Prologue/ The Priestess Of Yotun Mountain

In the northern land of Nordenheim, particularly in the Duchy of Nastrand and its surrounding regions, there exists an ancient prophecy passed down through generations.

Bards sang of countless heroic sagas, wars between dragons and gods, and the exquisite culture of this frozen land, radiant as snowflakes. Yet, when it came to this prophecy, they sealed their lips tightly.

Among common folk, it was passed down orally, but even they spoke of it in hushed whispers. A careless word could lead to being dragged away and beheaded.

However, among high-ranking clergy, historians, scholars, lords, and knights, the prophecy was meticulously transcribed and shared in secret with those deemed trustworthy, preserved over centuries.

Perhaps, for some in this era, it was a fervent wish that the prophecy would come to pass.

No one knows exactly who first spoke this prophecy.

It is simply said to have come from a sage, a title bestowed through oral tradition.

Officially, it is recorded that a young man, searching for herbs, climbed the peaks of Yotun Mountain and discovered a stone tablet buried in the snow. He informed the villagers, and the lord, clergy, and knight commander ascended to transcribe its contents before immediately destroying the tablet.

The forbidden prophecy.

Yet, it was passed down from mouth to mouth, hand to hand.

*When the full moon turns crimson, *
*In the celestial soul borne by the last Oracle, *
*On the night when vile evil invades the nest, *
*It shall begin. *

*Foolish ones, feast and drink, sing and revel while you can. *
*After the Egg heralding the Beginning and End is conceived and born into the world, *
*Countless deceivers shall weep and gnash their teeth, *
*And in the end, none shall see the morning sun. *

*Behold the time when all duchies fall, *
*And the great tower rolls in the dust. *

*The new shall become old, and the old shall become new, *
*All shall perish and begin anew. *
*The wrath of the gods shall cover this land, *
And the dead shall rise to hold a festival of blood.

And this is the tale of the new beginning of the Kingdom of Nastrand and the fulfillment of the prophecy.

Thus, let those who read this remember the radiant glory that began in the land of Nordenheim and the final Ragnarok that unfolded in Midgard.

Chapter 1: The Priestess of Yotun Mountain

Beneath Yotun Mountain, in a remote canyon rarely touched by human footsteps…

“Ingmar!”

Elin shouted with joy, her face beaming as she saw the tall man approaching, holding two mountain hares by their ears in each hand.

“Are you that happy, Elin?”

“Glory to Olrun! I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“This should last us a good two or three days. As always, only as much as Olrun and the nature he governs permit.”

“Oh, right! As always, only as much as Olrun and the nature he governs permit.”

Elin echoed Ingmar’s words, offering thanks to the god.

Ingmar brushed back Elin’s lovely silver hair, kissed her beautiful forehead now fully revealed, and set down the hares and his bow.

“Anything happen while I was out hunting?”

“What could happen in this cabin with just the two of us? I made more jam from wild berries, that’s about it. Oh, and old man Yondalf from down the mountain came by and left us a heap of potatoes and oats.”

“Then we might indulge a little today, don’t you think?”

“Yes, today and tomorrow are the days of the full moon, after all.”

“And a day for the last priestess remaining in this land of Nordenheim.”

A day for her.

The thrill of those words overwhelmed Elin, and she gently embraced Ingmar, wrapping her arms around him.

His body carried the rough scent of sweat, but to Elin, it wasn’t dirty in the least.

To feed her well, he had tirelessly roamed the rugged canyons of Yotun Mountain, pulling his bowstring and searching the forests for stray arrows.

“Ingmar… my man, the warrior of the gods who protects me completely.”

“When you hold me like this, I can feel the beating of your beautiful heart. What are you trying to do?”

“Why, aren’t we already one?”

“Embracing like this right in front of the house makes me worry someone might see. Though, in broad daylight, I suppose no one but old man Yondalf would come up here.”

“That’s true. Besides, he already went back down, so he won’t be back today.”

“Then shall we stay like this a bit longer, or head inside?”

Elin’s face flushed at Ingmar’s playful words.

Nastrand Castle

At the castle gates, an old woman in tattered clothing was bowing repeatedly, explaining something to the guards.

The guard initially listened half-heartedly, unsure of her ramblings, but his expression changed at certain words. After questioning her further, he led her to the guardhouse by the gate.

“I’ll go report. Wait here.”

“What’s the old hag saying?”

“She claims there’s an old pagan priestess living in the northern canyon of Yotun Mountain.”

“What? What nonsense. You’re going to report that senile old woman’s words?”

“Well, since she mentioned ‘priestess,’ I can’t just ignore it.”

“Fair enough. Hurry back, Gunnar.”

The guard entered the castle through a side gate and headed straight to the knight guard headquarters, stepping into the commander’s office.

There, he found the commander playing a board game with a knight and stood at attention.

“I have a report, Commander! And Sir Morten.”

“Hmm? Speak.”

“An old woman came to the gate, saying there’s likely a cursed pagan priestess living in the northern foothills of Yotun Mountain. I’ve placed her in the guardhouse.”

The commander and Morten’s expressions hardened slightly.

“An priestess? Is this woman in her right mind?”

“She’s a bit incoherent, as old women often are, but she doesn’t seem mad. Just excited and flustered.”

