The Price of Freedom

Fenrir enters the clearing. You feel him first— a pressure in your ribs,

ancient, hungry, deciding your heartbeat is too loud.

Then he appears: a wolf vast as a hall, fur swallowing firelight, breath hot with

metal and blood. Eyes like dying suns measuring the gods. They circle him—not

to fight, but to delay the visions Odin fears. They offer Gleipnir. Promise freedom

if he breaks it. Fenrir smells the lie. “A hand. In my mouth.

To prove it.” Silence. Then Týr steps forward and gives what no one else will.

The chain tightens. Fenrir pulls. The chain holds— Týr doesn’t. Bone cracks.