THE LEGEND OF RONAN STORMBORN
Chapter 1- Ronan Stormborn
Long ago, in the far north, where ice and snow blanketed the land and darkness descended suddenly, there lived a young hunter. Every winter, he packed his few belongings onto a sturdy sledge and set off across the tundra to hunt seals, walruses and whales. When the sun disappeared below the horizon for six long months, his tribe depended on him to bring home fresh meat. He had no parents and no siblings—no one to call him son or brother. As a baby, he was found wrapped in a bearskin blanket clasped with a brooch of some rare metal which glowed blue and silver in the morning sun, tucked safely into a rocky crevice, and with no clue as to who had left him there. Lumina, the widow of the great hunter Kael Vagson, took him in and gave him the name of Ronan Stormborn.
Ronan grew up with some extraordinary skills. He was as
strong as the giants who lived near the Black Sea, and as gentle in nature as the
maidens of the fjord. One day, when the winter was at its harshest, and the
villagers had no food in their bins, no fire in their hearth, when the newborn
babes mewled and suckled the worn-out fingers of their mothers, when the wind
snatched your breath before you could take it, when death was a mercy and
living close to hell, Ronan threw on the bearskin cloak, picked up his harpoon,
whistled for his loyal dog, Miska and strode out into the blinding blizzard.
Days passed; Lumina kept the fire burning in the hearth, waiting for her son.
The villagers all thought him dead, gone far away beyond the northern sky, for
who would survive the heavy blizzard?
Then, just as the snow flurries calmed down, Ronan strode
into the village square. His sledge was brimful with meat, seal skin, walrus
teeth and bear claws. Lumina looked stunned. Ronan hugged her and said, “Call the neighbours. I have meat for all.” Lumina rang her bell, and the villagers gathered around the sledge. Every winter, Ronan Stormborn
would scour the frigid north for food.
One winter, the sea was frozen solid, and the land was knee-deep in snow. There was no hide nor skin of any animal. Ronan’s sledge was empty. In the blinding blizzard, Ronan did not even see the shadow of a bear or a seal. No bear, no elk, no seal, nothing. He roamed far and wide, and soon his sledge came to rest on the black shores of Skalvik, where the sea is black beneath the ice, jagged rocks rise like broken teeth, and only giants dare to walk. Ronan tied his sledge to a sharp, jutting stone, lay down to rest, and soon fell asleep.
A massive black dog came running as if the earth had cast him out. He skidded to a halt beside the sleeping Ronan. Its eyes were locked onto the brooch twinkling from the folds of his cloak. It seemed to recognise it, for the dog bent its great head and licked Ronan's face from the chin to his forehead. Ronan shuddered awake; it seemed as if his face had been burned by a smouldering flame. The dog caught hold of his sleeve and pulled him towards the towering cliffs. There, in the side of the forbidding cliff, was carved a door of rock. Huge and towering. How could anyone have carved a door into solid rock? Unimaginable. The dog barked once, an earth-shattering, sky-piercing bark, and the door answered. It swung open as if on well-oiled hinges, and a huge cavern spread out behind.
Chapter 2- The City Inside the Mountain
Ronan felt as if he had stepped into a terrifyingly wondrous tale. He had heard legends and myths of the city of the Giants inside the hills, forbidden to humans. But he had thought, as had others, that it was just a myth; now the myth was a reality. The City of Giants did exist. The entire city was carved into the heart of the mountains, and yet the mountain's ceiling rose ever so high. Massive mansions, lovely row houses, cobbled streets, and carved bridges spanned a roaring, turbulent icy river. The city was lit by jewels pressed into sconces lining the city and covering the front of the houses. Ronan had never seen such beauty carved from stone. He looked around stupefied, but soon a glaring thought consumed him. "Where are the Giants?" The city looked beautiful but completely devoid of life. Its marketplace, streets, squares and houses were completely mute. No sound except the roaring river disturbed the city. Ronan looked at the dog standing still nearby. It rushed towards one of the bridges and urged Ronan to follow. Ronan followed the dog deeper into the city. It climbed the steps and wound its way up over the city to a fortress with the gates standing open. The dog pushed its way through the silent castle and walked into what appeared to be the throne room. Ronan saw an aged giant hunched on the throne, loosely holding onto the sceptre. His cloudy eyes looked into the distance, and his gnarled frame looked as if he was standing still with great effort.
