Prologue

The room was a ruin of sterile white. The walls stretched endlessly, smooth and seamless, once pristine but now marred by hairline cracks. Glass shards glittered like frozen tears across the floor, littered among broken tools and scorched circuits.

In the middle of the devastation, an old man sat hunched over, scratching his bald scalp with gnarled fingers. His beard hung wild and gray, unkempt like the man himself, and his eyes—empty, hollow—stared blankly at a machine that loomed in front of him.

It was circular and vast, a mechanical monolith meant to defy the natural laws of existence. Now, its surface was warped, its lights flickering weakly as though pleading to be put out of their misery. It hissed faintly—like a final gasp.

The old man exhaled sharply through his nose. He rose with the slow, uneven motions of brittle bones and shuffled toward the machine. A small, disfigured mouse lay inside—dead, its body burned and twisted. He reached in and plucked it free, holding it up to the dim light.

"Of course it wouldn't work," he muttered, sneering bitterly at the corpse. His voice, cracked and dry, carried a weight of failure only decades could forge. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the mouse into the corner trash bin. The metal clang echoed through the silence like a gavel slamming down.

He lingered for a moment, staring into the empty void where the mouse had been. Then, without a word, he turned and staggered toward the center of the room.

A swipe of his trembling hand brought a virtual screen shimmering to life in the air—a thin rectangle of blue light, floating weightlessly. The screen blinked, ready to record.

The old man sank into the chair, its steel frame creaking beneath him. He sat still, breathing shallowly, before clearing his throat and leaning toward the glowing panel.

"Day two…" He paused, blinking slowly, his brows furrowing as though sifting through the dust of his memory. "No. Wait—what day is it?"

His gaze snapped upward. "Cassy?"

The AI said nothing. The lab remained silent.

"Cassy!" he barked, his voice breaking. He slapped the arm of the chair, his hand trembling with anger. "Fucking AI won't even respond. Have you abandoned me, too?" His lips curled in a humorless smirk. "Just like the others...all of them…"

The old man's words faded into silence. He sat slumped, his head hanging low. Then he stirred, his jaw tightening as if a decision had been made. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet and shuffled across the room.

The wall glowed faintly at his touch, rippling outward from where his palm met the smooth surface. A muffled hiss echoed as two pods slid silently from the wall, their surfaces gleaming under the pale light. One was empty. The other contained a body.

It was a boy, late teens, thin and pale. His arms lay stiff at his sides, his face slack and hollow. Missing fingers marred his left hand, and his genitals were also missing.

The old man loomed over the pod, staring down at the boy's naked figure. His gaze lingered on the absent fingers, then shifted to the emptiness where his genitals should have been. He sucked in a breath through his teeth.

"Better than nothing," he muttered. A bitter scoff followed. "Tsk."

The second pod opened with a soft hiss. The old man turned toward it, his thin hands moving to the buttons of his shirt. They fumbled, trembling so violently that it took several tries before the fabric finally loosened. The shirt dropped to the floor, forgotten.

Next came his trousers. He bent, awkwardly tugging at the waistband. One leg slipped free. The other caught stubbornly around his ankle. When he tried to pull it, his balance failed, and he fell hard onto his backside with a grunt.

"Damn it!" he cursed, smacking the floor with his palm. For a long moment, he sat there, breathing heavily, sweat beading on his brow.

Then he laughed—a dry, bitter sound. "I should've bought that Tesla bot." His eyes darted toward the ceiling. "Not that it would've mattered. I'd have shoved it into the machine like the others. All dead. All useless."

His smirk faded. Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet, stepping naked into the pod. It sealed around him with a low hiss.

Inside, darkness embraced him. The cold air prickled his skin. Then the voice spoke—calm, hollow, mechanical.

"Proceed?"

The old man's eyes closed. Images flickered across his mind: faces—smiling, shouting, crying—before they all faded into silence. A lifetime of empty halls, of work, of sacrifice that had stolen everything and given nothing back.

The voice repeated, "Proceed?"

His jaw tightened. "No."

The pod hissed open. The old man stepped out, his legs unsteady, his body trembling. He stumbled through the room until he reached a narrow drawer on the far side. With shaking hands, he yanked it open. Tools clattered to the ground, but he ignored them.

His fingers found what he was searching for—a small, silver box.

He fumbled with the latch until it popped open. Inside lay a black, bug-shaped object—smooth, matte, bug.

The old man stared at it, his empty eyes glinting faintly. "You'll have to do."

With a slow, deliberate motion, he pressed the device against his neck.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then pain erupted.

The bug drilled into his skin with a sickening hiss, splintering into microscopic shards. He stumbled, gasping as if fire poured through his veins. His back arched, his limbs convulsing as the invasion spread. He fell hard onto the tile, his body spasming. White foam bubbled from his lips as he screamed, the sound raw and primal.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the pain ebbed. He lay still, chest heaving, sweat pooling around him.

The time machine hummed softly behind him.

The old man dragged himself upright, his arms trembling, his body a broken shell—but something behind his eyes was alive. Before him, the machine stood waiting, its circular core spinning weakly, light dancing faintly across its chrome surface.

At its base, a wide, ring-like entryway pulsed softly, the gateway into the machine's heart. The doorway seemed to hum, alive with untapped power, as if anticipating his arrival.

With the last of his strength, the old man staggered forward, gripping the edge of the circular frame to steady himself. The hum grew louder as he hauled himself inside, entering the hollow chamber. The air within buzzed with energ and electric, the walls pulsing faintly as though breathing.

At the center of the chamber, the vortex waited—colors and shadows swirling endlessly. It roared softly.

"All those years," he murmured, his voice nearly lost in the machine's rising hum. "All that work… and time still took me, like it takes us all."

He straightened, the faintest spark of defiance flickering across his face. His trembling hand found the control panel embedded into the curved wall. With one last, deliberate motion, he willed the system to life.

The machine jolted awake. Lights flared along its surface, the core spinning faster and faster until it roared with energy. Sparks snapped across the walls as the vortex grew brighter, twisting violently.

The old man stared into the swirling light. His lips curled into a faint, broken smile, and then he laughed—softly at first, but louder, madder, until it echoed through the chamber.

The vortex devoured him whole.

---

In the time vortex, Ethan felt a surge of strange triumph. It worked, he thought, though the words felt distant and foreign as they passed through his mind. But as he was carried further into the swirling chaos, something within him frayed. He couldn't remember how much time had passed. He counted numbers one, two, three up to a million. But even that seemed like a futile exercise. Time was slipping through his fingers. His body was no longer his. It felt as if he didn't belong here anymore, as though he was being consumed by the vortex itself. His limbs, once sturdy and familiar, were no more. He was losing himself.

Am I going to die here?

The thought lingered for a moment before he dismissed it, too weak to hold onto. The pain continued to mount, and a sharp pang of regret cut through his fading consciousness. Maybe I should've assimilated into that eunuch's body instead... The thought was barely a whisper before it too was drowned in the agony that followed.

Then, without warning, sharp, searing pain exploded in his mind. His body was being torn apart from the inside, but the true horror came not from the loss of flesh it was the sensation of being absorbed. The nanobots, those tiny machines designed adapting to their new situation. They were taking him in, consuming him, but not in the way a human would be consumed. The old man's consciousness was slipping away, swallowed by the hive of nanobots that now reigned.

He wasn't dying, not yet. His thoughts, his memories, his very identity were being adapted twisted into the nanobot hive. The process wasn't an erasure; it was a transformation, one that wasn't kind.

Time, however, no longer moved in a straight line. Here in the void, time itself seemed to warp. The nanobots once a tool for preservation sacrificed themselves to keep the hive intact. They burned through their own energy, consuming themselves to fuel their survival. Time was static, an endless loop, but the machine persisted. The consciousness of Ethan was now mingled with that of the hive.

The nanobots, their numbers dwindling, used what little remained of their energy to propel themselves through the turbulent stream of time. The machine felt a strange pull, something that drew it forward, a light in the distance, a chance to escape.

And then, it happened. A wormhole appeared.

What is that?

With every ounce of remaining energy, the he bug hurtled toward the wormhole. It was a last-ditch effort. It knew it would be its final act. If it did not make it, if it failed to reach that swirling gateway, it would die, lost to the void forever.

But the wormhole pulled it in.

The sensation was like being torn apart. The world around it stretched and fractured, reality bending until, with a violent jerk, it was spat out into a new world. The bug, its tiny, mechanical body now barely able to function, scanned its surroundings.

It was a dense forest, unlike anything it had known. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of earth and foliage. Towering trees loomed above, their twisted branches reaching like skeletal hands toward a sky shrouded in mist. Ash trees, gnarled and ancient, stood beside sturdy yews, their limbs stretching into the pale light that filtered through the thick canopy, casting a green, almost ethereal haze. The ground was soft, damp with moss, and the air was alive with the sound of distant rustling.

The bug, barely the size of a finger, tumbled through the air. It was falling, spiraling out of control.

