mistaken for eels wriggled under Garðkell’s skin in preparation to correct Ívarr’s mockery and lackadaisical attitude. It was high time someone beat some sense into this man, and he would gladly be the one to do it. As a rising tide of anger pushed him closer to the edge, Háseti’s hand gripped his as if to say it was okay, “There will be no fighting between council members. Only by being united will be we able to withstand whatever is thrown at us. There is no mending a stone with cracks. We. Must. Not. Develop. Cracks.” Háseti’s voice sent a shiver down the member’s spines, the power behind it hinting at something more profound. Ívarr turned away with a huff, much to the satisfaction of Garðkell, the other two donning complicated expressions, seemingly lost in thought that didn’t go unnoticed by Háseti.

Háseti called for the guards who promptly appeared from the tunnel, ordering them to carry the fainted boy out of here, lest he suffer permanent damage under the harsh conditions. The meeting was adjourned a short while later, eventually leaving Háseti all by his lonesome, the last one out of nine others. “Sigh—Strange behaviour of the draugr, dwindling resources, and a city moving closer to a civil war. I am getting too old for this, wouldn’t you say so, Jǫfurr?” No response materialised in the wake of his parting query, his eyes closing in rest as shadows danced to the smouldering tune of a scorching cauldron.

.

.

.

The heavens had been split open, rain bucketing down in a vengeful torrent, as thunderous roars shook the sky. An individual draped from head to toe in a cloak scuttled past houses and through backstreets, boots sloshing in puddles of muddy water, haphazard flashes of lightning stabbing through clouds illuminating the way. Storm winds whipped their robe about, the raindrops pelting their face feeling like tiny needles. Pulling the cloth tight, they hurried along, unwilling to be subject to the force of nature any longer. They eventually stopped before a house situated on the outskirts of the high-class district, slinking around back and knocking on the door with a rhythmic set of taps—a pattern.

The soaked wooden door creaked open, darkness concealing everything within but the silhouette of a woman, lantern in hand. After a short exchange, the lady beckoned the figure in with a nod, the door shutting with a slam courtesy of the active gale. The water-logged cloak dropped to the floor with a splat revealing its ineffectiveness in the form of a drenched person. Following the dim light of the lamp, they were escorted to the pantry by the women, dried foods dotting the shelves as cured meat hanging from the ceiling producing a unique aroma. She pointed towards the opened trap door in the back of the small room, giving them her all-important light source before ghosting into the shadows, erased from existence.

Ducking beneath the hanging flesh, they carefully descended down the cobblestone steps, using the measly amount of illumination provided by the lamp. The temperature plummeted as the spiralling steps deepened, dampness clogging breath, time drawing out, forming a neverending cycle. Thankfully, there was an end to the madness as a warm glow seeped from the doorway leading to an underground hideout. Hushed whispers died out, gelid attendees inspecting the newcomer, returning to their murmurings soon after. They found a seat in the back away from the others and waited silently, huffing into chilled hands. A blonde-haired man rose to his feet a short while later, stepping onto a small podium overlooking sodden faces that portrayed varying amounts of lethargy.

“I apologise to everyone here for the hasty summons, but it was urgent,” he stated, sharp features half concealed by the skewed lighting of the room. “I have just received a message stating that the Pillars have decided that the one known as Sǫlmundr will become a seedling.” The statement caused an outcry among the gatherers, who hastily addressed their grievances.

“It cannot be! Not after what he did!”

“How did he become a seedling in the first place! He did not complete the course!”

“This must be the work of those feral mutts! It has to be!”

“Silence!” a man at the front exclaimed, intent on listening to the remainder of what the speaker had to offer.

Smiling at the man, he continued, “Thank you. Now, as I was about to say, this is not all bad news. Despite being insulated from city law, Expert Bjǫlr has refused to take him under his wing. He has been barred from attaining formal training and will be left to his own devices.” This piece of news was music to their ears, the heavy atmosphere clearing for one of optimism. But a few sharp-minded fellows deduced that this was still a problem.

“But if someone outside the authority of the training halls decided to take the boy under his wing, this could spell disaster for us,” a woman said, curly hair pasted to her forehead.

“Yes, that is also my concern and why I have called this emergency meeting. We have an opportunity here!” the man announced with a glint in his eye. “If we can have one of our own come to his aid in time of need, we will have the opportunity to sow the seeds of rebellion within him. If left alone, I know he will become one of our worst enemies, which is why we are left with two choices! To turn him into an asset that helps us usurp the throne or be rid of him before he grows fangs!”

“It’s too risky… this could be a trap set by the Illugis.”

“Or a knife in their back that brings them to their knees!”

“If I remember correctly, he already has a mentor in Old Gamal, does he not?”

“I say we remove him now while he’s weak and vulnerable. No need to risk it all on a gamble.”

Hearing the differing opinions of his fellow conspirators, he recognised it was time to drive the final nail in the coffin. “Brothers and sisters!” he bellowed, silencing the rowdy bunch. “We do not have the luxury of time. War will break out regardless of if we play safe or not. I know this is a risky gambit, but it may be the only chance we have of gaining the upper hand against the dogs. Our alliance is barely holding up against them as-is. Time is not on our side.” Nods and grunts of support sounded from the people.

“Don’t worry about Old Gamal; if anything, his usefulness outweighs the hindrances he may pose. The sharper the sword, the deadlier the wound, and while it pains me to say this, we have more ways than one to remove him if it does come down to that, though I sorely hope it doesn’t. Rather, we need someone who can instil our values in the boy and point him in the right direction.” The blue-eyed man focused on a lone individual seated at the back of the room, who gradually became the target of everyone’s heated gazes. “Are you up for the task?” he beckoned.

Brushing aside their soggy hair and exposing a birthmark resembling a misshapen bird, they answered. “Yes, anything for the sake of the cause.”