Ronan bowed and greeted the Giant king, "Your Majesty, I am Ronan. I have come from the east in search of food. This great dog led me into your presence." The King looked at Ronan. "Come closer. My sight is not as it used to be." Ronan stepped forward, and the candlelight shone over the brooch fastened to the front of Ronan's cloak. A sudden gust of wind flapped the old curtains at the window, and it seemed as if the castle held its breath as the stone in the brooch flashed and twinkled. Ronan looked at the king, whose eyes seemed to be glued to the brooch. "How did you get this brooch?" thundered the king. Ronan clasped the brooch and said, "It has been with me since infancy. I do not know the hands that fastened it." The King said in gentler tones, "I had never thought of seeing this brooch again in my lifetime. It may be a sign that you are destined to bridge the gap which had once been fractured."
A frail old priestess stepped out from behind the curtain and looked at Ronan. He looks just like her. Same eyes, same chin, and that is the brooch fashioned from the royal Oxonite. Have you looked at it in the moonlight, my dear boy?" Ronan looked surprised as he took off the brooch. "No, never. My mother, Ludmila, just told me that this brooch was found with a bearskin cloak. I keep the brooch and the bearskin cloak with me always." "Can I see it, my prince?" said the priestess gently. Ronan drew out the bearskin cloak from his backpack and placed the brooch and the cloak in the priestess's hand. She took it to the altar at the far end of the room. An oculus above bathed the altar in moonlight. She placed the brooch in the centre of the altar. For a moment, nothing happened. Ronan had just taken a breath when the altar, the cave's roof, and the rocky walls became drenched in pulsating light from the brooch. Within that light were shadows. Shadows of past events, hidden in the brooch, were now revealed.
Ronan looked at the shadow play. It was his own story from before he was abandoned. A beautiful woman, clutching him as she fought against the blinding blizzard. Soldiers were running behind her with swords drawn, and she looked helpless. Her forehead was bleeding, and blood marked her steps. She wore a fur cloak and fine clothing, but her clothes were slashed, and she shivered as she held the baby firmly in her arms. She rounded the coast, and there in the crevice, she laid the baby down. She took off her cloak and bundled the baby in it. She secured the brooch and then, with a last lingering look, she stepped back, carefully brushing away all evidence of herself. The last thing the brooch showed was Kael Vagson picking up the baby.
"Who was the lady?" asked Ronan. The question fell into the silence as a pebble drops into the water. The old giant answered with a deep sigh. He looked at the fading light and whispered, "She was my salvation. My queen...hence you are my Prince." "I", stammered Ronan. "I am a giant..." The old giant laughed softly. “No, my boy. You are the son of a giant.” Ronan stared at his own hands as though they might suddenly reveal the truth. “But I am not like you.”
The old giant let out a deep, rumbling laugh that seemed to stir the stones beneath their feet. “No, my boy. You are not.” Ronan looked up sharply. The giant's smile had disappeared. He was gazing at the last fragments of light fading from the walls. “You are the son of a giant,” he said quietly. “There is a difference.” Ronan shook his head. “That makes no sense. I am no taller than any other man. I have lived among humans all my life. I hunt as they do. I eat what they eat. I—”
“You were born to a human mother.” The words stopped him. The old giant walked slowly towards the altar and lifted the brooch. The strange metal had gone cold again. “Your mother was one of the people of the North. A woman of courage, though courage was not enough to protect her from those who hunted her.”
“Who were the soldiers?”
“Men who feared what you were.”
“What was I?”
The old giant looked at him.
“An heir.” Ronan's heart gave a strange, hard beat. “To what?”
The old giant's fingers closed around the brooch. “To the throne beneath the mountains. To the fires beneath the earth. To the kingdom that lies beyond the cliffs of the Black Sea.”
Ronan could barely breathe. “You mean…”
“Yes.” The old giant's voice dropped to a whisper. “Your father was the King of the Black Sea.”
For a moment Ronan could hear nothing but the wind outside the cave.
“The King…” he repeated.
“The greatest of the giants.”
Ronan looked at the old giant's enormous frame, then back at his own smaller hands.
“But if he was a giant, why am I not one?”
“Because the blood of giants does not always reveal itself in the same way.”
The old giant walked towards him.
“Your father could walk among humans in a form no different from theirs. It was an old gift of his bloodline, passed down from the first kings of our people. He could cross the mountains, enter human villages and speak with men without them knowing who stood before them.”