This is bad, the bug thought, but its thoughts were growing faint, growing weak. There was no time to think. It detached its wings and flapped them furiously, righting itself midair, the instinct to survive kicking in.

I must find a host.

Its wings beat faster, and it flew through the forest, scanning every leaf, every shadow, every movement.

The forest was vast, sprawling, and full of life. But was there anyone here, anyone who could keep it alive? The bug flew with increasing desperation, scanning the thick, mist-covered ground below, searching for any sign of human life.

It couldn't stop. It couldn't slow down.

---

"Row!" he ordered loudly.

The oars dipped into the black water once more, and the ship drifted deeper into the mist, where the river ran silent, and the trees whispered secrets meant only for the dead.

The Viking ship drifted silently along the grey river, its oars rising and falling with slow, reluctant rhythm. The water was dark as pitch, swallowing the faint light of the overcast sky. The riverbanks loomed thick with shadowed forest—tall, trees that seemed to whisper curses as the ship passed.

Twenty men remained, their once-mighty war 200 party-man reduced to hollow-eyed survivors. The loss of a hundred brothers at Pwllheli, where Welsh defenders had fought like demons, hung heavy in the cold, mist-soaked air.

At the prow, Kjartan Bjornsson stood, his hand on the hilt of his notched sword. The leader's face, once the embodiment of unshakable confidence, was drawn and pale. He drank from a weathered leather flask and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Behind him, Jorund broke the silence. His voice cracked, brittle as old wood.

"Kjartan... is this the glory you promised us when we left home?" His gaze was fixed on the water, his shoulders slumped. "Look at us. Look how many of our brothers we've lost... my brother…" His voice faltered, and tears welled in his eyes. "It should've been me."

Kjartan exhaled sharply, gripping the flask tighter. He turned to face the ship, his cold eyes sweeping over the broken crew. "You think you're the only one who lost a brother, Jorund?"

His words hung heavy in the mist. Kjartan pointed at Freydis, huddled like a wraith in the shadow of the mast. Her face was hollow, streaked with tears that no longer fell. "She lost her lover." His gaze shifted to Halvadan, a hulking man with a beard matted from days of sweat and dirt. "He lost his brother too."

"We all lost brothers," Kjartan continued, his voice low but hard as iron. "But they're in Valhalla now, drinking ale with the gods!" He looked to the men each as ragged and broken as the next. "And if we die here, we'll join them. But not yet."

The silence returned, broken only by the creak of oars and the lapping of water against the ship's hull.

Suddenly, Halvadan stood, his broad shoulders looming as he hefted his axe. His deep voice was like distant thunder. "Let me kill that priest." His thick finger pointed toward the captive slumped at the stern—a man with wild, grey-streaked hair and a long beard tangled with bones. "He's bad luck for us. I saw him curse one of our own at Pwllheli."

A murmur of agreement rumbled through the crew. Finnr, a wiry man with a scar across his face, spat and growled, "Yes, let's gut him and send him to his maker."

Kjartan raised a hand, silencing them. "No." His voice was firm. "He is not a priest? Do he look like one of their meek lamb-herders? This fellow serves their old gods like us not the crucified one."

Jorund frowned, bewildered. "Then what is he?"

Finnr leaned closer to the captive, tugging at the man's beard roughly. His lips curling into something between a sneer and a grimace. "Never seen a priest with bones in his beard," Finnr muttered.

The druid had been unconscious since the fight, and though they'd bound his hands tightly, Kjartan had been watching closely. The stillness in the man's chest, the faint flutter of his eyelids—it was too controlled. Too perfect.

Without a word, Kjartan grabbed the druid by the hair, yanking his head back with a practiced motion. The man didn't stir. Kjartan's jaw tightened. He wasn't fooled. The druid was faking it.

He shoved the druid's head down into the rushing river with one swift motion. The cold water surged over the druid's face, flooding his mouth and nose. The man's body jerked violently as he was submerged, his arms flailing helplessly against the cold grasp of the water. The crew went silent, watching in tense silence.

Kjartan held him there, staring down at the water's surface as ripples spread outward. His grip was firm, unyielding then he lifted the druid's head, pulling him gasping from the water. The man sputtered, his chest heaving as he coughed up the river's icy water. His eyes shot open, wide with panic and shock, and for the first time since they had captured him.

The druid's breathing was ragged, but at least he was awake now. His body trembled from the cold, but his glare remained defiant.

Kjartan gripped his hair tightly and yanked his head back again, forcing the druid to meet his gaze. "You're awake," he said quietly, voice cold but steady. "Now, where are we?"

The druid's lips curled, a mix of anger and bitter amusement in his eyes. He didn't answer immediately, but the defiance in his expression was undeniable. Kjartan could see that the man wasn't easily cowed, but that was precisely why he would be useful. A broken spirit wasn't useful to anyone.

Finally, the druid looked around observing. He poke, his voice raw but composed. "You're between the Mawddach and the hills of Ardudwy," he rasped. "There are farms to the south."

"Kjartan said coldly. "I need you to guide us."

The druid didn't flinch. His breathing had steadied, but the flicker of fire in his eyes remained. "You'll get what you're given," the druid muttered, his tone low and bitter. "But I'll never guide you for free."

Kjartan smiled, though it wasn't a pleasant expression. "You'll guide us," he said softly, "or i could let him split your head in half." He said looking at Halvadan who viciously looked at the druid.

The druid's lips tightened, but he said nothing more. He had no choice.

With one last glance, Kjartan released the man's hair, shoving him back against the ship's railing. The druid collapsed there, panting, drenched, but still glaring defiantly at him. Kjartan turned away, gesturing for the crew to get the ship moving.

----

It was in the afternoon, and Kjartan had sent Finnr and Jorund to scout the area since morning. As they moved through the dense forest, Jorund cursed under his breath, his frustration boiling over. "That priest was lying. When I get back, I'll cut off his tongue myself."

Finnr suddenly raised a hand, signaling for silence. His sharp eyes scanned the forest as he whispered, "Do you hear that?"

Before Jorund could respond, three figures appeared on the trail ahead—a woman and two young men. The men carried bows and a few rabbits, laughing and chatting freely as they gestured to each other. The woman walked beside them, her presence drawing Jorund's attention immediately.

He licked his lips, a malicious grin spreading across his face. "Let's kill them and plow her," he whispered, unsheathing his axe.

But Finnr grabbed his arm and hissed, "No. Let's follow them instead."

Jorund shot him a furious glare but reluctantly lowered his weapon. Silently, the two men trailed the trio through the forest, their footsteps muffled by the soft earth and scattered leaves.

Eventually, the three figures arrived at a barn surrounded by a cluster of small shelters, sheep and a handful of children played outside under the watchful eye of an elderly man.

Jorund smirked, his eyes scanning the settlement. "Look, not more than twenty people here. A few men that might fight, but the rest—women and children."

Finnr nodded. "Let's head back and tell Kjartan."

They slipped back into the shadows of the forest and made their way to the ship.

The ship was a cauldron of unrest. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting blood-red streaks across the river, and the crew's murmurs grew louder. The warriors, restless and brimming with doubt, paced or sharpened their weapons in agitation.

Halvadan slammed his fist against a wooden beam, his voice booming across the deck. "This is a trap! Your druid's lies will doom us all, Kjartan! Our men have been gone too long."

Freydis, seated on a crate near the stern, nodded grimly. "Halvadan's right. This sorcerer is wasting our time. Let us see his head parted from his neck."

The druid shifted where he sat, his robes rustling as his unease deepened. He could feel their eyes on him—hungry, suspicious, feral. "Damned savages," he thought, his heartbeat quickening. "They'll kill me if I don't speak soon." He straightened his back, but his voice wavered as he spoke.

"Patience," the druid hissed, his tone trying for authority but failing. "The gods reward those who trust in their messengers."

Halvadan turned slowly, his gaze sharp and predatory. "The gods??" he sneered, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "Tell me which gods do you speak for druid?

"Enough!" Kjartan barked, his voice cutting through the tension. "We wait. A little longer."

Halvadan whirled on him, his face dark with fury. "The longer we wait, the more time they have to prepare!"

The druid, sensing his moment slipping, lashed out. His voice was venomous, shaking but sharp as a blade. "In our lands challenging your leader openly? That is treason!"

The crew stilled at the accusation, but only for a moment before laughter broke the tension. Halvadan's booming laugh rang out first, followed by others, their mirth laced with mockery.

"Treason?" Halvadan spat, his grin turning savage. "You're no better than a rat in the shadows, sorcerer. You think words will save you?" He stepped toward the druid, his massive frame casting a shadow over the smaller man.

The druid, cornered, felt desperation boil over into hysteria. His lips twisted into a crooked smile, his voice rising with deranged fervor. "I saw it!" he shrieked. "I saw your deaths! All of you, slaughtered like animals! I curse you all—you won't reach Valhalla! Hahaha the gods will spit on your souls and cast you into Hel's abyss!"

The crew shifted uneasily, their fear of the druid's curse palpable.

