The lost Volundr

The Lost Volundr

Bronx

The caravan mechanic wiped sweat from his brow, glancing at the rugged blacksmith beside him.

“Damn it, Bronx, you’re so cheap.” He shook his head. “I don’t see anyone else from the Smiths’ Guild coming all the way out here just for parts.”

Bronx grunted, unbothered by the jab.

“That’s why I get more business than them.” He adjusted the heavy pack slung over his shoulder. “If I waited for parts like they do, I’d be out of business. My customers know that if I don’t have it, I’ll find it.”

The mechanic rolled his eyes.

“If you had a Volundr like all the fancy shops in the city, you wouldn’t need to come out here at all.”

Bronx scoffed, shaking his head.

“Yeah? You think I haven’t tried hiring one? Been at it for years.” He let out a dry chuckle. “But the ones worth trusting all go straight to the Volundr Academy. And the rest?” He shot the mechanic a sideways glance. “Pirates.”

Bronx barely heard his own words. The moment he said Volundr, his mind drifted—back to Hecthalla, back to another time.

It wasn’t much of a city back then. Just a patched-together spaceport, filled with scrap merchants, exiles, and people too stubborn—or too desperate—to leave. A place where hope was a rare currency.

Until the Volundr came.

They weren’t warriors, not at first. They were builders. People like his grandfather, who mended more than metal—they mended lives.

His grandfather had worked until the day he died, reforging Hecthalla piece by piece, turning it from a forgotten outpost into something real. A place that could stand on its own. He built Bronx’s shop with his own hands, the same hands that had crafted ships, homes, and the future of an entire generation.

And he’d always said the same thing.

“Whether you’re Volundr or not, you gotta be useful to someone. Otherwise, what’s the damn point?”

Bronx blinked, shaking himself back to the present.

The mechanic was still looking at him, waiting for a response.

He let out a breath and forced a smirk. “Pirates,” he repeated, this time with a little more bite.

The mechanic scoffed. “Yeah, well, at least pirates stick around.”

Bronx shot him a look.

The mechanic shrugged. “You remember them, right? The ones that settled out here a few years back?”

Bronx: “Seemed decent enough.”

Mechanic: “Yeah… they were Volundr, weren’t they?”

Bronx: “Most of ‘em, yeah. But then they just started disappearing. Used to be a dozen settlements.”

He glanced toward the ruins.

“Then just this one. Now? None.”

The mechanic exhaled through his teeth. “Damn waste.” He shook his head. “If the Volundr couldn’t survive out here, what chance do the rest of us have?”

Bronx grunted, tightening the strap on his tool belt.

“Same as always.”

The mechanic snorted. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

Bronx grabbed a wrench off the workbench and slung it over his shoulder.

“Don’t die.”

The mechanic sighed, stretching his arms as they approached their destination.

Ahead of them, yet another village lay in ruins—charred remnants of homes, blackened skeletons of buildings, and ash floating in the still air.

The mechanic stopped at the edge of the wreckage.

“Here we are. Another burned-out, nameless village.” He exhaled, arms crossed. “I’m staying put. You just come back when you’re ready.”

Bronx grunted in acknowledgment, stepping forward alone.

Inside the Ruins

Carefully, he picked his way through the rubble, his practiced eye scanning for anything useful.

Nothing but ash and silence.

Then, among the wreckage, he spotted a cabin—less ruined than the others.

A bad feeling settled in his gut.

He approached cautiously, stepping over a collapsed beam and nudging open the half-broken door.

The air inside was thick with dust and smoke, but the structure had held up better than most.

And then—movement.

Bronx’s hand instinctively went to the hammer on his belt.

In the dim light, he saw a boy lying among the debris. Pale. Bruised. Barely breathing.

For a long moment, Bronx just stared.

He should’ve been dead.

Hell, no kid should’ve survived this.

But then—the boy moved.

A low, pained groan escaped his lips as his body tensed, struggling against some unseen force.

Bronx took a cautious step forward.

“Hey, kid. You alive?”

The boy didn’t answer. His fingers twitched, his breathing shallow and ragged.

Then Bronx saw it.

A faint glow—so dim it could’ve been mistaken for a trick of the light—spreading from the boy’s fingertips, flickering like embers in the dark.

Bronx’s stomach tightened.

No.

It couldn’t be.

He crouched beside the boy, pushing aside a few broken boards and placing a calloused hand against his chest.

The moment his fingers brushed the kid’s skin, a surge of energy pulsed beneath his touch.

Bronx jerked his hand back, cursing under his breath.

No doubt about it now.

This kid was Volundr.

“Shit.”

A groggy, broken voice murmured something.

Bronx leaned in.

“What was that?”

The boy’s eyelids fluttered, his breath coming out in a weak rasp.

”…Xelric…”

Bronx frowned.

“What?”

The boy swallowed, forcing the word out again.

“My… name. Xelric.”

Bronx exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his beard.

He’d been looking for a Volundr to help his shop for years.

And now, standing in the ruins of yet another forgotten village, he’d just found one.

A half-dead, half-starved kid.

A damn survivor.

Bronx grunted. “Well, kid… looks like you just got yourself a new job.”

He reached down, grabbing Xelric by the arm and hoisting him over his shoulder.

The boy didn’t fight it—hell, he was barely conscious.

As Bronx stepped out of the wreckage, the mechanic turned to see him carrying the boy.

