Fenrir's Chosen.

Vidal the Kingslayer—once a mighty King like leader, now a rogue mercenary who fights for the viking clan "The Sons of Fenrir"—roams the war-torn lands of Heathmore, waging a relentless war against the corruption that festers within. His weapon, Armsvartner, is no mere hammer; it is a cursed relic, said to imprison the raging soul of Fenrir, the legendary wolf of Ragnarok. With each swing, Vidal channels the beast's primal fury, wielding a power so immense it borders on godlike. Some believe the fabled tale while others believe it is an ancient weapon forged with draconite. Betrayed by his crown, yet unbroken, Vidal now forges his own path, a force of reckoning against the wicked.

The battlefield was a graveyard of silence, broken only by the hard crackles of flames and the metallic stench of blood thick in the air. Corpses lay scattered like discarded dolls, their armor shattered, weapons twisted into useless fragments. The once-proud banners of the Stoneridge Legion, symbols of oppression and tyranny, now smoldered as ash in the wind.

Vidal stood at the epicenter of the carnage, Armsvartner burning hot in his hand. The weapon pulsed faintly, its runes glowing like embers, as if the soul of Fenrir itself still hungered for more. Vidal’s breath was ragged, his body battered but unbroken.

The power had overtaken him again. He could still hear the echoes of Fenrir’s roar in his mind, the primal howl that had fueled his frenzy and torn through the legion like a storm of claws and fangs. His hands, trembling now, were stained to the elbow with the lives he had ended.

He glanced at the corpses around him. Some of these men had screamed. Others had begged. A few had tried to fight, their strikes bouncing off his unyielding fury. None had stood a chance.

“They deserved it,” he muttered to himself, his voice gravelly, as if trying to convince his own soul. These were men who had ravaged Heathmore, pillaged its villages, enslaved its people. This was justice—or so he told himself.

The faint rustle of movement broke his thoughts. Vidal turned sharply, his grip tightening around Armsvartner. A young woman emerged from behind a charred wagon, her face pale and streaked with dirt. Her wide, terrified eyes scanned the destruction before locking onto Vidal.

“You...” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You did this?”

He nodded slowly, the weight of her gaze heavier than any sword.

“They were monsters,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

“And what are you?” she spat, tears streaming down her face. “You think this makes you any better? No wonder Ashfeld turned on you! A King of what?! Bloodshed? Corruption?!"

Vidal didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His silence was an ission, a heavy truth he carried with him every step of his journey. He was no hero. He was a weapon—one that had long since lost its purpose beyond destruction.

The woman fled, disappearing into the distant woods. Vidal didn’t chase her. He let her go, knowing that she, like so many others, would tell stories of what they had seen here. Stories of the Kingslayer, the man who wielded a wolf’s fury, who left only death in his wake.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, The runes pulsed brighter, whispering temptations of greater power, of endless battles to be won. He ignored the whispers, his jaw tightening.

“I’ll use you,” he growled at the weapon, “but I’ll never let you use me.”

With that, Vidal turned and walked into the twilight, a lone shadow in the ruins of what was once an unstoppable legion. The air behind him was heavy with death, but his path ahead was even heavier—with vengeance, with regret, and with the unending weight of his curse.