True to her word, an enormous amount of food was cooked over the hearths and steamed on platters. The largest pile sat at Karl’s throne beneath Glær, who nodded with appreciation for having his master returned safely. Kara went straight to Glær and touched noses with the mounted elk, whose glowing white antlers soothed them the moment they entered.

  The night blurred into stories and feasting.

  Karl let the Trickster, Kara, and Björn do most of the talking while he devoured roasted boar, lamb stew, blood sausages, and thick slabs of bacon prepared for him. He felt gluttonous, but his werewolf hunger made resistance impossible, especially with honey cakes and Sigrid’s honey-fermented mead.

  In time, he and Kara finally grew full.

  Egil did not—at least not intellectually. He scribbled furiously, enthralled by every tale of Rome and all they had endured. According to him, their story was far better than any Skald they could have picked up for him to read.

  Hours slipped by in celebration.

  Many toasts were given to Björn and Mýra, who would be departing the next day to join Ragnar and his newly supplied Roman fleet. They would be borrowing Karl’s magical mount to avoid another Kraken. And when spring came, they would sail with Ragnar and the great Heathen Army to raid King Arthur’s lands. Egil put on a great show with his latest poem, which spoke of how Björn and the Vikings would crush the English, and how it was all possible thanks to Karl.

  Unsurprisingly, Mýra also announced that she was pregnant. The whole hall exploded in cheer as she lifted the statue of Ceres triumphantly.

  “That explains what they were doing when they disappeared for twenty minutes,” Ratatoskr said, rocking his two babies in his metal claws and laughing. “I thought I heard⁠—”

  Nucifera whacked Ratatoskr’s head with a wooden spoon, cutting short his remarks. “Be quiet, or else you will be on your own for dinner!”

  Ratatoskr’s metal ears dropped, and he quickly apologized, returning to focus on his little kids. Karl and Kara couldn’t help but smile; the squirrel’s new wife would be really good for him, as would the babies.

  Eventually, Karl and Kara retired upstairs, swaying slightly from the mead, warm and buzzing. Karl scooped Kara into his arms and carried her up the steps with ease, his strength making it effortless.

  They were already kissing by the time they reached the bed. Kara stripped away his armor as they laughed and clung to each other.

  They were alive, together, and finally home.

  Long into the night, near the break of dawn, they lay together, enjoying the silence. But Kara’s eyes drifted to the bedside table displaying the baby spoon teether Sigrid had given her for their wedding.

  For a few seconds, she stared at it. But then she sprang from the bed, reaching into Karl’s Dwarven Bag and pulling out the Tonic of Sudden Spring.

  Karl frowned. “Are you certain?” he asked, heart racing.

  “I’ve never been more certain,” she said, smiling. “I’m not afraid of motherhood anymore, or losing my identity as a warrior. Livia proved it was possible to walk the fine edge between the two worlds, and I know I can do it with you by my side.”

  She kissed him, popped the cork, and drank it in one gulp.

  “Oh my gosh,” Karl said, sitting up. “Does that mean we’re having a baby right now?”

  System Message: “Yes. Get ready to be a Viking daddy!”

  Karl barely had time to process the joy before Kara gasped in sudden pain. Her belly swelled as the child grew instantly within her.

  “Oh,” she breathed, lying down on the bed. “The baby’s coming.”

  Kara grabbed the small wooden Valkyrie doll from Constantia with one hand and Karl’s hand with the other. She pushed, strong and steady.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Karl said, overwhelmed, even as Kara laughed and pushed again.

  “Just be ready,” she said.

  Within seconds, the baby’s head emerged, then the rest of her body. The child cried sharply, the sound piercing the room. Kara drew Karl’s Shard of Máni and cut the cord, still brimming with strength.

  “It’s a girl,” Karl said, tears filling his eyes as he cradled the newborn. Kara shifted away from the blood and wrapped her arms around him.

  “I’m ready to be a parent with you,” she whispered, stroking the baby’s head.

  “What do you want to name her?” Karl asked, voice shaking.

