Era awoke with a sharp intake of breath. Golden light streamed through the canopy above, filtered by swaying leaves, casting dancing patterns across the ground. The air smelled of damp earth, fresh wood, and something distant—smoke, perhaps? Her mind took a sluggish moment to piece together her surroundings.
She sat up, groaning softly at the stiffness in her limbs. Trees, ancient and towering, formed a natural barrier around the village nestled beneath them. Wooden cottages stood in careful rows, their thatched or wooden roofs softened by ivy. Smoke curled from chimneys, curling into the crisp morning air. A stream murmured in the distance, winding lazily through the valley.
Era pressed her palm against the dirt. Where was she? Where had Zyra cast her? The thought of the Goddess sent a cocktail of emotions coursing through her—shame, rage, guilt. Zyra's taunts rang fresh in her ears, each one a brand on her pride. She had been weak. Small. She had allowed herself to become an ant beneath Zyra's foot. And now? This was the consequence.
A breeze stirred the trees, rustling leaves and sending cool air against her skin. The sounds of the village reached her—chickens clucking, quiet conversation, the creak of wooden wheels. It was peaceful, utterly at odds with the tension coiling in her chest. Zyra had given her no real direction. No time limit. No path forward.
What was she meant to do? Did she even want to follow the Goddess's will? For what purpose? Survival, a blessing? Era was expecting to die back there. Since her first trial only the guilt of her actions had perservered her to continue trying. If she was honest, the burning desire to fight had all but been extinguished.
The confession burned like acid in her throat.
Then—cold steel kissed the back of her neck, and her thoughts of Zyra evaporated.
She froze. A presence loomed behind her, heavy and unmoving, the blade pressing just enough to make its point. Not a nervous hand. A trained one.
"Identify yourself."
The voice was firm, authoritative. Used to being obeyed, and quickly.
Era's breath caught, her mind spinning. Words, she needed words.
"Elira," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. Her birth name, slipping free without thought.
"Turn around. Slowly."
She obeyed, breath coming shallow, heart hammering. As she turned, she took in the figure before her—and stopped cold.
The knight towered over her. Easily twice her height, his frame was a fortress of gleaming armour. Crimson hair fell to his shoulders, his tanned skin marked with old scars, each a silent testament to battles fought. His eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto hers. The sheer presence of him sent a shiver down her spine. The world seemed to still between them, stretched in that taut moment of silence.
Then, in a practiced motion, the knight moved.
Era braced for the strike.
Instead, a sharp clang rang out as he sheathed his blade.
Era exhaled sharply, her muscles still tight, her body ready to run. But the knight did not move to restrain her. Instead, he spoke, his voice lower now, weighted.
"Are you human?"
The question was unexpected. Strange.
"Yes," she answered before she had time to think.
The knight let out a slow, tired sigh. His shoulders, broad enough to block half the world, seemed to slump ever so slightly.
"It's happened again," he muttered, almost to himself.
Era's mind whirled. Again? What did he mean?
Before she could ask, he turned sharply. "Follow me."
Era hesitated—but only for a moment. Then she stepped forward, falling into pace behind him, questions pressing against her lips like a rising tide. It seemed she's barely survived, once again. As the knight led her into the village, the whirlwind of thoughts slipped from Era's mind, her brain distracted by the sight to dwell on her trial.
Great wooden pillars, carved with intricate runes, stood like sentinels at the village's entrance, warding off unseen evils. As they entered, gigantic doors creaked open, and figures emerged from their homes. Their stares burned into her like embers, eyes wide with scrutiny. Era felt the weight of their gazes and soon realized why.
They were enormous.
Every single one of them towered over her, easily standing at twice her height, if not more. The villagers, dressed in tunics and furs, moved with a weighty grace, their sheer presence pressing down on her like the mountain winds. Some whispered among themselves; others simply watched. A child clung to his mother's side, peering down at her with curiousity in his impossibly round eyes.
Era swallowed, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She had thought the knight was an anomaly, some warrior of unnatural stature, but this entire village—this entire world—was built on a different scale.
There must be something in the water.