The man raised an eyebrow. “You’re bringing back a stray?”

Bronx shot him a look.

“Shut up and get the wagon ready.”

The mechanic smirked but didn’t argue.

As the wagon rumbled forward, Bronx glanced at the kid slung over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

“Xelric, huh?” he muttered.

His grip tightened.

“Let’s see what you’re made of.”

Setting: The Grand Hall of Hecthalla, a towering structure of carved stone and gilded banners, where the city’s elite gather to finalize the trade agreement.)

The Regis of Hecthalla, Lady Isolde Vehlan, sat at the head of the grand table, her fingers lightly tapping against the cold metal surface. Around her, the other city-state representatives of Vesh Veluun murmured in hushed voices, their expressions a mix of concern and opportunity.

Across from them stood the representative of the Trade Authority—a man in a pristine black suit.

He was not a politician. He was not a merchant. He was something far worse.

A Bounty Hunter.

A corporate enforcer, his mere presence meant one thing: this was no simple trade negotiation.

It was a power shift.

Bounty Hunter in Black: (smiling, but his voice is ice-cold)

“Madam Regis, this agreement secures Hecthalla’s place in the new world order. You should be proud.”

Regis Isolde: (keeping her composure, but there is tension in her voice)

“Hecthalla has always stood independent. If this agreement is as beneficial as you claim, why bring mercenaries?”

Bounty Hunter in Black: (tilting his head, as if amused by the question)

“A precaution.” (He leans forward slightly, voice lowering.) “Progress requires order, Lady Vehlan. And order requires… corrections.”

(Silence falls over the hall. The meaning is clear. The corporations will remove anything that stands in their way.)

A bead of sweat rolled down the back of the Regis’ hand, but she nodded, signing the document.

The trade agreement was sealed.

And Hecthalla had just invited the wolves inside.

Setting: The Regis’ private chamber, away from the corporate enforcers. A single oil lamp flickers as she waits for her trusted confidant.)

The door creaked open.

A gruff figure stepped inside, his armor patched together with pieces from wars long forgotten.

Dain Varo.

Regis Isolde: (exhaling, rubbing her temple)

“You’ve read the terms?”

Dain: (nodding, voice grim)

“They’re not terms. They’re a slow death.”

(He tosses a data-slate onto the table—its contents showing the true nature of the corporate expansion.)

Dain: (leaning forward, voice sharp but low)

“This trade deal isn’t just about controlling industry. They’re clearing land. Removing anything that might interfere with future expansion.”

Regis Isolde: (growing uneasy, eyes narrowing)

“You mean the Thool’Varen.”

Dain: (firmly)

“They won’t stand for this. The corporations are carving up land they don’t own. The Thool’Varen will see it as an invasion.”

(A long pause. The Regis knows he’s right, but she also knows she’s running out of options.)

Regis Isolde: (softly, as if already feeling the weight of the consequences)

“If I reject the deal, they’ll replace me with someone who won’t.”

Dain: (nods grimly)

“Then war is coming.”

(A heavy silence hangs between them.)

Dain: (finally standing, his voice steady but urgent)

“I need to leave the city for a time. There’s something I need to find.”

Regis Isolde: (looking at him, concerned)

“What could possibly be worth leaving now?”

(Dain hesitates—then simply shakes his head.)

Dain: (quietly)

“A boy.”

(And then he’s gone.)

Setting: A dimly lit forge on the outskirts of Hecthalla. The air is thick with the scent of molten metal, the rhythmic clang of hammer against steel echoing through the chamber.)

Bronx, the old Volundr smith, wiped sweat from his brow as he glanced up at the familiar grizzled warrior stepping into his shop.

Bronx: (grinning tiredly, setting down his tools)

“Well, well. Didn’t think I’d see you again, Dain.”

Dain: (crossing his arms, glancing around the shop)

“Heard you’ve been keeping interesting company.”

(Bronx’s smirk faded slightly.)

Bronx: (gruff, rubbing the back of his neck)

“…You heard about the kid, huh?”

Dain: (nodding, stepping closer, voice serious)

“Tell me everything.”

(Bronx hesitated, then sighed, pulling a chair closer.)

Bronx: (lowering his voice)

“He’s different, Dain. Stronger than he should be. Faster. The way he moves—it’s not just training. It’s something else.”

Dain: (leaning forward, eyes narrowing)

“And you’re sure he’s Volundr?”

(Bronx hesitated. That was the part that troubled him most.)

Bronx: (gritted teeth)

“His gauntlet—his forge work—everything says yes. But his eyes, Dain. They don’t belong to any Volundr I’ve ever seen.”

(Dain processed this in silence. Then, finally—he made his decision.)

Dain: (standing, voice resolute)

“I need to confirm something. I’ll be going off-world to find a Codex Shard. If I’m right… we may be dealing with something far older than the Volundr.”

(Bronx exhaled, rubbing his hands together, glancing toward the back of his shop where the boy—Xelric—was likely sleeping.)

Bronx: (grumbling, but with a hint of concern)

“So what do you want me to do with him?”

(Dain placed a firm hand on Bronx’s shoulder, his tone leaving no room for argument.)

Dain:

“Keep him safe. No matter what.”

(Bronx met his gaze, then nodded once.)

And with that, Dain Varo left the forge, stepping into the cold night—his mind racing with possibilities, his gut telling him the war that was coming was unlike anything they had faced before.