  “Frigg,” Kara said, without hesitation. “After my sister.”

  “Hello, baby Frigg,” Karl said softly. The baby opened her blue eyes for a brief moment before settling as he rocked her gently.

  Nothing he had gained in Midgard compared to holding her. Kara kissed his cheek as the three of them lay together, watching the sunrise spill through the tall windows, where they could now see the Wolf-King’s War-Standard fluttering high on one of the masts of his new armada.

  A new day was coming. And what a day it would be.

  The End

  EPILOGUE

  Emperor Maximus watched his Roman fleet set sail from the Ostia Antica port. It would arrive in Upsalla and be ready to escort Ragnar, his sons, and the Viking horde to England, just in time for spring raiding. He knew for certain that they would battle against King Arthur and his famed Excalibur, for his Historical Insight showed him the futures.

  All was unfolding as he designed.

  None could see him as he looked down on the vast fleet, suspended in the clouds by gripping onto a lightning bolt he had summoned.

  He liked it that way; it was quieter up here, alone. The memories of Cleopatra were clearer to him when the rest of the world disappeared.

  As the lightning sparked in his hand, he thought of the strange Future One from his time: Karl Svennson. The boy was enjoying his quiet return to his town, welcoming his little girl with his wife.

  Their peace would be fleeting.

  Now that the Colosseum had been fully charged from the Games, the next phase of his plan could begin. But unlike Orpheus, Maximus would not hold back on doing what was necessary.

  For only a man of consequence, sure of his ambition and without hesitation, can defeat death.

  AFTERWORD

  Thank you so much for reading Hero of Midgard: Book 3!

  Karl and his friends will return. I have much more planned for the world of Antiquitus!

  In the meantime, it would mean the world to me if you could leave a quick and awesome review on Amazon. Reviews are more valuable than gold to authors. I genuinely want to hear from you about what you liked, what you thought could be improved, or anything that stuck with you after turning the last page.

  If you want the “Caesar Royale”, “Ragnar Raids Valhalla”, and “Tales of the Old World” prequel novellas (2 LitRPG, 1 Epic Fantasy), subscribe to my email newsletter! Or, head over to https://gajensen.com

  ALSO, I am looking for ARC readers.

  If you are interested, become an ARC Reader at my website to receive early access to upcoming releases in exchange for honest launch-week reviews (+3 free books)!

  Also, enjoy a sneak peek of the Amazon Best Selling Birth of Destiny, an action-packed Epic Fantasy perfect for readers of Brandon Sanderson and James Islington.

  I appreciate you, dear reader. Veni vidi vici!

  BIRTH OF DESTINY: SNEAK PEEK

  1

  PROLOGUE

  “Liar!”

  Aela Zaeim leveled her Godstone spear at the heretic. As expected, his newfound followers drew their swords in answer, surrounding her.

  A few were even kin, by birth or bond. One of them — an Elven boy she had once brought into the holy Order, deep in the forested lands of Valeneka — stood with his blade trembling. He would not meet her eyes.

  The heretic remained still, his back to her, overlooking the ocean below as his white robes fluttered in the wind.

  “The Mother has not sent you,” Aela continued, unflinching in her resolve as her captive friends, still loyal, protested her actions. “You are no Shepherd. You have deceived us!”

  The man withdrew a wicked, dark blade, pulsing with black energy. A Noxblade. Curved slightly, its arrogance suited its master by lacking a guard. He held it meekly at his side but said nothing.

  “Face me!” she shouted.

  The heretic raised a hand, signaling for his fallen Ora’suns to give Aela some room. Aela readjusted her sweating grip, then charged.

  The man sidestepped Aela’s initial thrust with unnatural speed, turning on her. She lunged again like a viper, this time at his veiled face. Her spear should have killed him then, but it passed right through, as though his face were only mist. Aela grunted, striking again and aiming lower, harder. The spear whispered through his chest as if she were fighting a spirit. He put up no fight as he watched her.

  Her grip faltered. Who was he?