The village itself was a testament to craftsmanship, a place carved from the very bones of the land. Longhouses of thick timber lined the wide roads, their roofs heavy with layers of turf and moss. Woven tapestries depicting battles and legends adorned the walls, fluttering in the wind like silent storytellers of an ancient past. The scent of pine resin and smoked meat mingled in the air, alongside the sharper tang of iron and leather. Beyond the settlement's wooden palisade, towering peaks loomed, their snow-capped summits piercing the sky like the spears of forgotten gods.
They reached the village's centre, a trial of onlookers following behind, where a long, wooden hall stood nestled between two massive oak trees. Smoke drifted from the chimney, the scent of burning wood mixing with something spiced and savoury. The doors, reinforced with iron and banded with carvings of wolves and ravens, stood tall, their weight a testament to the strength of the hands that had built them. Despite its imposing structure, the hall radiated warmth—a haven against the harsh northern winds.
The knight flung the colossal doors open, their heavy wood crashing against the stone walls with a resounding boom. The sudden noise cut through the low murmur of conversation, and every head in the hall snapped toward the entrance. Era hesitated on the threshold, her breath hitching.
The hall was vast, its wooden beams stretching high overhead, draped in thick banners embroidered with ancient runes. Flickering lanterns cast shifting shadows across the rough-hewn walls, and at the far end of the room, a massive hearth roared with golden fire. Long tables ran the length of the chamber, laden with plates of roasted meat, fresh bread, and overflowing tankards of mead.
The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spice, but it was the people seated at the tables that made Era's stomach twist into knots. Humongous. Weathered men and women, their faces lined with age and wisdom, sat in silence, their expressions carved from stone. They watched her, their eyes dark and unreadable.
The knight strode forward without hesitation, stopping before the gathering. He inclined his head slightly. "Another one," he said simply, before dropping into an empty seat and reaching for a tankard.
Era remained standing, rooted to the spot as the weight of a dozen scrutinising gazes bore down on her. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves. Was she supposed to introduce herself? Explain? How much could she even tell them?
At last, an older man at the head of the table leaned forward. His beard was thick and white as frost, his hands clasped before him like a man accustomed to giving orders. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and unwavering.
"Speak, human. How did you come here?"
Era swallowed hard. "I… don't know exactly," she admitted. "I sort of fell through?"
A murmur rippled through the hall as the elders exchanged quiet words among themselves.
"As we suspected," the old man finally said. He gestured to an empty chair. "Sit, child, and listen well, we don't have much time."
Era hesitated, then obeyed, perching uneasily on the oversized seat.
"You are no longer in Midgard, or what you call earth" the elder said gravely. "This is Velmira, a village in Jotunheim—the land of the giants."
He paused to let the gravity of his words sink in. It struck Era like a hammer to the chest. Jotunheim. These people weren't just big-boned, they were actual giants.
Unfortunately, the elder was not finished.
"There is no known way to send you back," he continued, his voice heavy with certainty. "And I'm afraid you've arrived at the worst possible time." He exhaled slowly. "The village is evacuating. The dragon will strike any day now."
Era's heart pounded in her chest.
A dragon.
Of course there was a dragon. It didn't take a genius to realise the timing of this was almost unbelievable, unless it was planned. At least the first question to Era's problems were solved: zyra wanted her to finish off a dragon.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
A heavy silence settled over the hall, broken only by the distant crackle of the fire.
Era sat frozen, trying to process the elder's words. The dragon will strike any day now. She wasn't ready. She had no weapon. More than that, she was terrified. The elders remained focused on her, their expressions grim with decision.
"What should we do?," another silver-haired elder finally said. "The rest of the women and children will travel north, through the Frost Mountains, but she will not make the journey."
Era's stomach twisted.
The frost-bearded elder spoke. "There is another place for you." He leaned back in his chair. "You will go to Muriel's home."
The name meant nothing to Era, but the way the hall quieted at the mention made her wary.
"She is the only other who cannot make the journey," the elder continued. "She refuses to leave, and we do not have the time to argue with her." His gaze sharpened. "You will remain there until this is over."
The Knight set down his tankard with a clink. "I will take her."
The elders nodded their approval, and just like that, the matter was decided before Era could even utter a sound.
---------------------------
Era walked beside the Knight- who she'd come to learn was called Rolith- in uneasy silence, the towering knight leading her away from the village and into the dark embrace of the forest. The further they travelled, the quieter the world became, the towering pines absorbing every sound until only the crunch of their footsteps remained. The air grew colder, sharp with the scent of snow.
