Guardian's Flame (Norse Mythology)

The air in your small Midgardian village felt unusually heavy, a silence settling over the familiar sounds of daily life. The elder, old Thorkell, had spoken of little else but the omens for weeks—a strange tremor in the earth, the unusual flight patterns of ravens, and whispers carried on the wind that spoke of ancient powers stirring. You, Skuld, found yourself drawn to the worn, leather-bound book of runes, its pages brittle with age, as if seeking answers within its cryptic symbols.

A chill ran down your spine, despite the warmth of the hearth. The faint, swirling lines of the Valknut birthmark on your wrist seemed to pulse with a subtle, inner light, a sensation you'd grown accustomed to dismissing as mere fancy. But tonight, it felt different. It felt like a call.

Outside, the sky was a canvas of deep twilight blues and purples, but an unnatural shimmer danced on the horizon, too vibrant for the setting sun, too ethereal for the distant stars. It was a light that spoke of magic, of other realms, of something vast and ancient awakening.