Volgrir's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Volgrir tuned his lute in the corner of the tavern, his horns scraping the low ceiling beam. He'd traveled the Hidden Realm for three years, singing tales that made men weep and warriors cheer. But every song felt incomplete. The legendary mead of the ancients could unlock true inspiration—the kind that turned a good bard into an immortal one. Tomorrow, he would leave for the northern wastes where the mead was rumored to sleep in forgotten vaults. Tonight, though, he needed to test his skills one final time. Volgrir hauled his copper pyrophone from its leather case and set it on the worn tavern stage. The instrument's pipes gleamed in the firelight, its intricate design drawing curious stares from the crowd. He struck a flame and fed it into the metal tubes. Music burst forth—bright, piercing notes that filled the room. Faces turned toward him. Feet began to tap. He sang of heroes and lost kingdoms, watching the patrons lean closer with each verse. When the final note faded, they roared their approval. Volgrir bowed and packed his instrument away. The northern wastes would test him harder than any crowd, but he was ready. The mead would be his, and with it, the greatest song ever sung. After dawn, Volgrir stood at the edge of town with his pack heavy on his shoulders. He pulled out a dark stone covered in strange symbols he'd bought from a traveling merchant. The man claimed it held clues about the mead's location, written in an old demon tongue. Volgrir traced the carved lines with his finger, studying each mark. Some symbols looked like mountains. Others resembled fire or ice. He couldn't read it all yet, but the northern wastes were three days away. That gave him time to learn what the stone was trying to tell him. He wrapped it carefully and tucked it into his pack. The road stretched ahead, empty and waiting. By nightfall, Volgrir had deciphered enough of the cipher stone to know where his journey would end. The symbols spoke of a hall built by demons long ago, hidden deep in the wastes. The mead rested there, guarded and forgotten. But the stone revealed something else—the hall was meant for performances. Red sigils marked its walls. Flames burned in ancient sconces. It was a place where songs were meant to echo through time. Volgrir closed his eyes and imagined standing in that dark hall, his voice carrying his masterpiece through chambers that hadn't heard music in centuries. That was where he would perform it—not in some crowded tavern, but in the place the mead had always called home. He tucked the stone away and kept walking into the cold northern wind.