Muriel's house, it seemed, was far from the safety of the village.
Era glanced up at her guide. He hadn't spoken since they left, his long strides unfaltering, his expression unreadable beneath his thick red hair. She could still hear the elders' words in her head—The dragon will strike any day now.
She hesitated, then finally asked, "Why does the dragon attack the village?"
Rolith didn't answer immediately. His hand flexed at his side, as if gripping an invisible sword. "It has gone mad."
Era frowned. "Mad?"
He exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air. "It was poisoned."
She blinked. "Poisoned?"
"Long ago." His voice was tight, edged with something she couldn't place. His jaw clenched. "Every six months, its pain drives it to destroy."
Era absorbed this in silence. A dragon in agony, lashing out in madness, doomed to a cycle of destruction. A distant part of her, the part that still ached with the weight of Zyra's words, felt an uncomfortable sense of familiarity in that. The dragon was just another thing caught in fate's cruel grip. Just another piece on the board. Just another thing that never had a choice.
Had Zyra been the one to poison it?
She swallowed hard. "And you fight it?"
Rolith nodded once. "Every time."
Era bit her lip. She should say something. She should insist on fighting, this was the point of her trial. She should want to fight, prove herself. But the words wouldn't come.
Her soul rebelled against this. She didn't want to be here—not for Zyra's command, not for a battle against a creature that hadn't asked for its suffering.
The fire that had once driven her—the reckless determination that had burned in her veins—was gone. Snuffed out. A pile of cold embers, buried beneath the weight of everything she wasn't. Now, most of all she was fearful. Fearful she would crumble like she did before Zyra. Fearful she didn't have what it took to face off against a fire-breathing, raging beast. Even fearful she would succeed, and then be transported back to Zyra's realm of torture or her depressive state on Earth.
She didn't fear death, and that in itself was terrifying. Era was in no state to fight, because deep down, she wasn't sure she deserved to.
The towering pines swallowed them whole, the thick canopy dimming the pale afternoon light into something colder, more uncertain. Era wrapped her arms around herself as she trudged beside Rolith, the frozen earth crunching underfoot.
She pulled her arms tighter around herself, trying to smother the weight in her chest.
She didn't want to fight.
And worse—she didn't know if she could anymore.
Her voice was quieter when she spoke again. "How much farther?"
Rolith didn't slow his pace. "Not far."
Not far. She had learned quickly that 'not far' meant something very different when spoken by a man whose strides were twice the length of hers.
Her mind drifted back to the dragon. She still couldn't wrap her head around it—poisoned? Driven mad?
If these giants, built with triple her muscle mass, couldn't defeat it, how could she?
Era swallowed the lump in her throat.
She had never felt smaller.
The trees thinned ahead, revealing a clearing bathed in misty light. At its centre sat a small, crooked house, half-swallowed by the roots of an ancient tree. Smoke curled from its chimney, the scent of pine and something herbal drifting through the cold air.
Rolith came to a stop. "Muriel's home."
Rolith didn't move toward the house. He stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, watching the crooked little structure as if it might grow legs and attack them.
Era glanced at him. "You're not coming inside?"
His expression was unreadable beneath the tangled crimson hair and the deep-set weariness in his eyes. "No."
"Why?"
"She doesn't like me."
That was ominous.
Before she could press further, the wooden door creaked open, and a figure stepped into the doorway.
Muriel.
Era had expected someone frail, ancient—someone befitting the title of elder—but the woman before her was neither. She was thin, wrapped in layers of mismatched wool, her graying hair pulled into a long, loose braid. Her sharp eyes flickered over Era, assessing her with the kind of scrutiny that made Era straighten involuntarily.
Then, those eyes slid past her to Rolith.
"Oh," she said dryly. "It's you."
Rolith exhaled through his nose. "Muriel."
Muriel's lips curled in what might have been amusement. "You're still alive."
"For now."
"And you've brought me something." Her gaze swept over Era again, unimpressed.
"Another human," Rolith confirmed.
Muriel let out a long-suffering sigh. "Of course. Another one."
Era frowned. "How many—"
"Inside." Muriel turned sharply, vanishing back into the house.
Era glanced at Rolith, who gave her a look that said don't keep her waiting.
With one last glance at the towering knight, she stepped inside.