Capítulo II: El Encuentro con Helmara
Synopsis: Echoes of the Storm
Thorlund wandered for weeks in the snowy forests, feeding on berries and roots. His body was weak, but his spirit was determined to survive. One day, exhausted and on the verge of death, he fell in front of a mysterious hut surrounded by symbols carved in stone. There lived Helmara, a powerful witch whose legend said she controlled storms and spoke to spirits.
Helmara was tall, with white hair that cascaded like a waterfall to her knees, and eyes the color of fiery amber. Her voice had an unearthly echo, as if a thousand whispers accompanied each word. At first, she saw Thorlund as a burden, but observing the ferocity in his eyes, she decided to give him a chance
“If you wish to live under my roof, you will work like a man, not like a boy,” he told him. From that day on, Thorlund rose before dawn to chop wood, hunt, and gather herbs in the most dangerous places in the forest. Helmara taught him to read runes, to interpret the signs of the wind, and to brew potions that could heal or destroy. Though the witch was harsh, she also protected him like a mother, even if she would never admit it.
In the cold lands of the north, surrounded by rugged mountains and raging seas, was the Viking village of Skjarfold. There Thorlund was born, a boy with hair as golden as the winter sun and blue eyes that seemed to contain the entire ocean. He was the son of Freyda, a warrior known for her skill with the axe and her tireless protective spirit. His father, Bjarnulf, had fallen in battle years before, leaving Freyda as his son’s sole breadwinner.
At the age of eight, Thorlund was already a restless, adventurous and curious child. He spent his days running through the woods, learning to hunt and listening to the legends of the gods that the elders told by the fire. But his life changed abruptly one night when the village was attacked by the warriors of Sigurd the Iron Skull, a ruthless and ambitious Viking king. Flames consumed Skjarfold as the screams of the villagers filled the air.
Freyda, with her dying breath, hid Thorlund in a small hiding place under the roots of a tree “Survive,” she whispered to him as the footsteps of the enemies approached. From his hiding place, Thorlund watched as Sigurd plunged his sword into his mother’s heart. That moment etched in his soul a scar that would never heal.
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