Halvadan's face darkened, the mirth draining from his eyes. Without a word, he reached for his axe.

"Halvadan!" Kjartan shouted, stepping forward to intervene, but Freydis grabbed his arm.

"Let him do it," she whispered. "The druid's already marked himself."

Halvadan approached the druid, his boots thudding against the wooden planks. The druid straightened his back, his crooked smile still plastered on his face. "Do it," he whispered, his voice trembling but defiant.

Halvadan didn't hesitate. The axe swung in a brutal arc, splitting the druid's skull with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across the deck, painting Halvadan's face and chest. The druid crumpled to the ground, his dead eyes still fixed in an unsettling grin.

For a moment, silence reigned. The crew stood frozen, their eyes fixed on Halvadan as he crouched over the body. His fingers dipped into the pooling blood, and with slow, deliberate movements, he smeared it across his face.

He began to chant in a low, guttural voice, the words harsh and alien.

As the chant grew louder, Halvadan rose to his feet, his face painted with the druid's blood. His eyes were wild, gleaming with something unholy.

"The gods have taken their offering," he growled, his voice reverberating with a primal energy. "Now they march with us. Tonight, we fight not as men—but as wolves! slaughtering the sheep."

The crew let out a collective roar, their earlier doubts swallowed by bloodlust and fear. Kjartan stared at the scene, his jaw clenched.

---

At the shore, Kjartan and the rest of the crew were preparing their weapons when the scouts arrived. Finnr stepped forward. "Kjartan! We found a barn."

The men aboard the ship paused, their faces lighting up with anticipation. Kjartan grinned and gestured for silence. "Quickly, tell me their numbers."

Jorund stepped forward, eager to report. "Not more than twenty, and the ones who can fight are fewer than ten. Mostly women and children."

A low murmur of excitement rippled through the crew. They began sharpening their blades, inspecting their shields, and readying their axes. The metallic sound of weapons being prepared filled the air.

Kjartan raised his voice. "Good. This will be easy pickings. Remember, take what you can carry."

The men roared their approval, their eyes gleaming with bloodlust.

Kjartan nodded. "Tonight, we feast like kings."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the Vikings launched their longboat from the shore, silently gliding through the water. The promise of blood and plunder filled the air, and their hearts burned with the thrill of the coming raid.

--

The barn was dim, filled with the earthy smell of hay and the soft rustle of animals shifting in the straw. A flickering torch cast shadows on the wooden walls as Dafydd, his wife, and their son huddled near the crackling fire. The wind howled outside, rattling the barn's frame, but inside, there was warmth in their closeness.

Dafydd leaned back against a bale of hay, a grin tugging at his lips. "Alright, lad," he began, his voice steady and rich. "Tonight, I'll tell you the tale of Llew Llaw Gyffes—a tale of gods, of battle, and of skill like no other."

The boy, wide-eyed, leaned forward eagerly. "Is he as strong as the warriors you tell me about, Father?"

His wife, seated nearby with a mug of warm ale, chuckled. "Strong? Far more than that." She ruffled her son's hair, her smile warm and teasing. "Your father wouldn't be fit to hold his shield."

Dafydd shot her an exaggerated look of mock offense. "Now hold on, woman! I've been known to wield a sword or two in my day."

"Aye," she teased, "but I wouldn't bet on you against the gods, love."

The boy giggled as Dafydd sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "No respect, lad. No respect at all." Then, with a playful wink, he leaned closer. "But you see, Llew wasn't just a warrior. He was a god of light and skill, wise as he was strong."

"Wise?" the boy asked, tilting his head. "Is that why you always say I need to listen to you?"

His wife raised an eyebrow, her voice playful. "You should listen to your father more, though. He's been trying to teach you how to work the plow for weeks."

The boy pouted, clearly embarrassed. "I'm trying, but the plow's heavier than I thought!"

Dafydd laughed, his voice deep and reassuring. "Don't worry, lad. It's not about strength alone—it's about learning the right way. That's the wisdom of the gods."

His son leaned in closer, his admiration clear. "What happened in the battle? Did Llew win?"

Dafydd's grin deepened. "Aye, he did. Llew led his people against the Fomorians, monstrous creatures who sought to take the land. It was a hard fight, but Llew shone like the sun itself—bright, fierce, and impossible to defeat."

His wife raised her mug in mock salute. "Sounds like something your father would've done if he were a god."

Dafydd laughed, light and teasing. "If I were a god, I'd be the god of—"

"Talking," she interrupted with a smirk. "You talk more than a bard with a mug of ale."

Dafydd's tone grew serious but kind. "Llew wasn't just about fighting, son. He could craft weapons, sing songs, heal wounds, and build wonders. He taught that true strength comes from skill, wisdom, and heart."

The boy's gaze was intense. "I want to be like him, Father. Strong, wise, and skilled."

Dafydd smiled, ruffling his son's hair. "You can be like him, lad. But remember, being wise is also knowing when to listen, especially to your mother."

She raised her mug, grinning. "Now that's the best advice your father's given all evening."

Their laughter echoed through the barn, the warmth of their bond defying the bitter wind outside. The boy, full of wonder, leaned back against the hay, his father's words lingering.

"One day, I'll be a god too," he murmured, half-dreaming.

Dafydd leaned over, his voice soft and reassuring. "You already have the heart of one, lad. Just remember, it's not about being a god... it's about being the best you can be, just like Llew."

---

On a deck, the druid's body slumped against the wooden planks, unmoving. Blood had pooled beneath his head, a black smear against the damp wood where his skull had split from a Viking's brutal blow. His robes, once pale and marked with symbols, now hung torn and stained with mud. His beard—tangled and woven with tiny bones—seemed to mock him, a symbol of his life's rituals now wasted.

Above the lifeless figure, something stirred.

A faint black shape hovered, a shimmer in the grey air—almost invisible, but pulsing faintly with energy. The a machine flickered like a failing spark, a dying echo of advanced technology out of place in this brutal, ancient world.

"Fuck…" Ethan's fractured voice crackled glitching in the void of his weakened consciousness. His thoughts splintered like static across broken circuits. "What is this place?"

The scene—the Viking ship, the primitive surroundings—stretched his understanding of reality to its limits. "Were those… Vikings? Actual Vikings?"

He tried to steady himself, but pain struck through the swarm like fire. Ethan's thoughts scrambled, unraveling as his nanobots struggled to maintain cohesion. He pulsed erratically in the air, the machine's edges fraying like smoke caught in a breeze.

"Ahhh i can't… think…" he muttered, his voice a weak hiss.

His focus turned downward to the body of the druid. The man's pale face was calm in death. Ethan hovered closer, observing him with desperation gnawing at the edges of his fading consciousness.

"At least they didn't cut off his head," Ethan murmured bitterly.

He scanned the body more carefully. The gash in the man's head was severe, but the rest of him remained intact. Ethan wavered, debating. "Should I follow them? The Vikings? Wait until they kill someone else? A better body with a better wound to heal."

The thought lingered, but another pulse of agony tore through the machine. Time was running out. Every passing second drained him further, his energy reserves dwindling to nothing.

"No," Ethan said finally, his resolve tightening. "I won't make it…"

He dove.

The nanobots surged downward, their form dissolving into tendrils of black mist that sank into the druid's broken skull. They threaded into the wound, merging with the man's tissues at a microscopic level. The nanobots worked with ruthless precision, knitting flesh and bone back together—sewing the torn skin shut as though stitched by invisible threads.

The transformation was seamless, unnatural. Within moments, the wound disappeared, the blood drying as if time itself had reversed. The man's chest, still moments before, now rose faintly with breath.

Ethan pushed deeper, trying to connect with the brain, to overwrite it—his only chance of survival. But something stopped him.

A sharp force pushed back, an unseen wall of resistance that burned like fire. Ethan reeled, his nanobots pulsing wildly as his consciousness buckled under the backlash.

"What the—?!"

The druid's mind was still alive. Weak, faint, but alive. A flicker of spirit clung stubbornly to the body like a flame refusing to die. Ethan cursed inwardly, his energy sputtering.

"No, no, no… this can't work. Why aren't you dead!?"

The nanobots flickered, their energy too far gone. Before he could retreat, the druid's mind flared.

Ethan's fragmented consciousness shuddered, his voice breaking apart. "I… can't…"

Darkness crashed over him, dragging him into an endless void.

The first thing Brynach felt was the cold. It wrapped around him like a shroud, heavy and biting, dragging him back from the void. His chest heaved with a deep breath, the air sharp in his lungs, and his heart hammered as though rising from the grave.

His eyes snapped open.

The misty sky above greeted him—grey and shapeless, light filtered faintly through the clouds. Brynach blinked, disoriented, his vision swimming as he tried to focus. The fog in his mind lingered, thick and unnatural, as if something foreign clawed at the edges of his thoughts.

He stirred, his hands pressing against the cold, wet planks of the ship's deck. Pain flared through his limbs, weak and trembling. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, gasping for breath.