“Then my father could be anywhere.”
“No.” The answer came so quickly that Ronan stepped back. “Why?” The old giant's face became heavy with sorrow. “Because your father is dead.”
The words seemed to empty the cave of air. Ronan stared at him. “Dead?” The giant nodded. “He died before you were born.” Ronan looked again at the brooch. “Then how did my mother know him?” “She was his queen.”
Ronan's mouth fell open. “The woman in the vision…”
“Was your mother.”
He looked towards the altar, remembering the woman running through the snow, clutching him against her chest. “She was running from the soldiers.”
“Yes.”
“She was trying to save me.”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
The old giant's eyes darkened. “That,” he said, “is the part of your story that the brooch could not show you.” Ronan waited. “The soldiers were not hunting your mother.” A chill travelled through him. “They were hunting you.” The old giant placed the brooch back on the altar. “Your father had enemies among the giants. Ones who believed that no child of a human woman should ever sit upon the throne of the Black Sea. When your father died, they came for you.”
Ronan thought of the woman in the vision, bleeding and exhausted, still refusing to let him go. “She knew she could not fight them.” “No. So she did the only thing she could.”
“She left me.”
“She hid you.”
Ronan looked towards the cave entrance. Beyond it lay the dark sea, the cliffs and the endless white wilderness he had known all his life.
“All these years…” he whispered.
“All these years,” said the old giant, “you have believed you were a foundling.”
Ronan swallowed.
“What am I, then?”
The old giant smiled sadly.
“You are Ronan, son of the King of the Black Sea.”
He held out the brooch.
“And whether you know it or not, the kingdom has been waiting for you.”
Chapter 3- The Heir
Ronan did not take the brooch. He stood very still, staring at it as though it belonged to someone else. All his life he had wondered where he had come from. He had imagined a thousand faces for the mother he had never known, a thousand reasons why she had left him in the snow. But never, not even in his wildest dreams, had he imagined a father who was a king or a kingdom hidden beneath the mountains.
“I don't know how to be a king,” he whispered.
The old giant smiled. “Good.” Ronan looked up, surprised. “A man who wants a crown is often the least suited to wear one. Your father never wanted the throne. He accepted it because his people needed him.”
“And what do they need now?”
The old giant's smile faded. “Food.” The single word hung between them.
Ronan looked towards the cave entrance. Beyond it lay the Black Sea, dark and silent beneath its armour of ice. “The giants are starving too?”
The old giant nodded. “Our fires are dying. The waters beneath the mountains have frozen. The fish have vanished from the sea. The herds have moved south. We have searched the mountains for an answer, but the old ways have failed us.”
“And the humans?”
“The same.”
Ronan suddenly understood why the winter felt different. It was not merely a hard winter. Something was wrong far beyond the little villages he knew.
He picked up the brooch. It felt strangely warm against his palm. “Is that why you brought me here?”
“I did not.”
Ronan frowned. The old giant pointed towards the entrance. The great black dog stood there, its enormous head turned towards them. Its eyes shone in the darkness.
“It did.”
The dog gave a low whine and turned towards the sea. Then it looked back at Ronan. Waiting. Ronan tightened his cloak around himself. For the first time since he could remember, the cold did not seem quite so frightening. He slipped the brooch back onto his cloak. “Where is it taking me?”
The old giant looked out towards the frozen sea. “To the place where your father made his last stand.”
Ronan stared at him. “And what is there?”
The old giant's eyes rested on the brooch. “The answer to why the North is dying. The Priestess can tell you what little we have been able to gather from our searches for answers."
Chapter 4- The Priestess's Tale
The priestess brought a cup of strongly scented water and gave it to Ronan. She gathered her flowing robes and sat down with two large scrolls. She opened them and said, "I have no way of telling you if I am right or wrong. After the king and queen passed away and the winters became harsh, when the rivers stopped flowing... we...that is, the Royal Council, the Generals' Conclave and the Priest Coven decided to send out scouts to gather evidence. In the course of our findings, we were shocked to see that the Ambronite- the Crystal of the Kings was missing from its locked vault."
"What's an Ambronite?" asked Ronan. The Giant answered, " The Ambronite is no ordinary gemstone. It held the ancient fire beneath the mountains. Its warmth travelled through underground rivers and kept the waters beneath the Black Sea alive. The fish fed upon those waters. The animals followed the fish and rivers. Humans and giants depended upon the same ancient source without even knowing it."
