Earth, 1520 AD
Five hundred years had passed since Valgard forged Fang and Claw.
He had lived longer than any of his branch of the bloodline—longer than the ancient Ragnar himself, some said. Five centuries of battle, of loss, of loneliness. Five centuries of protecting a world that never truly knew him.
He felt the weight of those years in his bones now. Not age—his body remained strong, his flames still burned bright. But something deeper. Something in his soul.
He was tired.
The stone at his belt still hummed with warmth. Harrogath waited. His ancestors waited. But the way remained closed, and Valgard had stopped asking when it would open.
He had accepted his fate. He would live out his years on Earth, guarding the bloodline, fighting the darkness, until death finally claimed him.
He did not expect death to come from Hell.
---
The rift opened without warning.
Valgard was walking through a forest in the far north when the sky tore apart. Not a small rift like the demon Marcel had used—this was massive, a wound in reality itself, bleeding fire and shadow into the world.
From that wound stepped a being that made Valgard's blood run cold.
It was huge—fifty feet tall, with skin the color of dried blood and eyes that burned like dying stars. Horns curled from its temples, black and jagged, and its wings stretched wide enough to block the sun. In its hand, it carried a sword of living flame, a weapon that had slain gods.
But it was not the size that terrified Valgard. It was the presence. The weight of millennia. The absolute certainty that this creature had existed before the first human drew breath, and would exist long after the last one died.
Trigore. A demon lord. Second only to Trigon himself, the father of Raven, the destroyer of worlds.
Valgard had heard stories of Trigon from the oldest vampires, from the spirits of ancestors long dead. A being so powerful that entire dimensions had fallen before him. A creature of pure evil, whose children were demons of unimaginable power.
Trigore was one of those children.
And he had come to Earth.
---
The demon looked down at Valgard with those burning eyes and smiled.
"Little wolf," Trigore said, his voice like mountains crumbling. "I have heard of you. The blood of the ancient one, carried through generations. You have killed many of my servants."
Valgard's hands found Fang and Claw. The blades hummed in response, eager for battle.
"Your servants deserved it."
Trigore laughed—a sound that shook the mountains. "Perhaps. But now you face a master, not a servant. I have come to collect what is mine."
"What's that?"
"Your soul." The demon's smile widened. "The blood of the Wolf is rare. Powerful. My father would savor it."
Valgard didn't wait for more. He attacked.
---
The battle that followed would become legend.
Valgard flew at the demon with everything he had—Fang and Claw spinning, flames blazing white-hot, rage consuming him completely. He struck Trigore's face, his throat, his eyes. He carved wounds in that ancient flesh, wounds that bled fire instead of blood.
Trigore laughed and swatted him aside.
Valgard crashed into a mountain, felt stone break around him, pulled himself free, and attacked again.
Again and again and again.
For three days, they fought across the northern wastes. Trigore's sword carved valleys where it struck. Valgard's flames set entire forests ablaze. Mountains crumbled. Rivers boiled. The very earth seemed to scream.
On the third day, Valgard did the impossible.
He wrapped Fang and Claw's chains around Trigore's sword arm and pulled. The demon, surprised by the strength of this tiny creature, stumbled. Valgard used the momentum to swing himself onto Trigore's back.
He drove both blades into the base of the demon's skull.
Trigore screamed—a sound that shattered stone for miles.
Valgard held on, twisting the blades, driving them deeper. The demon thrashed, trying to throw him off, but Valgard held. His rage burned so bright that his body was barely visible—just a shape of white fire, clinging to the demon's neck.
Trigore fell to his knees.
For one moment, Valgard thought he had won.
Then the demon's hand closed around him.
---
Trigore pulled Valgard from his back and held him before those burning eyes. The demon was wounded—badly wounded—but still alive. Still powerful.
"You... are... remarkable," Trigore gasped. "No mortal has ever hurt me so."
Valgard struggled, but the demon's grip was absolute. His flames flickered, dimmed. His rage could not break those fingers.
"I will not kill you," Trigore continued. "That would be a waste. Instead, I will take you to Hell. To my father. He will enjoy breaking you."
The demon raised his other hand and tore open a new rift—not to Earth, but downward. Into darkness. Into fire. Into Hell.
Valgard felt the heat of that place before he entered it. Felt the weight of centuries of evil. Felt the presence of beings so ancient, so terrible, that his mind could barely comprehend them.
Trigore threw him through.
---
Hell was everything the stories said and worse.
Fire that burned the soul instead of the flesh. Skies the color of dying blood. Creatures that had never known kindness, never felt love, never experienced anything but endless hunger and rage.
Valgard fell for what felt like hours, crashing finally onto a plain of ash and bone.
