Eivor dodged a shard of code that sliced past her cheek, drawing a line of golden light instead of blood. She understood now. This wasn't a raid. It was a drengskrá —a judgment of spirit.
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Eivor Varinsdottir, Wolf-Kissed, woke to a sky she did not recognize. The fjords of Rygjafylke were gone. Instead, she lay on a cold, hexagonal plinth in a white room that hummed with a sound like a trapped beehive. Eivor dodged a shard of code that sliced