"The Ambronite had long fascinated other creatures too; among them was an ancient being called Skarn. Some called it the Old Hungry One. It had wormed its way deep beneath the Black Sea and slept there for centuries. It was said that whenever Skarn awoke, the mountains trembled and fell. It dreamt dreams of malice and power, immense power. It wanted the Ambronite and one day, it took the Ambronite away."
"What kind of creature is it and where does it live?" asked Ronan. The priestess furrowed her brows and said, "No one truly knows. No living Giant has seen Skarn in more than a century. But if the old records are to be believed, it was a hundred feet long, scaly and serpent-like, with fire in its breath and poison in its tongue. Spines ran along its back, and in the centre of its forehead was a single, deep-set eye. The old stories say that anyone who met its gaze was turned to stone.”
"Did my father go to fight such a creature? Why did no one stop him?" asked Ronan. The priestess looked up and said, "He was the king. When he found out that the Hungry One had tunnelled its way into the strongest vault, he had no choice. He had to claim the Ambronite back." "What happened, then? " asked Ronan.
"No one knows. The King went alone. He took a ship and set sail one dark night, and that was the last anyone saw him," said the Giant, wiping his old eyes. "Things became bad soon after. The Queen was dead, the King was lost, and no one knew what had happened to the heir. The Giants retreated into their mountain fortresses and the caverns beneath the sea. We lost touch with the humans, and they started fearing us. Soon, even nature turned against us. We were a glorious kingdom, but now..." He looked around the silent cave. "We are just hanging on to a prayer and hope."
Ronan thought of the widow who had raised him. He thought of the hungry villages. He thought of the woman in the snow who had held him so tightly as death pursued her. Then he looked at the black dog. It was already walking towards the entrance. Ronan picked up his cloak. He fastened the brooch securely. And followed. Not because he wanted a crown. Not because he wanted to become a giant. But because somewhere beneath the Black Sea, the answer was waiting. And because the North was waiting too.
And for the first time in generations, the heir of the Black Sea was coming home.
Chapter 5- Mournrock- the Island of Despair
The giant and the Priestess came to the door of the city to see Ronan off. The giant opened his fist and therein lay a beautiful, strong boat topped with a magnificent sail. He stooped with difficulty and gently placed the boat on the black, heaving waters. The boat transformed into a fully equiped battle ship. "This is my gift to you, Ronan Stormborn. May good winds guide you to your destination."
The Priestess opened her satchel and took out two pouches. One pouch had supplies to last him the journey. The other pouch contained herbs, medical and poisonous. She gave him a pitcher which would always be brimful of water and a book that identified the various herbs and the potions that could be made. "This is my gift to you. May these herbs protect you and nourish you." Mishka, Ronan's dog, who had been clawing at the door of the city for so long, was almost delirious with joy. It jumped about, licking Ronan frantically, and then stepped into the boat. It curled against the giant dog as if it had known him for centuries.
Ronan thanked them both and stepped up to the wheel of the ship. His weapons, the sword, spears and harpoon, were loaded quickly into the ship. "Sail to the far horizon. When you reach the place where the sea bites itself, you will come to Mournrock. The last place that the King was sighted." The priestess placed a hand on Ronan's shoulder. “Whatever you find there, remember this. The stories we know are only the stories of those who survived to tell them.”
Ronan steered the ship out of the cove, and soon the towering cliffs of Skalvik were lost to sight, and the freezing Black Sea lay ahead, heaving under the icy needles, a restless beast chomping at the leash. The dog barked at Ronan. He was looking at a black dot floating on the horizon. Ronan guided his ship towards that dot, which became bigger and bigger. It required all of Ronan's strength and skill to guide the ship over the foamy claws and jagged rocks. Finally, the ship docked on the island.
It was a dreary place. Black cliffs rose from the sea like broken teeth. Snow clung to their sides. No birds circled overhead. No smoke rose from the mountains. Nothing grew except thorny shrubs encrusted with salt and brine. The beach crunched underfoot. Broken shells, sea glass and driftwood littered the beach. The dog nudged Ronan to step off. Ronan took up his sword and jumped out. "Aren't you coming?" he asked the dog. The dog gave a short bark as if to say "No". It blocked Mishka too. "Hmmm, seems like this journey is just mine to take. All right. Please stay safe." He tightened his cloak and set out. The coast was steep, and he had to be careful where he put his feet.