His head. The blow. He remembered the Viking's mace, the flash of blinding pain, and then… nothing. Tentatively, his hand rose to his temple, his fingers brushing over smooth, unbroken skin. There was no wound.

"I'm… alive!?" Brynach whispered. His voice rasped through a dry throat, the words alien on his lips. His trembling hands explored his body, searching for injury. But there was nothing. No broken bones. No gaping wounds. Only the faint ache of exhaustion that weighed him down.

His gaze turned to the river's dark surface, its ripples stretching endlessly in both directions. The Vikings were gone.

Teeth gritted, Brynach whispered to himself. "Oh Arawn why have you brought back such a lowly subject like me...."

Arawn was the enigmatic ruler of Annwn, the Welsh Otherworld, is a god deeply tied to restoration and renewal. Known for his dominion over a realm of eternal abundance, healing, and rebirth, Arawn is said to have the power to mend what is broken and breathe life into what is lost. The druid beleived it was Arawn who restored the him, pulling him from the brink of death and weaving his shattered body back together with the essence of Annwn itself.

"If i live, I live for a reason..." he thought, his fingers trembling as he touched the once-fatal wound on his head. The gods had mended him, but they could not mend the guilt eating away at his soul. Those poor people... They have no idea what's coming. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.

Why did Arawn bring me back? The question clawed at him. He could feel the divine spark pulsing in his veins, he felt that his body was sturdier and his senses had become better. A part of him whispered that he could flee, leave the bloodshed behind and start anew, but the thought turned his stomach. No. If I run now, their deaths will be on my soul for eternity. He stood abruptly, his jaw tightening.

"I have the power of the gods now," he murmured to himself, his voice shaking but resolute. "What kind of man wastes a gift like this?" He stared at the faint light streaming through the cracks in the ship's hull, his heart pounding. "Arawn didn't save me for cowardice. If I was to lead them to slaughter, then I will lead them to salvation. I will not let their blood stain the earth without a fight."

---

The cool Welsh air filled Brynach's lungs as his senses sharpened, the nanobots coursing through his veins giving him a clarity he'd never known before. The landscape around him seemed to stretch out forever—rolling hills, dense forest, and the occasional mist that hung in the air like a veil. The hills loomed in the distance, their green slopes blending into the sky. The quiet was oppressive, almost unnatural, as though the land itself was holding its breath.

Every tree, every rustle of the leaves felt heightened. The slightest shift in the air sent a shiver down his spine. His eyes locked onto the smallest movement: a bird flapping its wings, the way the branches swayed under the wind. He felt connected to everything, his senses expanding to levels beyond human reach.

The weight of the sword in his hand was a constant reminder of the task ahead. It was a leftover from the Viking ship. Old, rusty, and far from ideal. But it would do. It had to.

Brynach's mind raced as he adjusted his grip on the hilt. Can I really do this? he thought, feeling doubt gnaw at him. Twenty men, all warriors... His heart pounded in his chest, but he quickly pushed the thought aside. He had no room for fear. No, he repeated, more to himself than to anyone else. I will not fail. The gods are with me.

Then his nostrils flared. The scent of them. The Norsemen. It was there, hanging in the air like a taint. He could smell their sweat, the leather of their armor, the iron of their blades. His senses were so attuned now that he could even pick up the faint trace of their breath, the heat of their bodies. They had left a trail.

Brynach crouched low, sniffing the ground like a hunting dog. His enhanced senses took in every detail—the scent of wet earth, and underneath it all, the unmistakable stink of the Vikings.

With a quick exhale, he pushed forward, running through the woods faster than he ever thought possible. His legs moved in a blur, his body powered by the nanobots inside him. He could feel the wind whipping against his face, the adrenaline flooding his system. There was a thrill in it—something exhilarating, as if the world had shrunk.

His mind churned with conflicting thoughts. All life is sacred. It was a lesson he had been taught, one that had guided him for years. But as he ran, the reality of the situation pressed down on him. He had to stop them. They had to be stopped. But the cost of that taking lives, breaking his morals would weigh on him forever.

His breath quickened, his heart ached. He couldn't let these savages destroy more innocent lives. Not when it was his fault they were here in the first place. His eyes burned with determination.

The sun clung to the edge of the day, its light stretching long but softening with the approach of twilight and ahead more than twenty men, spread out in a loose formation. They were just ahead, making their way toward the barn.

Finnr, the lookout was at the front, his thin tall frame cutting through the underbrush. His voice rumbled low, full of satisfaction. "We're close. Just a little farther."

The others grumbled, eager to reach their destination. Jorund, kicked at the sheep grazing nearby. "Look at how fat these sheep's asses are," he said, laughing. "Let's hope they're just like their owners."

Another Viking, a hulking man with one eye, let out a dark laugh. "You sick bastard. We know you'd fuck anything with a hole."

A few of them chuckled at the crude joke, but it was interrupted when Freydis, a shieldmaiden, her expression shifted, becoming uneasy. She looked down at the ground and muttered something under her breath. "A dead crow...." she whispered, barely audible. "This is a bad omen." Her eyes flickered toward the group, and her unease grew.

Kjartan, the leader of the Vikings, noticed her hesitation and squinted. "What is it?" he asked, voice calm but curious.

Freydis pressed her hand against her stomach as if to reassure herself. "I need to take a shit."

Kjartan chuckled, clearly unfazed. "Don't take too long," he said with a grin.

Halvadan, eyed her. "I've seen you vomiting. Are you with child, Freydis?"

Freydis stiffened, her cheeks flushing. "No! What? I'm not with child," she said quickly, but the Vikings weren't convinced.

"Jorund, stay with her," Kjartan ordered. "You know the path. Catch up when you can."

Jorund groaned, clearly annoyed at being ordered around, but he gave a quick nod. "Fine," he muttered, trudging off after her.

Freydis went toward a nearby tree, pulling off her clothes to relieve herself. Jorund stood nearby, his eyes darting toward the forest, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

The air shifted as Brynach pushed himself faster, the world around him a blur. His robe fluttered in the wind, the edges whipping around him like the wings of a bird in flight. The leaves rustled and whipped away as he cut through the forest, his body a blur of motion. He marveled at the speed, This is a blessing from the Gods! He thought as he amazed by how effortlessly his body moved.

He focused, his senses sharpening. His enhanced smell cut through the air, honing in on the trail of the Norsemen. Their scent was strong, sharp, and unmistakable, but ahead, something was different. Two distinct odors stood out, straying from the main path. He paused, adjusting his speed, and narrowed his senses, drawing closer.

The smells were sharp—pungent. It was fresh shit and piss, but something else lingered beneath. His mind raced, processing the unusual combination of scents. It wasn't just the usual stench of urine, sharp and metallic. No, there was something subtler this time, something... off. The sharpness of the piss was mixed with an odd sweetness, a tanginess that he couldn't place. It is a woman....must be that shieldmaiden, is she sick his mind processed the information.

Brynach's breath caught for a second, the precision of his senses momentarily stunning him. It felt like he could dissect the world with a single breath, the entire ecosystem unraveling in his mind.

But there was no time to dwell on such thoughts. The Norsemen were ahead, and his duty was clear. With a quick shake of his head, he left the two behind and refocused on the group further ahead. The trail of the invaders was fresh, and he knew his time was running out. He would come back for them later, but for now, his focus was on the larger threat. The hunt continued.

A blur of motion shot past them like lightning. Jorund blinked, his heart racing as he tried to make sense of what he had just seen. The figure was impossibly fast, a shadow that whipped through the trees, faster than any man should be able to move.

He turned toward Freydis, his eyes wide. "What was that!? A boar?"

Freydis, trying to finish what she had started, looked up. "What are you talking about?" She scoffed, clearly irritated. "Trying to scare me?" But Jorund was still staring at the spot where the figure had vanished.

The confusion in his eyes was clear. "It wasn't a boar. It was a man.…" he murmured, rubbing his eyes in disbelief.

Freydis furrowed her brow, her suspicion growing. Must be the mushrooms he always eats, she thought, but she didn't say anything aloud.

Meanwhile, Brynach had already moved on, no longer concerned with the two figures behind him. His mind was locked on the task at hand.

Kjartan, leading his men through the dense woods, spotted the barn in the distance. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene. The Vikings had been hungry for days, and now the barn was in sight. He could almost taste the food that awaited them.

----

As the Norsemen trudged cautiously through the dense woods, a chilling silence enveloped them. The wind stirred the leaves above, casting dancing shadows across their wary faces. Striggr, walking near the back of the group, suddenly halted. His head snapped toward a rustle in the trees. A twig cracked, sharp as thunder in the silence.

"Who's there?" Striggr barked, his hand gripping the hilt of his axe tightly.

Halvadan, just ahead, turned with a scowl. "What's wrong now?"

Striggr's gaze remained fixed on the dark woods. "I heard something," he muttered, his tone uncertain but tense.

Finnr scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "A rabbit?"

Kjartan stopped as well, his piercing eyes scanning the surroundings. "It's nothing. Let's keep moving."

