Interlude SS [12.5] Let The Circle Witness Final

Eira bit back the pain. Her vision blurred, and every part of her ached, but she moved. One step, then another. She limped after her father, each stride leaving a fresh drop of blood in her wake.

No one moved to help her. That, too, was expected.

This was the path she had chosen.

The strong rise. The weak fall.

She had risen.

Deep down, beneath the fire and fury, she knew this was not victory. This was only putting her name on the board. The road ahead was still paved in blood and death. She would take control of this life as she had with every life she had before. 

“Heir Eira, Heir Eira, Heir Eira!”

It began as a single voice, then spread through the crowd like wildfire, echoing across the training grounds as she walked forward, flanked by her father. Dozens, then hundreds, pressed a hand to their chest in salute. Heads bowed slightly. No one dared block their path. The way opened for them as if parted by fate itself.

Eira didn’t look left or right. Neither did Lord Ulfar. They walked through the sea of bodies with the calm of inevitability. Soon there was a procession behind them, her uncles, aunts, and cousins of rank, those who held actual power within the family, the ruling council of the Salstar bloodline. They moved as one, retreating into a building adjacent to the proving grounds.

The interior of the chamber was lit by soft light crystals embedded in the ceiling and sconces. No gilded ornamentation adorned the walls. The room was austere with clean lines, polished stone, the scent of iron and spell ink clinging faintly to the air. At the long table, two seats stood at the head, one larger, carved with runes. It belonged to the Patriarch. The other, equally prominent, bore the crest of the Sword of Salstar, her mother Skaði. That seat was empty, as expected. She had given birth to Eira’s youngest brother only hours ago.

Two figures rose as they entered, their presence commanding. Grandfather Bo, the former Patriarch and the man Ulfar himself had defeated in his own Kronvíg. The elder stood tall despite his age, long white hair braided in the old style, a ceremonial blade at his hip. Beside him stood Grandmother Dahlia, once the Sword of Salstar, her expression as sharp as the spear-shaped brooch she wore. Their eyes met hers, and both placed a hand to their heart.

“Lord Ulfar, Heir Eira,” the two said in a bow.

As Eira crossed the threshold, elven attendants moved swiftly. Her armor was unbuckled and removed, layer by layer. Bloodied metal and scorched underclothes vanished into enchanted bins. Cool magic flowed over her, first healing, then cleansing. Her own starlight magic wrapped around her like a second skin, washing away the grime, smoke, and sweat of battle.

Nakedness was of no consequence here. These were warriors and rulers. Fresh garments were brought forward. Blue cloth, tailored to the cut and discipline of Salstar nobility, was placed upon her. A shoulder cape bearing the Salstar crest, antlers wrapped in a ring of stars, was fastened at her collarbone. Her wand and sword were returned to her side.

“Fitting,” Bo murmured, voice low and steady. “She wears it well.”

Eira inclined her head respectfully. She did not thank him. She moved toward the table, her legs stiff, her core hollowed from the duel. The healing spells ended the agony, but they could not replace blood. They could not restore mana, or undo the damage to her mana veins. That would take time.

Elven hands pulled chairs from the long table, and she took her seat, the first to the left of the Patriarch, the position of the Heir. Her sword rested gently against the table’s edge, her wand secured at her hip.

The council members offered cordial greetings, all proper and practiced. But not all of them smiled. Eira noted their gazes, sharp, calculating, uncertain. Some had backed Ragnar. Some believed she had no place at the table. Others simply didn’t like change. Me made note of them all, familiar faces, some would not last the year not if they antagonized her rise.

Let them doubt, let them whisper.

Ulfar did not sit immediately. He remained standing at the head of the table, casting a long shadow as if he were the only one in the room the light shined on.

“As you all have seen,” he began, voice low but firm, “Eira has completed the Blóðrétt. The Rite is done. Do any among you deny the outcome?”

Silence answered him. Not a soul moved, not even to shift in their seats. A few glanced toward one another, but no dissent came.

“Then before we proceed,” Ulfar continued, “there are questions that must be answered, questions only the new Heir can answer.”

He turned to her fully, his gaze cold and steady.

“You told me once that you would make this choice obvious. That you would leave no doubt. You said: ‘We bleed for what we want. We kill to keep what we have.’ You have bled and you were ready to kill.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“But who is the girl who stands before us now? This… warrior? This mage? This is not the daughter I believed I knew. You’ve shown glimpses before, flickers of strength, but nothing like this. So I ask again: who are you really, Heir Eira?”

Eira stood from her chair, hands resting calmly at her sides. Though her body ached beneath her newly donned uniform, her voice was steady and clear.

“Lord Father. Honored members of the council.” Her gaze passed over each of them, resting briefly on Bo and Dahlia before returning to Ulfar. “What I say next is neither delusion nor ambition. It is not the lie of a young girl seeking recognition. I have mastered divination magic.”

A few brows rose. Whispers stirred, though no one dared interrupt.