He passed a jutting rock and stood on a ledge just over the hungry sea. The sea here was no friend. It boiled and churned, restless as the weary ghosts and ghouls trapped in the underworld. Ronan moved carefully over the treacherous rocks. Something shiny caught his eye in the jumble of rocks and pebbles. He squatted and pulled out a part of a ship's name. "...heart" read the old copper plate. Ronan's breath caught. "This is the ship of the King. He was here." A little way down the beach, he came across bits of wreckage that could have come from a ship. A broken sail, some wooden masts, a part of the wheel and there, under the rubble, a hilt. Ronan cleared the stones and wreckage away with shaking hands. He was sure the hilt belonged to the king. Ronan took hold of the hilt and pulled, and the world changed.
The jewel glowed, and from it, a hooded wraith emerged. It bowed its head to Ronan and said in a sepulchral voice,
"Ronan, kingborn.
Hear and heed.
I show you now,
the king's last deed.
He fought the creature
dark and dread,
and on these shores, he bled."
Then the scene shifted, and Ronan saw the King fighting a creature so ancient and gnarled, so massive and full of malice. Its spiky tail thrashed as its venomous mouth spewed black fumes. Ronan saw his father, the king, falter and drop to his knees. His sword was broken, and the ambrolite behind him glowed with an unnatural light. The Skarn wound itself around the king, and then the vision vanished. Ronan was on his knees, his eyes streaming and his hands stretched out as if to pull the king away, but it was all shadows and the illusion was gone. The hooded wraith waited as Ronan looked up. "My father, the King, is he alive?" "For the moment, but he grows weak. I am bound to the seal. While he lives, I know his breath," said the wraith. "How do I save him?" asked Ronan.
The wraith looked towards the far mountains and said, " Find out how to bind the Skarn and only then will the King return. Go to the mountains, there you will find the Witch. She holds the key to the Skarn's life." Saying that, the wraith vanished.
Chapter 6- The Witch of the Mountain
Ronan got up and started to walk towards the grey mountains. A day passed, and another and Ronan was at the foot of the mountain. The rock face was a steep wall with no visible handholds. Another would have been scared by the danger, but Ronan was past it all. He fashioned a rope harness and, with his short knife and axe, gouged out handholds. He climbed up steadily with the wind threatening to bash him agaist the hard rock face.
Halfway up, Ronan saw a cave and in that cave's pulsating light sat the witch, stirring her huge cauldron. She looked up, her hair was wild, and her eyes were two deep pools of green and blue. She smiled and waved her hand. "Come, Ronan Stormborn, I have been waiting for you." Ronan stumbled into the cave and bowed. "Thank you for your welcome. You must be aware of my quest. I have come to ask you how to save my father and to kill the Skarn". The witch laughed. "Kill the Skarn. Oh no, that is not possible. The Skarn is centuries old, as old as the earth itself. What you can do, if you are brave enough, is to tame it and bind it, and that too is a fearsome task. Are you sure that you can do this task?" Ronan nods and says, "I will try my very best or die trying." The witch smiled. She picked up a rusted key and said, "Before I tell you how to bind the Hungry One, you must understand the difference between snatching and receiving. In the deepest cave of the mountain, there burns a fire under the tears of heaven. You must get the living flame. Go and return fast, Ronan Stormborn, your father grows weak every day."
Ronan reached the deepest cave and found the Tears of Heaven, water dripping from the roof into a perfectly still pool. Beneath the clear water burns a tiny golden flame. But the flame is guarded by an ancient being. A dainty, fairy-like creature born of smoke. She hovered before him, no bigger than his hand, her wings shimmering faintly in the golden light. "Who are you, and why do you come here?" Ronan replied, " I am Ronan Stormborn; I have come to take the living flame." The tiny creature's laugh tinkled in the vast cave. "Oh, so the mighty Ronan Stormborn has come to take the fire. Go on, scoop it out," and she flitted next to Ronan. Ronan scooped the fire, but his hands touched nothing. The fire was gone. It appeared as soon as Ronan withdrew his hand. "Hmmm. Not so mighty after all. I will help you because I like you", the fairy tittered and sighed. Then she pointed to two vessels. One was a magnificent golden cup, beautifully carved with gems glittering on it, and the other was a simple clay bowl, cracked and humble. The fairy said, “The flame will enter only one. Choose.” Ronan reached for the golden cup, but some instinct stayed his hand. His heart pointed to the other one. He looked at the clay bowl. He hesitated and took the humble bowl. The flame rose from the pool like a piece of starlight and settled gently inside it. The Guardian said, "Hmm. Why did you choose the lesser vessel?” Ronan answered, “Because I am not here to own the fire. I only need to carry it.” The Fairy laughed, “Now you are ready.” And with that, she was gone.