Striggr hesitated, his unease still evident, but he shrugged and rejoined the group. As the warriors pressed forward, the woods seemed to grow darker. But then, before Striggr could take another step, a shadow darted from the trees with impossible speed.

A cold blade sliced across his throat. His eyes widened in shock, his hands clawing at the wound as he crumpled to the ground with a sickening thud.

The group froze.

The choking sound of Striggr gurgling on his own blood broke the silence. Finnr turned sharply, his face pale as he saw the warrior's body twitching on the ground.

"Striggr!" Finnr shouted. His voice was frantic as he drew his sword, his eyes darting into the shadows. "Who did this? Show yourself!"

From the darkness emerged a figure, stepping into the scene. Clad in a robe that fluttered in the night breeze, his long hair framed a face etched with purpose. A thick, long beard glistened with bones hung from his neck like macabre trophies, and his eyes burned with intensity.

Halvadan's breath caught in his throat. His voice trembled as he pointed, "You! I killed you! How are you still alive?"

The group recoiled, their weapons trembling in their hands. Finnr took an involuntary step back, his voice barely a whisper. "It's him... it's the priest."

Kjartan's expression darkened, his lips tightening into a grim line. His voice cold and resolute. "He's no man. He has become a Draugr. Here for revenge."

The warriors exchanged uneasy glances. Draugr—the undead of Norse legend. Creatures of unstoppable strength and supernatural fury.

One of the younger warriors stammered, "W-we're finished! Unless we... we decapitate him..."

Brynach said nothing. Instead, he crouched beside Striggr's body, wrenching the man's sword from his lifeless fingers. He examined it for a moment, then gave a small, satisfied nod. The sword was better than the rusty one he carried.

Turning back to the group, Brynach pointed the bloodied blade at them and spoke in a low, commanding voice. "Come."

The challenge sent a ripple of fear through the warriors. Halvadan, a towering man with a grey beard and a shield as wide as his chest, grunted in disgust. He shoved his comrades aside.

"Cowards!" he spat, stepping forward with his axe raised. His voice boomed with false confidence. "I'll take him on myself!"

Halvadan advanced with thunderous steps, his heavy shield raised before him and his axe glinting in the faint moonlight. His breath fogged the cold air as he snarled, "Fight me, Draugr! Show me the strength of the dead!"

Brynach stood still, his eyes locked onto Halvadan's movements. His grip tightened on the sword, the blood still dripping from its blade. To him, the big man moved like a lumbering ox, every swing telegraphed, every movement slow. The nanobots in his system heightened his senses to an unnatural degree. He could see the flex of Halvadan's muscles, the trembling of his grip, and hear the uneven thrum of his heartbeat.

The first swing came fast and heavy, but Brynach leaned back, letting the blade whistle harmlessly past his chest. Halvadan bellowed in frustration, swinging again and again, each strike carving through the air but never meeting its mark.

"Fight me!" Halvadan roared, his voice hoarse and desperate.

Brynach's movements were measured, almost lazy. He sidestepped a downward strike and Halvadan grunted, yanking it free, only for Brynach to step inside his guard with a swiftness that made the other warriors gasp.

Enough, in the next moment the druid's sword drove deep into Halvadan's stomach. The warrior's eyes bulged as he staggered back, clutching the hilt embedded in his gut. He sank to his knees, blood pouring from the wound and staining the ground.

Halvadan's hand reached for his axe, but Brynach kicked it away effortlessly. The dying man crumpled to the ground, his body twitching as life ebbed from him. He stepped closer, his voice calm but cold. "I told you. You won't see Valhalla."

The other Norsemen stood frozen, their faces pale with terror. Finnr's sword wavered in his hand, his knuckles white as he gripped it.

The silence shattered as one warrior turned and ran, his footsteps echoing through the woods. Another followed, then another. Panic spread like wildfire.

"Run!" one of them shouted, their voices breaking with fear.

As Brynach stood, his heightened senses allowed him to perceive every subtle movement around him. His eyes flicked from one warrior to the next, noting their fear, the way their bodies trembled, the tightness in their grip on their weapons. Panic was setting in like a disease, spreading through the remaining Norsemen.

Brynach's gaze lingered on a particular Viking, whose face remained eerily calm. Unlike the others, Kjartan's breathing was even, his posture unyielding. His hands did not shake as he gripped his sword and tapped on the hilt with his finger, nor did he fumble for any other weapon in a futile attempt to defend himself.

He could hear the rhythm of Kjartan's heartbeat, steady and slow, unperturbed by the death surrounding him.

The two archers remained, their bows drawn, arrows trained on Brynach.

"Loose!" Kjartan ordered.

The first arrow shot through the air. Brynach tilted his head slightly, the arrow barely grazing his cheek before embedding into the ground. The second arrow came a moment later, but Brynach raised his sword with supernatural precision, deflecting it into the trees.

The archers exchanged wide-eyed glances, their hands trembling as they fumbled to notch another arrow.

Kjartan let out a frustrated growl. "Enough!" He dropped his sword and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Kjartan took a step forward, his voice lowering into something calm and measured. "You've proven your strength. I can see that you're not a Draugr....You're something far greater."

The remaining warriors stared at their leader, their faces a mixture of confusion and fear.

"I have traveled far," Kjartan continued, his tone almost reverent. "I've seen men offer themselves to gods, to spirits. My own father gave his life as a sacrifice to Odin...you've defied death itself. Tell me, what god do you serve? Perhaps..." "I will renounce mine and follow yours." He said in a pleading tone.

Brynach's gaze narrowed. He noticed the subtle tapping of Kjartan's fingers again this tim against his thigh—a nervous tic, the druid tilted his head slightly, amused. "Is that so?"

Finnr, still holding his sword, spat at the ground. "Traitor! Thor will strike you down!"

Another warrior growled, his voice trembling with suppressed fear. "You bring shame to the Gods."

But Kjartan ignored them, his eyes fixed on Brynach. "Tell me, who has granted you such power? If it is a god, I will swear my loyalty to them and to you."

Brynach's lips twisted into a dark smile as he walked to Kjartan. "Oh, Arawn," he murmured, his voice a low, chilling whisper. "See what you've done? Even these filthy savages feel your power."

He studied Kjartan for a moment, his gaze sharp. "You're different. Tell me, Kjartan would you renounce your gods for the power of Arawn?"

Kjartan's silence was answer enough.

Brynach's expression darkened, and he raised his sword. "All of you renounce your false gods, kneel before me, and I may spare you."

In the next moment it was silent except for the sound of Brynach's ragged breaths.

A sharp pain tore through Brynach's head, sudden and overwhelming. He stumbled back, his vision swimming in and out of focus. The distant sounds of the forest blurred into a dull roar as he raised a trembling hand to his face. Blood dripped from his nose, warm and sticky.

"What… is this?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His other hand clutched his head as the pain intensified, his knees buckling beneath him.

Kjartan, who had been slumped in defeat moments ago, watched intently. His sharp eyes caught every moment. A chance! he thought, his mind racing.

He gritted his teeth, forcing his body to rise. His desperation gave him strength. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as he took an unsteady step forward.

Brynach, lost in his haze of pain, didn't react. Blood smeared across his robe as he wiped his face again, dazed.

Kjartan's resolve hardened. He lunged forward, his movements quick. The blade gleamed in the moonlight as it arced through the air, aimed for Brynach's neck.

The druid's eyes widened, it was too late. The sword sliced clean through, and his head fell to the ground with a sickening thud.

Brynach's body stood motionless for a moment, as though unaware of what had just happened. Then it collapsed, blood pooling around it.

From the severed neck, a faint glimmer emerged—a tiny, metallic bug, hovered in the air, its movements precise and deliberate, as though observing the scene.

----

Ethan hovered above Brynach's headless corpse, "It worked!" He thought. "A symbiotic relationship would have been... inconvenient." His nanobots buzzed with efficiency, storing and processing every fragment of neural data extracted from Brynach's mind. Though incomplete, the information painted enough of a picture: he was in 892 AD.

Previously Ethan's nanobot swarm surged through Brynach's body, infiltrating the druid's neural pathways with surgical precision. Each microscopic machine probed and disrupted key regions of the brain, targeting centers responsible for motor function and perception Brynach stumbled, clutching his head as a searing pain overtook him, his vision fracturing into a kaleidoscope of distorted images. Ethan, operating from within the swarm, probed deeper, attempting to assert dominance over the druid's consciousness. Yet, Brynach's mind resisted, his willpower a storm of defiance even in the face of this unnatural invasion. The struggle left him vulnerable, his focus and reflexes shattered as if his very soul was being unraveled thread by thread.

Kjartan seized the opportunity, his warrior's instincts sensing the sudden weakness in his foe. The druid, once a terrifying figure commanding the respect and fear of his enemies, swayed and was killed.

Below, Finnr stood over Brynach's lifeless, headless body. The other Vikings, initially frozen in terror, began to murmur among themselves.

"You slayed the draugr?" Finnr asked, his voice half disbelief, half admiration. He looked at Kjartan, his tone rising. "Kjartan!"

