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Los Huevos De Dragón
El mundo había olvidado el rugido del fuego del dragón. Los mares solo cantaban el susurro de las gaviotas, y las montañas solo contenían el susurro del viento. Sin embargo, los dioses, siempre vigilantes, vieron que la balanza se había inclinado. La Era de los Hombres se enorgulleció, y la antigua naturaleza salvaje se desvanecía. En un susurro que resonó en las raíces de Yggdrasil, los Aesir decidieron traer de vuelta a los dragones. Forjaron cuatro huevos, cada uno del peso de un bebé recién nacido, cada uno del tamaño de una persona. Uno brillaba con un azul zafiro, otro latía con el tono de un bosque profundo, un tercero…
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The Dragon Eggs
The world had forgotten the roar of dragon fire. The seas sang only the sigh of gulls, and the mountains held only the sigh of wind. Yet the gods, ever watchful, saw that balance had tipped. The Age of Men grew proud, and the old wildness was fading. In a whisper that trembled through the roots of Yggdrasil, the Aesir resolved to bring the dragons back. They forged four eggs, each the weight of a newborn babe, each the size of one. One glowed sapphire blue, another pulsed the hue of a deep forest, a third shone like fresh caught gold, and the fourth blushed the softness of a rose…
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Prince Erik, The Warrior
The sixteen winter storms had carved Erik into a quiet, watchful shape. His world had been the whispering pines, the granite teeth of the mountains, and the two souls who moved through that solitude: Elsinka, whose eyes held the fog of futures unseen, and Sigurd, whose silence was as deep and sturdy as the wood he worked. Friendship, in the way boys his age seemed to have it—easy, loud, constant—was a foreign country. Then came the war-band’s training encampment, and Erik was deposited into a roaring, stinking, crowded longhouse. The air was a permanent stew of woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, wet wool, and the metallic tang of sharpened steel. Benches lined…