Chapter 7- The Witch's Secret
Ronan returned to the Witch's cave with the living ember cupped carefully in his hands. The Witch looked at it and smiled. “You have learnt to receive,” she said. “Now you must learn what to do with what you have received.” She took the ember and placed it inside a small stone lantern. Its golden glow filled the cave. “The Skarn cannot be killed,” she said. “It is older than the mountains and deeper than the sea. But it can be bound and put to sleep.”
“How?” asked Ronan. The Witch looked at the royal brooch fastened to his cloak. “With that.” Ronan touched the brooch. “This?” “It belonged to the first King of the Black Sea. When the Skarn was first awakened, the ancient Kings used this brooch to bind it beneath Mournrock.” “Then why did the binding fail?” “Because the Ambronite was taken from its resting place. The binding and the Crystal are tied together. As long as the Ambronite remains whole, the Skarn will always hunger for it.”
Ronan looked at the brooch. “What must I do?” The Witch walked to the back of the cave and pulled aside a curtain of hanging roots. Behind it stood an ancient stone tablet covered with markings. When you reach the chamber of the Ambronite, you will find a great stone dais beneath the Crystal. Place the brooch upon it.” “And then?” “Your blood must touch the stone.” Ronan frowned. “Why my blood?” “Because you are of the King's blood. The old magic will answer only to the blood of the royal line.” She looked at him carefully. “When your blood awakens the dais, the ancient binding will rise again. But you must stand your ground. The Skarn will try to frighten you, trick you and make you abandon the binding.”
Ronan nodded. “And my father?” “He is alive.” Ronan's face changed. “Where?” “Beneath Mournrock, in the chamber of the Ambronite. The Skarn has kept him alive all these years because he is the last King who knows the secret of the Crystal.” Ronan gripped his sword. “I will bring him home.”
The Witch smiled sadly. “Perhaps.” She paused. “But first you must understand something. The Ambronite is not a treasure.” Ronan looked at her in surprise. “It is the heart of the North. Its warmth travels through the mountains and beneath the sea. It feeds the rivers, the fish, the forests and all who live upon them.”
“Then why was it kept hidden?”
“To protect it.”
“From the Skarn?”
“From everyone.”
The Witch's eyes rested on him. “Kings guarded it. Giants guarded it. And Skarn coveted it. All believed that because they could possess its power, they had the right to keep it.” She looked at the little ember glowing inside the lantern. “But fire locked away gives no warmth.”
Ronan remembered the golden cup and the cracked clay bowl. The Witch continued. “When you bind the Skarn, you will have a choice. You can leave the Ambronite where it is and begin another age of guarding and fear.”
“And the other choice?”
The Witch smiled. “You will know when the time comes.”
She handed him the stone lantern. “Take the living flame. It will show you what must be done.” Ronan took it. The witch said softly, “Go now, Ronan Stormborn. Your father has waited long enough.”
Chapter 8- The Heart of the Mountain
Ronan descended into Mournrock once more. The passage beneath the mountain was dark and narrow. The deeper he went, the warmer the air became. At last, he reached an enormous cavern. And there he saw his father. The King was chained to a great black rock. His face was pale, and his clothes were worn, but his eyes were still bright. “Who are you?” he whispered.
Ronan stepped closer. “I am Ronan.”
The King stared at him. Then his eyes fell upon the brooch. “My son.” For a moment, neither spoke. Then a deep roar shook the cavern. From the darkness came the Skarn. It uncoiled slowly, its enormous body filling the chamber. Its single eye burned like coal, and smoke curled from its mouth. Behind it, upon a great stone dais, glowed the Ambronite.
Ronan had never seen anything so beautiful. The Crystal pulsed with golden light like a living heart. The Skarn turned towards him. “So,” it hissed. “The King's blood has returned.”
