The feast hall of Valhalla was raucous, but the training grounds outside were deadly.
A rift had opened near the ash tree, spitting out a creature of living magma. The Salamander. It scurried across the snow, melting a path, hissing with the intense heat of Emberborn Rebirth.
An Einherjar—a fallen warrior chosen by Odin—stepped forward to meet it. He held a round shield and a bearded axe. He was already missing an eye from this morning’s practice.
"Fire-lizard," the Viking grunted. "Good practice."
The Burning Grip
The Salamander lunged. It didn't bite; it clung. Ash-Smother Secretion. It wrapped itself around the warrior’s shield arm.
The heat was instant. The leather straps vaporized. The flesh of the Einherjar’s arm blackened and cracked.
Any mortal would have screamed and dropped the shield.
The Einherjar grinned. He was dead. Pain was a memory.
Valkyrie Muster.
He didn't drop the shield. He used it as a hammer. He slammed the shield—and the Salamander attached to it—into a granite boulder.
CRUNCH.
The Salamander screeched as its obsidian bones shattered. The Viking struck again. And again. He mashed the fire spirit into cooling embers.
He looked at his charred arm. "It'll heal by dinner," he shrugged, kicking the remains of the lizard into a snowbank. "Next!"