The Raven watched from a high branch as the winds began to change.
He had long seen the fire of Eirikr Stonehand, a man who forged his dream with open hands and an honest heart. From the beginning, Járnfótr—the Iron-Footed one—stood beside him. Through storms and calm, he gave freely of his strength, his time, his words, and his will. Not for gold or gain, but for loyalty, for kinship, for the good of the folk.
Eirikr’s hall was once alive with laughter and the scent of good herbs—offering comfort and fair trade to all who came. But even the strongest oak cannot hold against laws that cut its roots. The Raven watched as unseen hands tightened their rules, choking what once grew freely.
Still, Járnfótr rose with the dawn, day after day, trying to steady the walls against the tide. His heart was weary, not from failure—but from knowing that all his might could not bend the fate woven by others.
The Raven croaked softly, a voice between worlds:
> “No effort given in truth is ever wasted. Even when the dream falters, the spirit behind it becomes part of the wind, and it will rise again in another form.”
So he spread his wings and flew low over the hall of Eirikr Stonehand, carrying the unspoken promise: that loyalty, like wyrd, never truly ends—
it only changes shape.