Ronan stepped towards the dais with his sword in hand. The Skarn lunged. Ronan leapt aside as its enormous body crashed against the stone floor. He missed the spiky tail by mere inches. Then he ran as fast as he could to the dais where the ambronite burned in myriad colours. He placed the royal brooch upon it, but nothing happened.
The Skarn turned his huge body. Its eye glinted with malice as it roared and slithered towards Ronan on the dais. Ronan remembered the Witch's words. He scored a cut on his palm and pressed his hand against the stone and let a drop of blood fall upon the ancient dais. For a moment, nothing moved. Then the mountain roared. Golden lines spread across the stone and raced up the walls. The brooch began to glow. The Skarn screamed. From beneath the stone came a sound like a thousand chains being drawn across rock. Bands of golden light rose around the creature. One wrapped around its tail. Another around its body. Another around its neck.
The Skarn fought with all its strength. The cavern shook. Rocks fell from the ceiling. Ronan held his ground. The creature's great eye fixed upon him. “You cannot bind me!” Ronan raised the lantern. The living flame inside it suddenly blazed. The golden chains grew brighter. The Skarn shrank back. The ancient markings on its body began to glow. Slowly, the creature was pulled towards the stone beneath it. Its roar became a growl. The growl became a whisper. Then the Skarn disappeared beneath the mountain. Silence returned.
Ronan stood trembling. The King was free. Ronan ran to him and broke the remaining chains. “My son,” the King whispered. Ronan knelt beside him. “I have come to take you home.” The King smiled. Then he looked towards the Ambronite. “The Crystal,” he said. “With it, we can restore the kingdom.”
Ronan looked at the glowing stone. He remembered the Witch. He remembered the fairy beneath the Tears of Heaven. He remembered the golden cup, and the cracked clay bowl. Suddenly, he understood. The Ambronite was too powerful to belong to a King. As long as it remained whole, someone would always come to possess it.
Ronan raised his sword. His father stared at him. “Ronan, what are you doing?” Ronan looked at the Crystal. “It must be free.” He brought the sword down. The Ambronite shattered. For a heartbeat, everything went dark. Then the pieces rose. Some flew through the mountain and burst into the night sky. They spread across the heavens in waves of green, blue, violet and gold. The first great aurora danced over the frozen North.
Other fragments plunged deep into the mountains. They touched the ancient fires beneath the earth. The fires awakened. Ice began to melt. Rivers broke free. Water rushed through the valleys. The Black Sea began to stir. Fish returned. Animals emerged from their winter shelters. Trees that had stood frozen and bare began to show green shoots. The Giants came out of their caves. The people of the North stepped into the light. Life returned.
But one small piece of the Ambronite remained. It fell gently into Ronan's hands. It was warm. His father looked at it. “The Crystal of the Kings.” Ronan shook his head. “No. The gift of the North.”
Together, they left the mountain.
They walked towards the ship, where the two dogs were waiting. The great black dog stood regally and bowed its head to the King and Ronan. Mishka went wild with joy, dancing around them and barking as if he had been waiting for them forever.
Behind them, tiny shoots of green were pushing through the black, desolate soil of Mournrock.
The island was waking.
Epilogue
The North was never the same again.
The rivers flowed through the valleys once more.
The forests grew thick and green.
Fish filled the Black Sea.
The animals returned to the mountains.
The Giants came down from their caves and walked once again among the people.
And the long winter finally ended.
Ronan's father returned to his people, but his years beneath the rock had worn him.
When the time came, he placed the crown upon Ronan's head.
At its centre was the small piece of Ambronite that had remained unbroken.
It never lost its warmth.
Ronan ruled the North for many years.
He rebuilt the villages, restored the rivers and made sure that no one would ever again believe that the treasures of the North belonged to a King alone.
But it was not his crown that the minstrels sang about. No...It was the aurora.
Every winter, when the sky danced with ribbons of green, violet and gold, the people told the story of the boy who had entered the mountain.
Some said Ronan had defeated the Skarn.
Some said he had commanded the ancient fire.
Some said the aurora was the spirit of the Ambronite dancing across the heavens.
But the oldest Giants knew the truth.
Ronan had not chained the power. He had set it free.
And so, for generations, mothers and fathers told their children the story of Ronan Stormborn—the foundling who became a King, the son who found his father, and the young ruler who understood that the greatest treasure in the world is not the power we keep, but the light we are willing to give away.
And high above them, the aurora continued to dance.
Beautiful.
Vibrant.
Free.