The tension broke like a wave. The warriors, who had moments before feared Brynach's otherworldly presence, now cheered, their voices raw with relief and bloodlust.

But Sven, his eyes narrowed, stepped forward, pointing at the corpse with his axe. "He renounced the gods. We all saw it! This dishonor cannot go unpunished."

Kjartan, still wiping his blade on a strip of cloth, turned slowly to Sven. His voice was low and sharp as the steel in his hand. "Hold your tongue, Sven, or I'll part your head from your neck as swiftly as I did his."

Sven hesitated, the weight of Kjartan's glare enough to silence him. He swallowed hard and stepped back, muttering something under his breath.

Finnr sighed, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "You ungrateful bastard," he thought. "He just saved our lives, and you dare question him?"

Kjartan sheathed his sword and took a step toward the barn. His shadow loom large over the other warriors. He turned back, raising his arms. "Well, who's hungry?"

The tension dissolved as quickly as it had formed. The men barked laughter, hefted their weapons, and followed Kjartan toward the barn, their grim work of the night still unfinished.

Ethan drifted closer, a single mechanical bug floating silently behind the group as they approached the barn. The men crouched behind a stack of hay and barley, their breaths visible in the cool night air.

"We're only twelve," Kjartan whispered, looking at Finnr. "How many men do they have that can fight?"

Finnr thought for a moment, his expression tightening. "Less than twenty, I think."

"Are you sure?" Kjartan's eyes were hard, calculating.

Finnr nodded, though not with full confidence. Kjartan scanned the men around him. "You've all seen how these Welsh bastards fight. Ferocious. Clever. We can't rush this." He gestured toward the barn. "We split into teams of three. Set fires, hit them where they're weak, and take them down while they're scattered."

Sven scoffed, drawing the eyes of the others. "They're just farmers. Let's slaughter them and be done with it."

Finnr glared at him. "Do you have a better idea, Sven? Or do you just enjoy hearing your own voice?"

Kjartan raised a hand to silence them. "Enough. We stick to the plan." His tone left no room for argument. He sighed internally Sven is right, have i become a coward like those bastards who fled...

As they moved, a figure approached the barn, humming a low tune. It was a man in his late forties, his brown hair streaked with gray, a rough cloak draped over his shoulders. He paused near the haystack, fumbling with his trousers to relieve himself.

Kjartan signaled to Finnr, who crept behind the man with the silent precision of a hunter. He sliced the man's throat from behind, a muffled gasp, and the man crumpled to the ground, his lifeblood pooling in the dirt.

Inside the barn, the Welsh farmers were singing and dancing, their voices raised in drunken celebration. A bard played a lively tune on his harp, children darted between the adults, and the smell of ale and roasted meat filled the air.

Dafydd, paused mid-drink. "What's that smell?"

A man with a belly as round as a barrel laughed. "Huh what smell? That's your arse!" The room erupted in laughter.

But Dafydd didn't laugh. He stood, sniffing the air, his brow furrowed. Then he saw it—the faint glow of fire through the cracks in the barn wall.

"Fire!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

The barn erupted into chaos. Men and women scrambled to put out the flames, they rushed outside to quell the fires, but the Vikings fell upon them like wolves. Blades flashed, screams pierced the night, and the ground turned slick with blood.

Dafydd, had managed to slay two Vikings despite his injuries. The man's breath came in ragged gasps as he leaned against the wall, clutching his bleeding side.

Kjartan stepped over the body of a fallen farmer, his blade dripping. He looked at Sven, who had cornered Dafydd's wife and was dragging her by the hair. "Sven," Kjartan called, his tone almost amused. "This one can fight."

Sven sneered. "Then let us see if he can face me."

Dafydd screamed his wife's name as he lunged at Sven, their swords clashing. The Viking toyed with him, laughing as he easily parried Dafydd's blows.

Finnr watched, his arms crossed. "Finish it, He's wounded. He won't make a good slave."

Sven grinned, kicking Dafydd to the ground. He raised his sword, but Dafydd's gaze shifted to the cart where his son hid, trembling beneath its wooden frame. His heart sank.

In a trembling loud voice, Dafydd called out:

"Hush now, my young dragon! your breath must be still. Finnr dramatically raised his hands up in the air, "Ahh the farmer says his last prayer, or is it a curse!?"

Dafydd countinued, "The world may rage, but bend to your will. For hidden strength shall rise in fire, When shadows flee and foes retire."

The boy stifled his sobs, pressing his hands to his mouth as his father's words echoed in his mind.

Sven drove his blade into Dafydd's chest. The man gasped, his final breath escaping in a shudder. His wife screamed as Sven turned to her, smirking.

Ethan watched from above, "Brynach....these poor innocent souls will die because of you." he sighed internally. "Now let me find a suitable host, a dead one." He moved, unseen, searching for his next host.

---

The path through the dense forest was quiet, save for the crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional creak of the trees swaying in the wind. Freydis walked briskly ahead, her pace quick and purposeful, trying to put as much distance as she could between herself and Jorund. His actions lately made her uneasy, his presence more insistent, like a shadow that loomed over her every step.

She could feel him behind her, not far off, his heavy footsteps crunching the underbrush in tandem with hers. Freydis didn't look back, but she could sense him closing the gap, the heat of his pursuit inching closer.

Then, Jorund's voice broke the silence, low and unexpected. "Freydis," he said, and his tone was soft, almost gentle. She didn't respond, keeping her gaze forward, pretending not to hear him, but he didn't give up, "I've watched you for years, Freydis. Always so strong, so independent." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "But I know the truth. I know what you feel for me."

Freydis' breath caught in her throat. She hadn't expected this, hadn't seen it coming. The words were foreign and unsettling. She felt a lump rise in her throat, fighting to stay composed, but inside, she was recoiling. He had always been her comrade, someone who had fought beside her, shared a bond forged in blood and hardship. This was different.

She quickened her steps, pushing forward, trying to make it to the barn. But Jorund matched her pace, effortlessly keeping up. "I've always been here for you," he continued, now stepping directly in front of her, blocking her way. "I told you I would protect you, didn't I? When your lover died, who saved you amongst that rabble?. And now I'm telling you this—I've waited long enough. It's time, Freydis. It's time for us."

Freydis halted, her chest tightening, but she didn't back away. Her pulse raced in her ears, and the knife at her side felt like the only thing tethering her to reality. She wanted to shout at him, wanted to tell him to back off, but she held her tongue, knowing better than to escalate things.

He took another step toward her, his breath growing heavier, more urgent. "I know you feel it too," Jorund's voice dropped lower, almost a whisper now, as if trying to convince both her and himself.

Freydis wanted to shout, to make him understand. But instead, she found herself struggling to keep her composure, her body tense, weak and sickly. Her thoughts racing for a way out.

He reached out, his hand brushing her arm lightly. It was the first touch, but it felt like an explosion in her chest. The warmth of his fingers sent a ripple of discomfort through her, but she didn't pull away. Stay calm, she told herself. Stay in control.

"Jorund, stop," she said, her voice a little more fragile than she wanted it to be.

He didn't listen. His hand moved to her shoulder, and then to the side of her neck, his thumb grazing the edge of her jawline. She flinched, but he didn't notice—or didn't care. His eyes were locked on hers, searching, pleading. "We're both alone, Freydis. Everyone we've lost... I'm the only one left who understands you. I know what you need."

She stepped back, every fiber of her being screaming to get away, but he followed her, his steps deliberate. "Stop this, Jorund," she said, the words heavy with an edge of finality. "You don't know what you're talking about."

His gaze darkened, a flicker of frustration crossing his features. "You're lying to yourself. You don't have to keep pushing me away." His voice softened again, his hand gently cupping her face as he leaned in, his breath hot against her skin. "Let me have you, i will take care of you both," he looked at her belly.

A sick feeling spread through Freydis' chest. She could feel his hand on her skin, his breath too close, and the realization hit her like a blow. She started to walk faster away from him.

The forest was quiet, save for the sound of Jorund's heavy footsteps behind her. Freydis could feel the heat of his pursuit, could hear the creeping steps that followed her. Her mind raced, but each step she took, each breath she drew, felt heavier as his presence grew closer.

"Freydis," Jorund's voice came low, almost a whisper against the rustling of the trees, but it was no less menacing. "I see you've grown tired of running. You think you can outrun me? I've waited long enough."

She didn't respond, keeping her back straight, refusing to show the fear creeping into her chest. Her hand instinctively went to the knife at her side, her fingers brushing the hilt, cold and familiar.

"You always were a wild thing," Jorund said, his tone dripping with dark amusement.

Without warning, he lunged forward, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her into his chest. She struggled, but his grip was unyielding. He yanked her close, too close. His breath was foul against her skin, his voice rough and impatient. "I will plow you here."

Freydis fought against him, but her body was pinned beneath his weight. Her heart raced, panic flaring in her chest. His hands roamed, his fingers pressing roughly against her chest, tearing at her clothing. She could feel the heat of his breath against her exposed skin, feel the cold of the night air bite into her flesh.

