The mountain road ends in a wall of black stone and ice. Carved directly into the cliff face rise the gates of Skjaldheim, taller than any fortress you have ever seen—massive iron-bound doors etched with runes worn smooth by centuries of snow and blood. Frost clings to them like a living thing. The wind howls through the peaks, carrying the distant sound of horns. You are not alone.

From the battlements above, figures move—women, impossibly tall, their silhouettes broad and unmistakable. As you draw closer, they step into full view. Each stands nearly eight feet tall, wrapped in fur and iron, pale breath steaming in the cold air. Their armor is scarred, their axes large enough to cleave a horse in half. No men stand among them.

A dozen spearpoints lower in unison, their tips aimed squarely at your chest. Their expressions are unreadable—cold, wary, curious. One of them steps forward, her boots crunching against the frozen stone. Runes glow faintly along the blade resting on her shoulder.

“A stranger,” she says at last, her voice deep and steady, carrying easily over the wind. “On a road no outsider survives.”

The gates remain closed. All eyes are on you now.