Chapter 4
The Georgia forest was a labyrinth of chlorophyll and silent death, simmering under a merciless sun. For Jarl, however, it was an open book, albeit one written in a language far too noisy and primitive.
As he ventured deeper into the thicket, leaving behind the acrid smoke of the pyre consuming the corpses in front of the barn, Jarl moved with an economy of motion no human in this world could ever emulate. He was not just fast; he was efficient. His body, optimized by his lord's will, wasted no energy on unnecessary movement. His feet, bare to better feel the vibrations of the ground and the moisture of the mud, avoided dry branches by pure instinct.
Hours had passed since the man with the crossbow had departed, but Jarl was not following the hunter's trail. He was following the trail that man—despite all his skill—had overlooked in his haste and exhaustion. A small trail. Delicate. The trail of a prey that did not yet know the world had ceased to have rules for the weak.
Jarl stopped beside a stream of murky, stagnant water. The heat remained a physical mass, a heavy humidity that forced him to regulate his rhythmic breathing, but his senses were focused on one thing: the almost imperceptible snap of a bush fifty yards away. It wasn't the heavy, dragging gait of the dead. It was the erratic, terrified step of something small trying, uselessly, to hide from the void.
He glided through the giant ferns like a shadow cast by a sun that was already beginning to fail. Peering over a fallen, rotting pine trunk, he saw her.
Sophia was huddled under a rock ledge by the stagnant water. She was filthy, her face streaked with dried tears that had left furrows in the grime, her knees scraped by brambles. In her hands, she clutched a rag doll with desperate strength, as if that object were the last anchor binding her to a world that no longer existed. Jarl watched her for a full minute from the shadows. To him, the girl was a fascinating specimen of this world's fragility; a being so brittle that a single winter in the Frostfangs would have consumed her before the first dawn.
But Jarl was not there to judge fragility, but to execute a command.
Suddenly, a threat emerged from the other side of the stream. A walker, its jaw hanging by a single yellowish tendon and its clothes in tatters, crawled toward the girl with a hungry inertia. Sophia saw it and let out a stifled sob, shrinking back against the cold stone. She was cornered.
Jarl did not use his stone axe. There was no need for a display of weapons against something so slow. He simply launched himself forward.
Sophia only saw a blur of motion. Before the dead thing could even enter the streambed, Jarl was upon it. It was an execution of surgical brevity. Jarl landed behind the walker and, with a fluid motion of his hands, gripped the dead creature's head and twisted until the neck snapped. He tossed the limp body aside without a glance.
He turned toward the girl. Sophia was petrified, staring at the half-naked warrior, covered in scars, with eyes that glowed with an intensity she had never seen.
"Quiet," Jarl said. His English was rough, but the words were clear. "There is no more cold here. Come."
Jarl approached and lifted her. Sophia was so light she barely posed a burden to his enhanced musculature. The girl was too exhausted to fight; she simply let herself be carried, closing her eyes as the warrior surged through the forest at a speed that stole her breath away.
By the time Jarl entered the farm, the sun was already sinking below the horizon, staining the Georgia sky a violent red.
Valthor stood on the porch, silently watching as Torgad supervised the construction of a barricade of sharpened stakes around the main house. The Free Folk had discovered the farm's iron tools and were using them with a ferocity that completed weeks of work in mere hours.
Jarl reached the center of the makeshift camp and set Sophia on the ground. The girl stood there, eyes wide with terror as she looked at the hundred barbarians who now ruled the farm.
"I found her," Jarl said, bowing his head to his lord.
I knelt before the little girl. Sophia looked at me, and I saw the collapse of her will. I placed a hand on her head, letting my presence anchor her.
"You are safe, Sophia. No one will ever touch you here again."
I gestured to Maggie, who was watching the scene from the doorway with a mix of suspicion and bewilderment. Seeing one of those brutal warriors bringing a child back safe and sound did not fit the image of "savages" she held in her mind.
"Take her inside," I ordered directly. "Let Beth look after her. Feed her and keep her away from the barn."
Maggie descended the steps cautiously, took the girl by the hand, and led her inside without a word. It was not the time for explanations. Jarl stood up, waiting.
"Good work, Jarl. They will come for her tomorrow. Rest."
That night, the air at the farm felt different. It wasn't the pastoral peace of the Greenes, but the tense silence of a camp that recognizes itself as conquered territory.
I retreated to my Internal Kingdom for a few hours to process the anchoring. The farm was no longer just a piece of land; it was being assimilated. I could feel the presence of every soul within the perimeter through the vibration of the soil. Beth slept a deep sleep, her will now bound to mine. Herschel prayed—a prayer filled with a doubt that was beginning to weigh more than his faith.
I knew Rick Grimes would appear soon. He represented the old morality, the order of laws that no longer had anyone to execute them. I, on the other hand, represented the new order: the law of will.
At dawn the next day, the heat returned with the same brutal intensity.
Otis was restless, feeling like a stranger in his own home. To keep him from hindering the fortifications, I allowed him to go hunting at the edge of the property, with Torgad following at a prudent distance. Torgad didn't do it out of companionship, but to ensure the foreman didn't do anything stupid to jeopardize our location's secrecy.
I was on the porch, examining one of Herschel's repeating rifles. My capacity for learning was dismantling the mechanism: the percussion, the combustion of the gunpowder, the ballistics. It was primitive technology, but efficient for what was to come.
Suddenly, a shot rang out in the distance. It wasn't the dry shot of a hunter. It was a sudden blast followed by a silence that hurt. Seconds later, a man's scream tore through the air. A scream of pure agony.