He rose, battered, bleeding, but alive. Fang and Claw were still in his hands, their flames dim but present.
Around him, demons gathered. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands. They stared at him with hunger in their eyes, eager to devour this intruder.
Valgard smiled—a savage, bloody smile.
"Come on, then."
---
The battle in Hell lasted seven days.
Valgard fought across that burning landscape, killing everything that came near him. Lesser demons fell by the hundreds. Greater demons fell by the dozens. He carved a path of destruction through the outer circles, leaving mountains of corpses in his wake.
His rage never dimmed. His flames never flickered. He was the Winged Wolf, the blood of Kaelan, and he would not stop.
On the fifth day, he reached the inner circles.
On the sixth day, he fought a demon lord—one of Trigore's brothers—and killed it after a battle that lasted twelve hours. He emerged victorious but broken, his body barely holding together, his soul screaming for rest.
On the seventh day, he felt him.
Trigon.
The father of demons. The destroyer of worlds. The being whose mere presence made reality tremble.
He did not appear—not fully. But his attention turned toward Valgard like a sun turning toward a moth. The weight of that gaze was almost enough to crush him.
"Little wolf," a voice said—a voice that was not sound but meaning, not words but truth. "You have done well. My children fall before you like wheat before the scythe."
Valgard stood tall, though every fiber of his being screamed to flee.
"I'm not done yet."
"Yes. You are." The presence shifted, and Valgard felt something wrap around him—not physical, but spiritual. A grip on his very soul. "I could destroy you now. It would be easy. But you have earned something rare, little wolf."
"What?"
"My respect." The presence paused. "I will not kill you. I will not keep you. You have fought well enough to earn your freedom. But know this—you are banished from my realm. Never return. If you do, I will not be so merciful."
The grip released. A rift opened behind Valgard—not downward, but upward. Toward Earth. Toward life.
Valgard didn't hesitate. He ran.
---
He emerged from the rift in the same northern wastes where Trigore had found him. The demon was gone—fled, perhaps, to heal from the wounds Valgard had given him.
Valgard collapsed.
He lay there for three days, barely conscious, his body and soul slowly healing. When he finally rose, he knew something had changed.
The stone at his belt was warm—warmer than ever before. Harrogath called to him. His ancestors waited.
But he also felt something else. Something new. The weight of what he had done.
He had fought a demon lord to a standstill. He had entered Hell and emerged alive. He had earned the respect of Trigon himself.
His legend was complete.
---
Valgard lived another fifty years after that.
He wandered the world one last time, visiting the places he had known, the people he had saved. He watched the bloodline continue—children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, all carrying his fire, his rage, his legacy.
On the last day, he returned to the mountain where he had forged Fang and Claw.
He sat on the peak, watching the sunset, the twin blades across his knees. The stone at his belt pulsed with warmth, stronger than ever.
"It's time," he said.
He closed his eyes.
And died.
---
The moment his spirit left his body, Hell shook.
Trigone felt it in his wounds, still healing after centuries. The other demon lords felt it in their thrones. Trigon himself, in the deepest circle, opened his ancient eyes and smiled.
"The wolf has returned," he murmured. "Not to me. To his own."
In Harrogath, the entire realm trembled.
Kaelan felt it from his place in the great library—a pulse of power so immense, so pure, that it staggered him. He rose, gripping the Leviathan Axe, and walked outside.
The sky was filled with light.
Golden light, shot through with flames, spreading across the heavens like a second sun. The people of Harrogath gathered in the streets, staring upward, their faces filled with wonder and awe.
And in the center of that light, a figure appeared.
Valgard.
He was massive now—not in body, but in presence. His winged form stretched across the sky, his flames burning brighter than any star, his eyes looking down on the realm he had never seen in life.
"Ancestors," he said, his voice echoing across the entire dimension. "I have come home."
The realm shook with the force of his arrival. Mountains trembled. Rivers surged. The very fabric of Harrogath seemed to expand, making room for this new presence.
Kaelan watched from below, tears streaming down his face.
"Valgard," he whispered. "My blood. My legacy. Welcome home."
---
For generations afterward, warriors of the bloodline tried to inherit Valgard's name.
None succeeded.
His power was too great, his legend too vast. Those who attempted the trials emerged broken, their spirits unable to bear the weight. Those who pushed too hard died, consumed by the very fire they sought to claim.
Valgard's name remained his alone. The Winged Wolf. The Flame-Haired. The one who fought a demon lord in Hell and emerged victorious.
His spirit watched over Harrogath from the heavens, a constant reminder of what the bloodline could achieve. And in the hearts of his descendants, his fire burned eternal.
The legend of Valgard the Great would never die.
---