“I have seen a thousand futures,” Eira continued, “and taken them into myself. I have died and lived again, again, and again. And through each, I have gathered knowledge—refined my craft, perfected my will. What stands before you is not simply the Eira of this timeline, but the culmination of every Eira that came before. Every Sword of Salstar, Matriarch, every Princess Consort, Shield Maiden, Professor, Archmage, Warlord and so many more.”

Bo leaned forward, his expression pinched. “Mastered divination? Don’t be foolish, girl. Not even the Hand of the First Princess would claim such a title.”

“Hand Thorfinn is powerful,” Eira said without hesitation, “but he is not my peer, Grandfather. He is brilliant, but he is one lifetime. I am many. I alone stand at the pinnacle of Divination. I am second to none.”

There was no pride in her tone, only truth. Only certainty. She met Ulfar’s gaze and behind her eyes was not that of a fourteen year old girl but a being far beyond her physical years. 

Across the table, Dahlia spoke. “Then tell me this, Eira. The swordsmanship you displayed during the duel. Those were the forms of the Sword of Salstar. I have trained in this art as have your mother and father before you. However only the Sword can know this art. At first I thought mimicry but you showed mastery your footwork and strikes were fused with magic, timing, and battle instinct. These are not things that can be trained but instead experience. How do you know the forms?”

Eira inclined her head. “Because I was taught by you. And by Mother. And by Agnes. Many times, in many lives. I became the Sword and the Shield. I learned, I fought, and I bled until the blade was part of me.”

The name Agnes struck the table like a dropped hammer. It had its intended effects; she saw Ulfar, Dahlia, and Bo sit up straighter after it was mentioned.

“Agnes…” Ulfar repeated. “How do you know of her?”

“Because I trained under her,” Eira said, gaze sharpening. “I sought her in the deep and she answered. She shaped me—as she shaped you, as she shaped Mother, and those that came before.”

A few councilors looked at each other in confusion, but the expressions of Bo, Dahlia, and Ulfar turned grave. Only the highest within the family knew of Agnes, the undead guardian of knowledge in the crypts beneath the estate. A Salstar of another era who had lingered in undeath to preserve the family’s greatest arts.

There was a long pause. The weight of her words settled over the room like falling ash. 

Finally, Ulfar gave a short nod. “We will speak more on this later, Heir Eira. There is much I now see that we do not understand. That I do not understand.” He exhaled, a long, steady breath that silenced the room once more. “But for now let it be known: this council recognizes you as the Heir to the name of Salstar.”

Ulfar turned his full attention to her again. “This was not a title given to you by the blood in your veins. It was taken by the blood you spilled. That is the only kind of title that matters. Should you wish to rise any higher, do not look upon me as your father. Look upon me as your obstacle. As the mountain you must climb and cast down. Grow your power. Grow your influence. Gather warriors who will die in your name. Gather strength, will, cunning—bleed for it. Earn it. Then, only then, should you dare to challenge me. Only through pain can a Salstar rise. And only by surviving it, can she rule.”

Eira placed a Hand on her heart and bowed her head, her shoulders drawn straight despite the ache. The room said nothing but she could feel it. The current of thought behind every gaze now rested on her. They were no longer looking at Ulfar’s daughter. They were looking at the next in line.

Bo stood slowly, his presence still commanding despite his age. His voice was deep and weathered, like iron dragged across stone.

“You bear the name, but that is not enough,” he said. “You wear the cloak, but that is not enough. In our line, titles are not worn, they are bound. Not to the flesh, but to the soul. Lord Ulfar Salstar, if I may.”

Ulfar nodded and everyone rose to their feet. Bo stepped through an arch of Starlight  and in the same moment he was beside Eria. She stepped away from the table to meet him. She then bowed one knee ready for what was to come next.

“You will speak the words now,” Bo said with finality. “As I did. As your father did. As all Salstar heirs must. Speak them, and let the house know you are not merely strong for your own sake. That you are a pillar and a guiding hand to all Salstars.”

He raised one scarred hand and extended it toward her.

“Place your hand over mine.”

Eira obeyed, her smaller hand pressing against his.

Bo began:

“Repeat after me.”

“By blood not born, but by blood spilled, I rise.
By strength shown, not strength claimed, I ascend.
I am Salstar not because I was named, but because I have earned it.
I will bleed for this house. I will kill for this name. I will burn and be burned,
and still I will stand.
My will is my blade. My loyalty is my shield. My word is my bond—unyielding, unbroken.
So long as I draw breath, I serve not peace, but legacy.
I am heir, not to comfort, but to burden.
Not to safety, but to war.
Not to mercy, but to victory.
And when the day comes that I am too weak to hold what I have claimed,
then let the next rise, and take it from me in fire and blood.
For such is the way of Salstar.
Let the Forest Father Bare Witness.
Let my soul be marked.”

Bo held her hand one moment longer, then gave a single, approving nod. The old fire in his eyes flickered bright.

“It is done,” Bo said.

Eira rose to her feet.