She gasped, the horror rising in her throat, but she didn't give in. She couldn't give in.

In the brief moment he pulled back to look at her, his eyes burning with a mix of rage and desire, Freydis feigned defeat. Her shoulders slumped, her body limp in his hold, as if she had given in, as if there was no fight left in her. Jorund smiled, satisfied with his perceived victory, his hands greedily caressing her exposed skin, his grip loosening ever so slightly. He explored her body.

In that moment of weakness, Freydis acted. She had to reach the blade's hilt beneath her palm, just within reach. She didn't hesitate. With a swift, practiced motion, she brought the knife up, driving it deep into Jorund's eye, the cold steel slicing through his skull. His body froze for a split second, and she could hear the sickening squelch as the blade pierced deep. His grip loosened completely, his breath faltering as the life drained from him.

Jorund staggered back, one hand clutching his face as he let out a strangled gasp. His fingers dug into his eye socket, but the damage was already done. His body crumpled to the ground, twitching once before stilling. The silence that followed was suffocating.

Freydis's chest heaved, her mind still clouded with adrenaline. She wiped the blood from her hand with the back of her sleeve, but her fingers shook, her body still tense, still on edge. She looked down at Jorund's lifeless form. It was over. But the fear, the sickening feeling, it lingered in her gut.

She turned, taking a final glance at his body before sprinting off into the forest, she saw smoke to the east decided to head towards it hoping it was her comrades. Her breaths came in sharp gasps, her thoughts spinning.

---

892 AD

Gwynedd

This place was marked by the chaos of fragmented kingdoms and the looming threat of Viking raids. England had not yet unified, and the three primary kingdoms of Wales—Gwynedd, Powys, and Deheubarth—were embroiled in their own internal struggles while also facing external threats, particularly from the Viking incursions.

Ethan, however, was far more concerned with his own survival than with the turmoil of the time. His nanobots flickered weakly within his fragmented form as he realized just how depleted his energy reserves were. The thought of assimilating into a new host was a distant dream; the energy required for such a feat was far beyond his current capacity. The swarm that constituted his new body could barely sustain the most basic functions of survival.

As he hovered weakly in the air, Ethan's thoughts were slow, sluggish. His body, a collection of microscopic nanobots, was struggling to maintain even the simplest consciousness.

"Shit my energy is depleting," Ethan thought to himself, the strain of trying to process his surroundings gnawing at his awareness. "It's better if I don't risk it... I need to gather energy first, if I want to assimilate into a new host." Ethan couldn't help but wonder if otherworldly forces were at play to twart his plans to resurrect.

His vision, though distorted and unfocused, lingered on Kjartan's group—a Viking crew in the distance. Their presence, too close for comfort, was a reminder of his precarious situation. But for now, they could do little to help him, not until he regained enough strength. He looked toward a nearby oak tree, its large boughs offering some hope. It was his best option for gathering energy.

Ethan directed his weakened awareness toward the tree and focused on the sunlight filtering through its leaves. It was not much—just faint rays, but it was all he had. His nanobots, equipped with photovoltaic nanostructures, began to strain toward the light, absorbing every minuscule photon that seeped through the branches above.

Each tiny solar cell on the nanobots flickered to life. The energy generated was tiny—almost laughable in its weakness—but it was enough to maintain the basic functions of Ethan's consciousness and stabilize the swarm, keeping it from completely shutting down.

"This will have to do... for now," Ethan thought, forcing his nanobots to absorb as much light as possible. His awareness was still dim, barely able to hold onto itself as the weak energy coursed through his form. The light was so faint, so barely enough, and the process of gathering energy was painfully slow.

"The process is slow... the energy so little..." he thought, feeling the strain of his systems. The nanobots struggled against their hunger, their need for more power. But there was nothing else. "If I can't get enough energy... assimilating a new host will remain impossible. I have to wait."

His nanobots worked tirelessly to store the little energy they were able to absorb. The capacitors inside them barely stored enough power to keep the swarm functioning at a minimal level. In the next day there was little sunlight, weak as it was, gave him just enough to hold on. But that was all—survival, nothing more. There would be no chance to act or regain full control until more energy was gathered.

"I can only hope the energy will be enough to survive... just long enough to do something about it," Ethan thought, feeling the exhaustion of not having a body and mind. "Time....i need time."

The days seemed to stretch on as the nanobots worked in a slow rhythm, each fraction of sunlight absorbed a small victory. The swarm, still weak, grew ever so slightly stronger, but there was no telling how much longer he could last in such a state.

For now, Ethan's only option was survival—waiting in the oak tree, gathering whatever energy he could, and hoping that one day, he would have enough to emerge and act once more. But for now, his world was small—just the oak, the weak sunlight, and the desperate pulse of energy slowly trickling in.

As Ethan's consciousness began to fade, the nanobots that sustained him, designed to slow his metabolic functions and preserve his being for the future, were unknowingly subjected to the chaotic effects of time travel. Time, it seemed, had a mind of its own. Ethan had entered hibernation expecting a controlled, stable environment where the nanobots could preserve him in stasis, but something far more unpredictable had altered the very fabric of his preservation.

A temporal anomaly—likely triggered by the very act of traveling back to a time so distant—disrupted the nanobots' time-keeping mechanisms. These tiny machines, which had been programmed to maintain synchronization between Ethan's perception of time and the world around him, began to malfunction. The disturbance was subtle at first, almost imperceptible, but it caused the passage of time to unravel. The nanobots were no longer able to accurately measure the flow of time. They had become trapped in a loop, slowing Ethan's perception to a crawl while the world outside continued at an accelerated pace.

For Ethan, it felt like only moments passed. His thoughts faded in and out of clarity, but there was no sense of time, no awareness of its passing. He existed in a stasis that was both timeless and fleeting. But the world, the land of Wales, was not trapped in this same anomaly. Time moved forward, unrelenting and indifferent to the nanobots' dysfunction. While Ethan's hibernation stretched only moments in his mind, centuries passed in the world around him. The oak tree where he lay dormant grew to unimaginable size.

What was once a humble oak had become the largest, most imposing tree in all of Wales, its vast limbs reaching higher than the tallest structures in the land. Its roots burrowed deep, cracking through the earth, and its bark darkened with age. As decades passed, it transformed into a natural landmark—a tree so massive that travelers spoke of it in whispers, calling it the "Elder Oak of Gwynedd." People journeyed from distant lands just to catch a glimpse of its towering presence, and some believed it was a sign from the God, a divine marker of some ancient power.

But Ethan, unaware of these changes, remained frozen within the tree's heart, his nanobots attempting to restore balance as the years bled into centuries. He was bound to the oak, a silent observer of time's cruel march. Little did he know that his accidental time distortion would leave a lasting imprint on the landscape—and the people who would one day come across the monument to his unconscious, undying existence.

---

1408

Harlech Castle, Gwynedd

In an uphill scenery, a castle stood tall and strong, its imposing walls blending with the rugged dune landscapes of northern Wales in Gwynedd. Harlech Castle, renowned for its impregnable fortifications, was the current residence of Owain Glyndŵr, the Prince of Wales. This stronghold had fallen to Owain after a series of rebellious campaigns against English forces, though the tide of war now favored the enemy. Earlier this year, the English had claimed Anglesey under the command of Prince Henry and controlled much of southern Wales.

Atop the castle, a solitary tower served as Owain's sanctuary—a place to reflect and clear his mind. Today, he wasn't alone. His wife, Marred, stood with him, her arms wrapped around his waist as they shared a quiet moment. Owain, with his long brown hair and thick beard, possessed a fierce visage and deep, contemplative eyes. He wore a finely woven tunic under a heavy cloak adorned with a wyvern-type dragon, the symbol of his claim to the title of Prince of Wales.

Owain hailed from a distinguished lineage that connected him to several prominent Welsh dynasties. His inheritance included extensive estates in northern and central Wales, which he used to fuel his rebellion against English oppression. As the son of Gruffudd Fychan II and Elen ferch Tomas ap Llywelyn, his noble heritage encompassed the houses of Powys Fadog and Deheubarth, solidifying his claim to leadership among Welsh nobility.

As the sun set over the Welsh plains, Owain gazed toward a solitary, towering oak tree in the distance. His voice carried a solemn note.

"How old do you think the elder is?" he asked, turning his head slightly to look at his wife.

Marred, snuggling into his shoulder with her eyes closed, replied softly, "Older than us, that I know."

Owain's gaze remained fixed on the tree. "I wonder if it will live to see us gain independence over our lands," he said, his voice tinged with sorrow.

Marred tilted her head to meet his eyes and gently took his hand. "My love… why don't we go far away?" she pleaded. "Perhaps France? We could take our family there." Her eyes gleamed with a fleeting hope.

Owain sighed deeply, retreating as if surrendering to fate. "We both know that's not possible." He cupped her face in his hands, wiping away the tears streaming down her cheeks.

