The world of Yggdrasil was a fractured masterpiece. Once a unified expanse, it was now carved into nine distinct realms. Six of these territories groaned under the iron grip of the Five Major Clans, while the remaining three belonged to the "Forgotten Races"—remnants of a power the world had tried to erase.
Decades of Clan dominance had taken a bitter toll. The monopoly of resources had bled the world dry, depleting the stock of Ether—the very lifeblood of existence. As the wells of power ran cold across the six civilized realms, the eyes of the High Council turned hungrily toward the territories of the Forgotten.
In the heart of the capital, the figure known as Odin—the bearer of the Eternal Throne—convened the Central Council. Flanked by the powerful Ministries of Thor, Loki, and Freyja, Odin sought to forge a unified front. They called it "resource management," but the undercurrents whispered the truth: a Great War was coming to reclaim the Ether, no matter the cost.
Yet, while the gears of war turned in the high halls of power, a different kind of storm was breaking in the quiet region of Midgard.
The Manor of Froyd and Ravina
"FROYD!"
The scream shattered the morning silence of the manor. Ravina gripped the bedpost, her knuckles white. "My water broke! Get someone from the Ministry of Idunn! NOW!"
Froyd, the master of the house, stood frozen in the doorway, a look of utter bewilderment on his face. "H-huh? What? Oh… oh!" He tried to offer a nervous smile. "Relax, darling. It just means the baby is coming. The baby—"
SLAP.
The sound of Ravina's hand connecting with Froyd's cheek echoed through the halls, instantly curing his stupor.
"AH! YES! Right!" Froyd bellowed, spinning on his heel. "Hilda! Quickly! Fetch a doctor from the town office. Your mistress is in labor! Move!"
"At once, Master!" Hilda, the head maid, gave a frantic bow and sprinted down the paved road. As she ran, she barked orders to the household staff to prepare boiling water and the sacred medicinal herbs required for a high-born birth.
The Office of the Physician
Hilda skidded to a halt before the town's medical ward, gasping for air. The Hel Clan were the undisputed masters of medicine, and their local representative was as formidable as they came.
"Where is Doctor Ester?" Hilda shouted at the guard. "My mistress is in labor! We need her immediately!"
"I'm right here," a calm, sharp voice interrupted. Doctor Ester Hel appeared in the doorway, already donning her clinician's cloak. "How many minutes since the first contraction? Never mind—grab my bag. Let's move!"
The Birth
When the doctor and Hilda arrived at the manor, they were met with a chorus of agonizing screams and the sight of Froyd, whose face was already bruised and swollen. In her pain, Ravina had been using her husband as a literal punching bag to vent her frustrations.
"Froyd! Out! Now!" Ester commanded, pushing her way into the room.
"But she needs me!" Froyd wailed, his lip bleeding.
"I know this is your firstborn, but I have work to do," Ester said, her eyes flashing with authority.
"OUT!"
Banished to the hallway, Froyd endured six agonizing hours. He paced until he was lightheaded, nearly fainting from the tension. He watched as maids rushed in and out with bloodied linens and steaming basins, his heart hammering against his ribs with every scream from behind the door.
Then, at the exact moment the sun broke over the horizon, the screams stopped.
A new sound took their place: a sharp, healthy cry that pierced the morning air.
The door creaked open. Ester stepped out, wiping her hands, a tired smile on her face.
"Congratulations, Froyd. It's a boy. Your wife and son are waiting for you."
Froyd stumbled into the room, his exhaustion vanishing the moment he saw them. Ravina looked pale but triumphant, cradling a small, bundled shape in her arms.
"Honey," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Look. Our son."
Froyd knelt by the bed, reaching out a trembling finger to touch the infant's cheek. "He's
wonderful. He looks so... full of life."
Ravina leaned her head back against the pillow, watching the sunlight dance across the room.
"He needs a name, Froyd. What shall we call him?"
Froyd looked at the golden light of the dawn through the window, then back at the child. There was a spark in the boy's eyes—a depth that seemed older than his few minutes of life.
"He was born at the breaking of the light," Froyd said softly. "A symbol of mystery, of hope, and the secrets this world has yet to reveal. His name will be Rune."