Muninn landed on the metal pole and gripped it with his talons. The green sign swayed beneath his weight. He watched the empty clearing and waited for the first warrior to arrive. This was where it always began—the watching, the waiting, the guiding toward victories already written. His crooked beak clicked once. He would teach them to cross the bridge. He would show them the healing stones. He would lead them to the Pattern's predetermined end, whether they understood or not. But first, he needed to know which warriors were coming. Muninn released the pole and flew toward the tall trees at the clearing's edge. Wodens Rookery rose above him—a tangle of woven branches and carefully built nests hidden in the high canopy. He landed on a thick branch and hopped into the nearest nest. Scraps of parchment lay scattered among the twigs, each one marked with names and signs. These were the texts he studied, the prophecies that told him which warriors Woden had chosen for greatness. He pulled one toward him with his beak. The name meant nothing yet, but the Pattern already knew how this soul would find victory. Muninn would guide them there, just as he always did. He tucked the parchment aside and looked out through the branches. The first warrior would come soon, and he would be ready. He spread his wings and dropped from the rookery. The Smithy of the Gods stood at the far edge of the clearing, its surface gleaming with carved symbols that caught the fading light. This was where the weapons waited—blades and axes stored between battles, kept sharp and ready. Muninn landed on the smithy's edge and peered inside. Empty hooks lined the walls. The warriors would bring their weapons here when they needed repair. He would guide them to this place when their blades grew dull from training at the healing stones. Everything had its purpose in the Pattern's design. He clicked his beak twice and turned back toward the clearing. The prophecies were read. The tools were prepared. Now came the hardest part—the waiting, the watching, and the burden of knowing how each story would end before it began. One more task remained before the warriors arrived. Muninn flew across the clearing to where the Bathhouse of the Valkyrie stood, its walls covered in carved designs. Steam rose from inside, carrying the scent of herbs and clean water. Warriors would need to cleanse themselves here before crossing the bridge—not just their bodies, but something deeper. The Pattern demanded this step, though Muninn never understood why. Perhaps it made them easier to guide. Perhaps it stripped away their doubts. He perched on the bathhouse entrance and looked back across the clearing. The rookery held the names. The smithy held the tools. The bathhouse held the cleansing. And he held the burden of guiding them all toward victories they thought were their own. Muninn clicked his beak three times. Everything was ready. The first warrior would come, and he would do what Woden made him to do.