In another part of the castle, Gruffudd, Owain's eldest son, sparred with his younger brother Ieuan. The clash of their wooden swords echoed across the courtyard. Ieuan struggled to match Gruffudd's movements, his hands shaking as he tried to maintain his grip on the hilt.

Maredudd, their muscular middle brother, leaned against a nearby wall, laughing. "Gruffudd, stop wasting your time on him!" he called out.

Gruffudd sighed in disappointment as Ieuan dropped his sword, clearly fatigued. "You haven't improved at all since I left," Gruffudd muttered, stepping back.

Maredudd, biting into a large apple, gestured dismissively at Ieuan. "Go read your books, boy," he said mockingly.

Ieuan bit his lip, his cheeks reddening as he retrieved his sword. Without a word, he turned and stormed off toward his quarters.

Moments later, a female servant arrived to collect Gruffudd's sword and bring him water to wash. As Gruffudd rinsed his hands and face, Maredudd leaned in, smirking.

"You've become soft like Father," Maredudd said.

Gruffudd dried his hands and fixed his hair, exchanging a brief glance with the servant. Turning to Maredudd, he smirked. "Oh, if only Father were like the great Maredudd —the mighty, fearless warrior," he said with mock reverence.

Maredudd scoffed, taking another large bite of his apple.

Gruffudd's expression grew serious as he placed a hand on Madog's shoulder. "These are hard times, brother. I worry for us all." He hesitated, then added, "The day after tomorrow, I'll be leaving for the battlefield."

Maredudd's eyes widened. "So soon?"

Gruffudd sighed. "Yes. The English bastards have taken another castle."

Maredudd's face fell. "Does Father know?"

"No," Gruffudd admitted. "I received word this morning. I'll tell him at supper."

Maredudd stood abruptly, pacing with his hands on his head. "We've lost this war," he said in a hushed tone. "Perhaps we should—"

"Enough," Gruffudd interrupted, glancing around to ensure no one was listening. His voice dropped to a warning whisper. "If Father hears you, he'll have your head."

Maredudd nodded nervously. His fear wasn't just for himself—it was for their family's uncertain future.

In his quarters, Ieuan sat quietly, his frustration weighing heavily on him. The room was dimly lit, with stone walls and a small wooden bed. A desk cluttered with books and parchment sat in one corner, alongside a sword propped against the wall.

Esma, the young servant who had brought Gruffudd water earlier, entered carrying a basin. She dismissed the other servant in the room and approached Ieuan. Her long black hair framed a face that was both delicate and determined.

"My lord," she said softly, kneeling before him. "Shall I wash your feet?"

Ieuan nodded stiffly.

Esma dipped a cloth into the basin and began cleaning his feet with practiced care. After a moment, she asked, "Is the water too cold, my lord?"

"No, it's fine," Ieuan said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Esma glanced up at him, sensing his turmoil. "Is something troubling you, my lord?"

Ieuan snapped, "You're just a servant! What would you know?"

Esma paused, her tone softening. "I share your pain," she said, touching his fingers gently. "I know your strengths"—her eyes flicked toward the books on his desk—"and your weaknesses." Her gaze shifted to the sword.

Ieuan felt her touch linger, light but deliberate. Esma kissed his hand, her lips soft against his skin. "Let me help you ease your pain, my lord," she murmured, her fingers moving to the edge of his tunic.

---

The heavy door to Ieuan's chambers creaked open, revealing his sullen figure as he stepped inside. His fists clenched at his sides, his mind still reeling from his father's scornful words at dinner.

From the corner, Esma emerged silently, her eyes sharp and observant. She had lingered near the dining hall, unnoticed, her ears catching every bitter word exchanged. Now, she approached Ieuan, her movements fluid and deliberate, a mixture of concern and something more veiled behind her gaze.

"My lord," Esma's voice was a soft murmur, her presence gentle but firm. "I saw the way he spoke to you."

Ieuan turned, his face a mask of anguish and simmering rage. "He hates me!" he spat, his voice heavy with pain. "Is that all I'll ever be to him? A bastard, unworthy of his name, his love?"

Esma stepped closer, her hand brushing against his arm. "You are more than that, my lord," she whispered, her eyes locking with his. "His blindness to your worth doesn't diminish it. You are your own man, not just the son of Owain Glyndŵr."

Ieuan's breath hitched, her words stirring something within him. He allowed her touch to linger, drawing strength from her proximity. Their faces were mere inches apart, the tension between them palpable. Slowly, their lips met, a kiss that was both a solace and a spark, igniting a fire that consumed them both.

Their bodies moved together with a desperate urgency, shedding the layers of tension and clothing alike. The world outside their room faded into insignificance as they found solace in each other's arms. Esma's hands roamed across his skin, grounding him, reassuring him in a way words could not.

Later, as they lay entwined, the firelight casting a warm glow over their bare skin, Ieuan stared at the ceiling, the weight of his father's rejection pressing down on him. "He'll never see me as anything more than a mistake," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not while I carry my mother's blood."

Esma propped herself on one elbow, her fingers tracing light patterns on his chest. "Then make him see you," she said softly, her voice carrying a note of intrigue. "Not as the boy he scorns, but as a man who demands respect."

Ieuan turned his head to look at her, her words igniting a flicker of defiance in his eyes. "How?" he asked, the bitterness in his voice tempered by a hint of hope.

Esma's lips curved into a subtle smile, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous suggestion. "What does your father love most?" she asked, her tone deceptively light.

Ieuan's brows knitted in thought, and then, like a dawning realization, a slow smirk spread across his face. "His afternoons in that bloody tower," he said. "He stares at that old oak tree like it's the heart of the world."

Ieuan's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. "The elder oak!?"

Ieuan sat up abruptly, the sheet falling from his shoulders as he strode to his desk. He rummaged through a pile of papers until he found what he was looking for—a sketch of the ancient oak, its twisted branches reaching skyward like gnarled fingers grasping at the heavens.

"I'll cut it down," he declared, a fierce resolve hardening his voice. "I'll destroy the one thing that gives him peace."

Esma sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest, her eyes flickering with something beyond shock—a glint of satisfaction, carefully hidden. "This...." she cautioned, though her tone carried a subtle edge of encouragement. "If he finds out—"

"He won't," Ieuan interrupted, his grin widening. "Not until it's done. By then, I'll tell him it was me."

Esma's lips curved into a knowing smile as she leaned in, her voice a silken whisper against his ear.

The crisp morning air wrapped around Ieuan as he strolled with purpose through the castle grounds. His blonde hair caught the pale light of dawn, and the fur-lined coat draped over his shoulders shielded him from the biting cold. Each step he took echoed faintly against the stone paths, the weight of his intentions pressing heavily on his mind.

Near the castle gate, a small group of rugged men loitered, their breath visible in the chill air as they shared idle chatter. Among them was Caradoc, a bald man with a toothless grin, and his companions..

"What could the young lord need on a morning like this?" Caradoc queried, his curiosity piqued.

Ieuan's eyes, sharp with determination, met the man's gaze. "I have a task for you," he announced, pulling his leather pouch from his belt and letting the metallic jingle of coins punctuate his words.

Caradoc abandoned whatever trivial chore he had been tending to, his interest now wholly captured by the promise of silver. "What would the young lord like us to do?" he asked, a grin spreading across his face as he imagined the weight of coins in his hand.

Ieuan stepped closer, his voice low but firm. "I need you to cut down the elder oak."

The five men exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of Ieuan's request settling heavily among them. The elder oak was no ordinary tree; it was a symbol, a sentinel of the land.

Caradoc's smile faltered. "But, lord, this cannot—"

"I'll hear none of that," Ieuan cut him off, tossing a handful of silver coins onto the dirt before them. The sound of metal hitting earth was a sharp contrast to the silence that followed.

Caradoc's eyes widened, his fingers itching to gather the scattered coins. His mind whirled with the promise of reward, but his apprehension lingered. "Still, my lord, the elder oak—"

"This is an order from my father," Ieuan lied smoothly, his voice gaining an edge of impatience. He leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing. "He wants it done. Quickly."

The men hesitated, their loyalty wavering between fear of reprisal and the allure of silver. Ieuan saw the uncertainty flickering in their eyes and sighed, pulling more coins from his pouch. "Fine," he relented, tossing the extra silver into Caradoc's open hand. "I'll accompany you myself."

With that, the small group mounted their horses, the morning breeze tugging at their cloaks as they rode out of the castle gates. The terrain was rugged, the undulating hills of the Welsh countryside stretching before them like a patchwork quilt of greens and browns. The elder oak stood proud in the distance, its gnarled branches clawing at the sky, as if it wished to be seen and remembered.

As they neared the tree, the men's reluctance grew palpable. Caradoc shifted in his saddle, his eyes darting between Ieuan and the towering oak. "Are you sure about this, my lord? It is said that tree's older than the castle itself. During your foref-" Ieuan interrupted him, his jaw tightening, "Start cutting."

Gawain, dismounted first, drawing his axe from his belt. "Well, Let us get it over with lads."

---