Earth, 1107 AD
Valgard flew north for seven days.
The chain hung from his shoulder, heavy and cold. The wounds from his battle with the demon had healed during the journey, but the scars remained—white lines across his arms and chest, permanent marks of that fight. Every time he moved, he felt the chain shift against his back, a constant reminder of what he carried.
He needed a place to forge. Somewhere remote, somewhere secret, somewhere the darkness in the chain couldn't reach anyone else if it escaped.
The mountains of the far north called to him.
They rose from the horizon on the seventh day—jagged peaks wrapped in clouds, their slopes bare of trees, their valleys filled with ancient ice. No one lived here. No one came here. It was perfect.
Valgard landed on a flat plateau near the highest peak. Wind howled around him, carrying snow and ice. The cold bit at his skin, but his bloodline kept him warm, flames flickering just beneath his surface.
He dropped the chain on the stone. It clanked heavily, then lay still.
"Here," he said to himself. "This is where you'll be remade."
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The first year was spent preparing.
Valgard built a forge from the mountain's stone, stacking blocks he carved with his own hands. He gathered fuel from the sparse forests far below, carrying load after load up the mountain on his wings. He found iron ore in the mountain's veins, coal in the valleys, water from the melting glaciers.
He worked from dawn until dark, every day, for an entire year. The chain sat in the corner of his crude shelter, watching him, waiting. Sometimes at night he heard whispers—faint voices pleading, demanding, threatening. He ignored them.
On the first day of the second year, he placed the chain in the fire.
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It screamed.
The sound was not physical—it was spiritual, psychic, a howl of agony that tore through Valgard's mind. The chain's remaining darkness fought back, lashing out at him, trying to find purchase in his soul. Images flashed before his eyes: souls being consumed, worlds being destroyed, eons of torment and suffering.
Valgard grabbed the chain with his bare hands and held it in the flames.
The burns on his palms would never heal. The flesh melted, reformed, melted again. The pain was beyond anything he had ever experienced—worse than the demon's grip, worse than any wound he had taken in battle. But he held on.
"YOU WILL NOT BREAK ME," he roared.
The chain screamed louder.
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The second year blurred into the third.
Valgard lost track of time. There was only the forge, the fire, the chain, and the endless battle of wills. He hammered the chain relentlessly, shaping it, bending it to his purpose. Each strike of his hammer sent shockwaves through his body, through his soul. Each blow cost him something—a piece of his strength, a fragment of his peace.
The chain fought back with everything it had.
It whispered to him in the voices of the souls it had consumed. It showed him visions of his ancestors dying, of Kaelan falling, of the bloodline ending. It offered him power—limitless power—if he would just stop, just let it be, just embrace the darkness.
Valgard's rage answered.
It flared in his chest, hot and bright, burning away the whispers. He was a barbarian of the bloodline. He had the fury of generations in his veins. No chain, no demon, no darkness could break him.
He hammered harder.
By the end of the third year, the chain had begun to take shape. Two lengths, roughly equal. Curved, like fangs.
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The fourth year brought new challenges.
Valgard's body began to fail. The constant strain, the endless battle, the lack of proper rest—it was taking its toll. His hands were ruined, permanently scarred. His arms ached with every movement. His vision sometimes blurred, sometimes doubled.
But he did not stop.
The rage carried him when his body could not. It burned in his chest, driving him forward, forcing him to continue. He was Valgard of the bloodline. He was the Winged Wolf. He would not be defeated by a piece of metal.
The chain sensed his weakening and pressed its advantage.
It showed him visions of his loneliness—the centuries ahead, alone, watching everyone he loved die while he endured. It showed him the faces of every person he had failed to save, every village that had burned before he could reach it. It whispered that he was cursed, that his bloodline was cursed, that he would never know peace.
Valgard screamed and kept hammering.
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The fifth year, the fire changed.
His flames—the unique gift of his branch of the bloodline—began to merge with the forge fire. The two became one, burning with a light that was not quite orange, not quite white, but something new. Something his.
The chain responded to this new fire. Its resistance lessened. Its screaming faded to whispers, then to silence.
Valgard worked faster now, shaping the twin blades with increasing precision. They were beautiful—curved, deadly, each one a mirror of the other. The demonic essence had been transformed, purified, made into something that hummed with potential rather than darkness.
By the end of the fifth year, the blades were complete.
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The sixth year was for the chains.
The original chain had been split to make the blades, but enough remained to connect them. Valgard worked the remaining links, reforging them, strengthening them. He wove strands of his own hair into the metal—the flame-red hair that marked his branch of the bloodline—binding himself to the weapons forever.
When he finished, the twin blades hung from chains of black iron shot through with threads of gold-red. They pulsed with warmth when he touched them, responding to his presence like living things.
He held them up, letting the weak northern sun glint off their edges.
"Fang and Claw," he named them. "You are mine now."
The weapons hummed in acknowledgment.
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The seventh year was for learning.
Valgard took Fang and Claw into the mountains and trained with them for months. He learned their weight, their balance, their hunger. They moved with him like extensions of his own body, swinging and spinning and striking with lethal grace.
The chains let him do things he had never done before. He could swing one blade while throwing the other, the chain extending to strike enemies at range. He could spin them both in a deadly dance, creating a wall of whirling death that nothing could penetrate. He could wrap the chains around an enemy's weapon and tear it from their grasp.
He fought imaginary enemies, then real ones—wolves, bears, a stray troll that wandered too close to his mountain. Each battle taught him something new. Each kill strengthened his bond with the weapons.
By the end of the seventh year, Fang and Claw were part of him.
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He emerged from the mountains on the first day of spring, seven years after he had entered.
The world below was green and alive. Villages sent up smoke along the rivers. Herds moved across the valleys. Life continued, as it always did, unaware of the battle that had been fought in the frozen north.
Fang and Claw hung at his sides, warm against his hips. They were his now, completely. The darkness was gone, burned away by his rage and fire and stubborn will. What remained was pure—a weapon forged from evil, made good by the blood of the Wolf.
Valgard looked at the world spread below him and smiled.
"The demon was just the beginning," he said. "Let's see what else this world has to offer."
He spread his wings and took flight, the twin blades trailing behind him like extensions of his soul.
The legend of Valgard the Great continued.
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END OF CHAPTER 36
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