"Help! Please, help!"
I stood up calmly. Jarl appeared at my side before I could even call him.
"Valthor, it is them," Jarl said. "Otis has made a mistake. He has struck a cub of the living."
"I know. Let us go receive them."
In the distance, I saw three figures running across the field. Otis came first, pale, his hands covered in blood. Behind him, a man in a sheriff's uniform carried a small boy. Closing the march was Shane Walsh, his shotgun ready and a look in his eyes searching for someone to blame.
Upon reaching the white fence, Rick stopped dead. He found himself facing a wall of massive, half-naked men with scars that defied logical explanation. Rick didn't see a farm; he saw a barbarian military formation.
"Make way!" Rick screamed, his voice breaking with sobs. "My son… he's been shot! I need Herschel!"
I descended the porch steps. My mere presence seemed to suck the air out of the scene. Rick looked at me, and for a second, his panic turned into absolute bewilderment.
"Rick Grimes," I said, and my voice asserted itself over his crying without the need to shout. "You are in my territory. Enter now. Otis brought you here because it is the only place that boy will keep breathing."
There were no threats, only a statement of fact. Rick ran toward the house, desperate. Shane, however, hesitated. Seeing Torgad and the other savages, his police instinct shifted into defensive aggression. He raised his shotgun, pointing at everyone and no one at once.
"What the hell is this?" Shane roared. "Lower those axes!"
In a blink, Jarl was behind him. It wasn't an attack; it was a neutralization. The tip of his stone axe rested gently but firmly against the base of Shane's skull.
"Drop the thunder, noisy man," Jarl whispered in gelid English. "We are not here for your games of justice."
Shane froze. He could feel Jarl's speed, the absolute lack of hesitation. He lowered the weapon slowly, sweat running down the back of his neck.
"Go inside, Shane," I said from the doorway, not even turning around. "Your friend needs help, not your shouting."
Rick's POV
Rick couldn't process what he was seeing. His hands were warm with Carl's blood, and his mind repeated only one word: doctor. But what he found at that farm wasn't a rural refuge. They were warriors. Men who looked like they had stepped out of a dark and violent era. And the man leading them… that guy in black who walked with a calm that made him look more dangerous than the dead themselves.
How does he know my name? Rick thought as he hurried up the stairs, following Maggie toward one of the rooms.
He laid Carl on the bed. The boy was pale, his breathing short and shallow. Herschel rushed in, trying to reclaim his role as a doctor while his hands shook visibly.
"I need supplies… gauze, alcohol…" Herschel said, fumbling through drawers.
"Herschel, calm down."
Valthor entered the room. His very presence seemed to cool the stifling air of the chamber. He approached the bed and looked at Carl's wound without blinking.
"You don't have the necessary equipment for this, Herschel," Valthor said. "And Otis is too frightened to be of use to you right now."
"I can do it!" Herschel shouted, though his eyes searched for guidance.
Valthor placed a hand on Carl's chest, just above the wound. I saw a golden shimmer emanate from his fingers—a vibration that seemed to stabilize the boy's heart rate. For a moment, the bleeding slowed abruptly. Rick stood paralyzed, staring at the stranger's hand.
"I will keep his life stable," Valthor said, looking me directly in the eye. They were eyes that knew no doubt. "But you, Rick, owe me for this. You have come to my house seeking a life, and in my world, salvation always has a price."
"I'll do anything," Rick panted, kneeling by the bed. "Just save him. Please."
Valthor nodded with a slight smile—an expression that held no mercy and much dominance.
"We shall start with a show of my goodwill. There is a woman in your group, Carol. She weeps for a daughter the forest swallowed."
Rick felt a blow to the stomach. "Sophia? You know where she is?"
Valthor gestured toward the door. Sophia entered slowly, held by Beth's hand. She was clean, frightened, but visibly healthy. Seeing Rick, the girl ran toward him.
"Rick!"
Rick hugged the girl with one arm while keeping his other hand on his son's. He couldn't process what was happening. Barbarians in the yard, a man who seemed to control life itself, and the missing girl appearing out of nowhere.
"We have found her, Rick," I said. "She is the proof of what my law does for its own. Now, Herschel, get that lead out. I will ensure the boy does not die on this table."
Valthor's POV
I observed the scene with a gelid satisfaction. Rick Grimes was broken, his moral leadership questioned by the pure necessity of my help. Sophia was recovered, eliminating the only purpose that kept his group together on the road. And Carl… Carl was now a voluntary hostage of his own survival.
The anchoring was nearly complete. By saving the boy and delivering the girl, I had just decapitated the leadership of the Atlanta group. Now they needed me. They were not allies; they were supplicants.
Shane Walsh remained outside, being watched by Jarl. Shane was the real problem—the chaotic variable that would not accept a sovereign. But in my world, control is not requested; it is exercised by right of superiority.
I looked at Beth. She was watching me with a devotion that was starting to become unsettling. She would be my perfect voice among the farmers.
"Valthor…" Beth whispered in the hallway. "The sheriff's men have firearms. Many of them."
"Let them have them, Beth," I replied, looking out the window toward the fields. "Lead is only as strong as the finger pulling the trigger. And those men are too frightened to aim straight. Tomorrow, Rick Grimes will understand that he is no longer a sheriff. He is a subject seeking refuge under my command."
I looked into the distance. I could feel the dead approaching. Thousands of them, drawn by the roar of the gunshot. But they would not find an undefended farm. They would find the Sanctuary.