  “Enough with your games! Face me!”

  The heretic listened.

  He struck with a soundless fury. His dark sword crackled with energy as he swept down at her. She barely ducked out of the way, careful not to parry it. The sword connected to the rocky ground, exploding on impact. The force was enough to knock her off her feet. She was just quick enough to roll out of the way from the second blow, which further shook the ground.

  The heretic gave her a moment to rise, or so she thought. As she rose to her feet, head ringing, she saw what stalled him: in his hand were the glowing words of the gods, lines of living light burning with ancient power. Instantly, the ground surged up around her ankles, locking her in place. The man waved his other hand for the executions to start.

  “No!” Aela screamed, struggling against her stone bonds as the false Ora’suns slew her friends and those who could not escape.

  The man advanced on her then, in a slow manner, as if her death were merely a boring inconvenience. Aela stabbed at the ground, but to no avail.

  This was it, then. She would die for her faith. The thought should have scared her, but she was steadfast in her desire to honor the Mother.

  Suddenly, her red Godstone spear sparked to life with white power, surging inside and catching her breath. Her spear became Klyr, exactly like her Order’s Spear of Mythraelyon relic, which she had previously been unable to wield. Thankfully, she had been able to hide that one from the heretic.

  For a moment, she held it in reverence.

  Now, her blade cut through the stone binding her as if it were nothing but a letter.

  Screams still filled the air. All around her, loyal Ora’suns fell. Some were decapitated in clean arcs, while others were run through with spears mid-sprint. But the heretic paid no mind to the carnage, instead locking his eyes on the glowing spear. His piercing eyes carried a depth of ages that did not match his body. He paused for a moment as if finally present. Then, he braced himself for the fight.

  There you are, Aela thought, before charging at him again.

  This time, the heretic was careful not to be struck. He didn’t allow her to strike him as she thrust at him. He instead danced away from her blows, his flesh becoming spirit to lighten him. She swept her glowing spear in a wide arc, not needing to be precise thanks to its holy nature. She struck true, scraping against his cuirass like a searing hot blade. The smell of burning flesh and metal invaded her nose.

  The words of the gods were in his hands again, and before she could react, a violent wind slammed into her. She flew back, smacking her head against the rocks. He was on her again, faster than the wind itself. Aela threw up her spear to try and land a killing blow. The man was too fast, and in a flash of power, he flicked his Noxblade at her right arm wielding the spear. The violent dark energy pulsing from the sword shattered her arm with its explosive force. Her spear flew away and down to the ocean from the blow.

  In desperation, she threw her left hand up to catch the midnight blade. It was a hopeless gambit, as its power slammed into her like a boulder, searing through flesh and bone, but it held just long enough. The man’s matching black eyes above his mask glared at her as the Noxblade crept closer to destroying her.

  “The Mother… will stop you,” she said through gritted teeth, ignoring the pain. “Shadow of Cypherus!”

  The heretic paused, and for a second she glimpsed fear in his eyes before they hardened again.

  “She will try.”

  The heretic pressed his Noxblade through Aela’s hand and into her chest, tearing apart her heart.

  2

  CHAPTER 1: A SHEPHERD’S DESTINY

  From amongst the gentle flock shall I choose my Shepherds and Champions.

  The Tale of Cypherus the Great: The Ten Tomes

  “Tome VI: King of Renua”

  Anya I’lyanova Valkryn, First Morythia

  The colorless waves thrashed against the rocks, tempting Morgan to fall with them and sleep forever beneath the sea.

  The Asculum Cliffs had claimed countless lives before his: armies, kings, even the blood of gods. Morgan stepped to the edge, wondering if the sea would take one more.

  The last time he stood here, he’d nearly stepped forward. The shame of wanting to extinguish himself tore at him still, like a blade turning slowly inside him.

  The wind cut against his skin, but it wasn’t the cold that made him shiver. It was the memory of his mother’s dying scream. His father hadn’t wanted scandal, so he tried to end it before Morgan ever drew breath. But the flames spread, unplanned, killing her and scarring the child he failed to erase.