Morten placed a game piece on an empty space and stared at the guard.

“Priestesses were eradicated from Nastrand—no, from all of Nordenheim—twenty years ago. Every priestess in the duchy was captured, had boiling silver poured into their eyes, their bellies slit open, and filled with molten lead. You know this, don’t you?”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“It’s absurd, but just in case they might survive, their heads were cut off and ground to dust in a great millstone. No priestesss remain. Not in this land, not in Nastrand, which is…”

Morten stopped short of saying, free from the prophecy that all duchies will fall.

Though the prophecy was now considered a mere folktale among the people, speaking of it openly was a grave crime.

“Well, let’s leave it at that,” the commander said, deftly defusing the situation.

The guard hesitated, unsure, and the commander sighed.

“Fine, fine. Let’s hear her out. Bring her in.”

Morten rose slowly from his seat.

“You’ll have to handle this, Commander. We’ll resume our game another time.”

“What, Sir Morten? Leaving already?”

“As a young knight back then, I was part of a sort of test of faith. I had to pour boiling silver into the eye sockets of priestesss whose eyes had been gouged out. They were still alive, pitifully so. The word ‘priestess’ dredges up those memories. It… darkens my mood.”

Morten’s sharp gaze turned to the guard, who broke into a cold sweat and looked straight ahead.

“Until next time, Commander Fynel.”

“Safe travels, Sir Morten.”

As Morten left, the commander chuckled and patted Gunnar’s shoulder.

“Good work, Gunnar.”

“Sir?”

“I was losing. Almost lost another silver coin. Haha! Bring the old woman in. If it’s about an priestess, we need to hear it and log it.”

Gunnar wiped the sweat from his brow and left the commander’s office.

The commander’s eyes, now sharp and piercing, studied the old woman before him.

Despite her ragged appearance, she was no madwoman—just an ordinary villager one might find in a remote mountain hamlet. Her act of making the sign of the holy cross and reciting a confession of faith revealed her rigid piety.

“So, according to you… your husband frequently brings deer meat, oats, or potatoes to a place where you believe a surviving priestess resides?”

“Yes! Exactly!”

“What did your husband say?”

“He said they’re just an ordinary man and woman, hunting and farming to get by.”

The commander, hands clasped, spoke slowly as he regarded her.

“I think that’s highly likely. Without direct evidence, we can’t send the guard to that canyon.”

“I walked three days, lying about my brother’s illness, to come here for a reason. Evidence? I have it.”

“What is it?”

“When I was gravely ill with a fever, my husband went to the northern canyon and returned with a vial of medicine given by the woman there. I drank it, and my body recovered like a miracle.”

The commander sighed, his disappointment palpable, causing Gunnar to tense.

“Look, old woman, there are countless herbs and people who know how to use them. Even wandering bards process Mendelsia flowers to make elixirs to preserve their voices. I could crush moonbloom and Nordelweiss roots right now and make a salve to heal bruises instantly.”

The old woman’s face twisted, as if she had expected this response.

“Would you like to see the vial that held the medicine?”

“A vial? Show me.”

She pulled a small clay vial from her tattered cloth bag.

At first glance, it was an ordinary vial, one of tens of thousands in the Duchy of Nastrand.

“What’s this…”

“Look at the bottom.”

The commander turned the vial over.

“…!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Though not ancient—only twenty years old—the symbol etched on it was one that had been completely erased from this land. All objects bearing this mark had been burned and destroyed, consigned to oblivion.

The script of the old gods. The script used by priestesss who received divine prophecies.

The mark, resembling a bird’s footprint or the branching of a tree, froze the commander and Gunnar in their tracks.

“Well? Do you still think this old woman’s words are nonsense?”

“I’ll give you the duchy’s promised reward right now. One hundred silver coins. Gunnar, fetch them immediately.”

The commander pulled out a sheet of paper, filled out an expense report, stamped it with his seal, and handed it to Gunnar.

“Have you told anyone else about this, old woman?”

“No. Despite appearances, I keep my mouth shut. Only the guard who just left and you, Commander, know.”

“Is that so? Where is your home?”

“It’s in Soria Village, at the foot of Yotun Mountain, where the Fizeldin River flows. The uppermost house in the hamlet is ours.”

“What is your husband’s name?”

“Yondalf.”

The commander recorded her answers and smiled warmly at her.

“This is truly valuable information.”

“Of course! It’s all for Nastrand’s-”

Crack!

With lightning speed, the commander’s sword severed the old woman’s neck.

“I’m sorry. This, too, is my duty under duchy law to maintain secrecy.”

Gunnar, returning with the bag of silver coins, froze in shock.

“Give me the coins and call the others to dispose of the body.”

“Y-yes, sir?”

The commander let out a hearty laugh, raising his sword toward Gunnar.

“Stay there if you want to lie beside her.”

“N-no, sir!”

Terrified, Gunnar hurriedly tossed the coin bag onto the commander’s desk and rushed out.

The Commander tucked the coins into a drawer, his brow furrowed as he muttered.

“To think a Grand Council of Nastrand (an emergency meeting of the Duchy of Nastrand, attended by the Lord of the Castle, the Knight Commander, the High Priest, and the Captain of the Guard) would be called after twenty years over an priestess…”