  A mistake the world hadn’t finished undoing.

  He turned from the edge and made his way back to the royal keep, his steps weak from not eating much these last few weeks. Tomorrow, his brother Lucien would be wed, and the two realms would rejoice. And Morgan would disappear, quietly, from a world that had never asked for him in the first place.

  A cry erupted from the room next to his as he prepared to drift asleep. It jolted his thoughts, followed by another cry in the room. With a deep breath, he shuffled to the room of his youngest siblings.

  Philomela was squirming as he picked her up and held her. The elderly nurse who was supposed to attend to her lay asleep in a chair across the room. The nurse, along with the rest of the royal family, found it odd that Philomela slept so well. She didn’t. Morgan just liked to take care of her himself.

  Sigmund, having awoken from his sister’s cries, got up from his bed and laid his moonlit hair along Morgan’s lap. Morgan smiled as he rocked Philomela and hummed to Sigmund.

  Though unrelated, Morgan couldn’t help but love them ever since they were born. There was such a beautiful innocence to their souls that was so absent in this world. Choking on his tears, he kissed Philomela and Sigmund before returning to his room.

  The storms in his mind quieted to a soft roar as he lay his head down for the last time in his room. Surprisingly, he drifted to sleep faster than he ever had in his seventeen sols of existence. He couldn’t tell if it was from the Hurinzvalese fur that smothered the cold or from the sheer exhaustion of staring hours out at the sea. It was rest nonetheless.

  That was until his mind emerged into a dark and polluted atmosphere. The sour taste of the air and lucidity of his actions were a haunting sign that this was too real for a dream.

  The only thing he couldn’t explain was how he was flying.

  Hundreds of feet below were charcoal mountains, vibrant with patches of green fur that shivered in the breeze. They were opposite to Renborg’s cherry-stained Bludhlands.

  But the foreign mountains weren’t the only indicators that this was a part of his slumbering mind. He could also tell from his hands, or wings rather, which were illuminated in the moonlight. When he clapped them together to fly, feathers, not flesh, fluttered in the night sky.

  Inclined not to let such a lucid experience slip through his talons, he brought himself lower. The mountains sprawled with trees hissing from the morning winds. The terrain was unfamiliar to him, but he recognized the volcanic lands of Yarahm in an instant. A herd of native Anakrum gobbled in the valley. Their beaks were more capable of granting death than the spears of those who rode them like horses.

  It seemed that Piluch’s lessons weren’t so useless after all.

  But any thoughts of Lucien’s and his professor vanished as a sea of Ronian soldiers appeared in his vision. Their mounded camp walls and torchlights were visible markings on what appeared to be the Hills of Kesh.

  Curiosity took him.

  He bent his wings inward to fall and receive a better glimpse of the four Ronian hosts. They glittered with their hundreds of torches and campfires in the night. He was also curious to see where his foster father was. Even though it was just a dream, the King had been gone with his army for several months now. Morgan wanted to see if he would imagine him the kind and jovial man he once was.

  Or would he be the sorrowed man he had become after burying his eldest only a few sols ago? However he would be, Morgan’s depiction of him would be a bit more generous than Lucien’s.

  Before he could draw closer, an arrow screamed past his face.

  It was not alone.

  Hundreds followed, darkening the moonlight in a deadly storm of steel. The Ronian camp below slept, unaware that death was already falling. All except for one man who seemed to be unaware yet screaming about anyway. Paulus Falco was one of the three Kriga — a Ronian general — who had joined King Gulmund. He was recognizable from his tremendously long sideburns that hugged his chin.

  “Where are those damned guides?” Paulus shouted, weaving frantically through the sea of white tents. “Guards! Find me those Drakin and Dwarven traitors! I will⁠—”

  Paulus finally heard the torrent of death as a few arrows sheathed into the dirt beside him, but only too late.

  “Arrows!”

  Dread squeezed Morgan’s heart. The arrows barraged their sleeping targets along the outskirts of the camp.