In the twilight of the twelfth century, when the old gods fade beneath the shadow of the Cross, one girl’s fate rekindles the embers of a forgotten power.
Born within the walls of Mecklenburg Castle to parents who once walked the pagan path, Milena lives between two worlds. Her father seeks to secure the future of his realm through her marriage to a Saxon noble, yet her heart yearns for the mysteries hidden beyond stone and scripture.
Guided by intuition and haunted by prophetic dreams, Milena receives a gift destined to find her. But every revelation demands a sacrifice, and the price of awakening may be everything she loves.
To claim her true self, Milena must defy the faith that confines her and embrace the knowledge contained by fear — the wisdom whispered in the language of the runes.
In the twilight of the twelfth century, when the old gods fade beneath the shadow of the Cross, one girl’s fate rekindles the embers of a forgotten power.
Born within the walls of Mecklenburg Castle to parents who once walked the pagan path, Milena lives between two worlds. Her father seeks to secure the future of his realm through her marriage to a Saxon noble, yet her heart yearns for the mysteries hidden beyond stone and scripture.
Guided by intuition and haunted by prophetic dreams, Milena receives a gift destined to find her. But every revelation demands a sacrifice, and the price of awakening may be everything she loves.
To claim her true self, Milena must defy the faith that confines her and embrace the knowledge contained by fear — the wisdom whispered in the language of the runes.
The night the comet burned across the heavens, every hearth trembled, as if the gods turned their faces toward the mortal world. It came like a ring of fire, tearing the sky in two with a terrible, otherworldly grace, casting an eerie glow upon the land below. Some who witnessed it saw a blessing, a herald of great change; others saw doom—a raw wound opened by the old powers in their wrath. The air itself was charged, humming with unseen energy, as though the very fabric of fate had been disturbed.
The castle stood silent, its stone walls catching the distant flicker of flames in the welkin. Its battlements rose like fangs against the dark expanse, looming over the lake and the sleeping town, wrapped in a thin crust of early winter frost. Crowned with high crenellations, the fortress towered above ancient ground that had weathered centuries of war and whispers of old magic. Tonight, however, it seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
The newly formed ice reflected the comet’s light and turned the lake’s surface into a vast, fractured mirror, its cracks groaning softly in response to the celestial omen. The wind carried the scent of fresh snow, of wet stone and burning pine from the castle hearths, but it did little to dispel the unease settling over the stronghold like a shroud.
Inside the great hall, knights in polished mail stood in stoic clusters, their hands resting upon the hilts of their swords. Some whispered in Latin, their faith unwavering in the face of the unknown, while others muttered in hushed Wendish about Svarog blazing across the dome in his chariot. A few of the Saxons among them exchanged wary glances, reciting prayers of their own. Anxious servants bustled about, offering mulled wine to those who would take it, but most declined, their stomachs knotted with dread.
In the highest tower of the keep, within the chamber of the lady of the castle, a fierce battle was underway. Woizlava, her golden hair plastered to her forehead, lay upon a grand feather-stuffed bed, its heavy drapes drawn back to reveal her laboring figure bathed in candlelight. Her nightgown, once pristine, was now damp with sweat, clinging to her as she fought through the waves of pain.
Woizlava was of Pomeranian blood, descended from the princely House of Griffins—a line of Slavic nobles who had long walked the narrow path between the old ways and the new faith. Her forefathers had once ruled as pagan chieftains, offering sacrifices to the gods of forest and river, their power rooted in the land.
But times had changed. The tides of Christianity had swept through Pomerania, forcing noble houses to adapt—or perish. Woizlava had been raised in this changing world and taught the Christian prayers of the court while still hearing the legends of Rod’s divine children in the guarded recollections of elders. Though outwardly pious, she had never truly abandoned the beliefs of her ancestors and still secretly clung to the fragments of the past that had not yet been fully erased.
Two winters past, she had given birth to Pribislav’s heir, Henry—a boy who already bore the steadfastness of his sire, albeit christened in the name of the very liege lord who had bent Mecklenburg unto the yoke of the Empire.
Henry’s arrival had been heralded with joyous feasts and the tolling of church bells. He was the embodiment of succession—a son to continue his father’s lineage, to one day rule as Pribislav did. But this birth was unlike any in history. The castle was quieter now, drenched in uncertainty, as if those present knew that something else was at play.
The moment Dobrawa, the elderly Obotrite midwife, laid her hands upon Woizlava’s swollen belly, she had felt it—a conviction that pulsed through her like an unspoken truth. She had seen the signs in the curling smoke of juniper and read them in the restless flight of the birds, days before the labor began. The shadows of the old gods had drifted through the trees, warning of something beyond another heir to secure the line. She had not spoken of it aloud, not even when it settled deep within her marrow, but she had prepared for the moment fate would lay its claim.
Then, at last, a girl entered the world with a sharp cry that cut through the chamber, announcing her presence. Dobrawa caught her in practiced hands, swift and sure, her movements those of a woman who had ushered many lives into being. She gently wiped the dampness from the infant with a soft cloth, checked each tiny limb, felt the warmth of her breath, and listened to the rapid drum of her heart. She was small and fragile in appearance, yet Dobrawa knew better—this was no ordinary child.
The candlelight caught the delicate yet striking features of the newborn. Her deep, glacial blue eyes, unnaturally clear for one so young, held an intensity that seemed to contradict her vulnerable state, as if she were already observing the world with quiet understanding. Her skin, a warm olive hue, bore the richness of her parents’ Slavic heritage, and her dark, downy hair curled softly against her forehead. The arch of her mother’s high cheekbones was unmistakable, just as her father’s strong, unyielding brow gave her an air of defiance even in her first breaths.
Woizlava, utterly exhausted yet overwhelmed with emotion, reached out for her daughter with unsteady hands. The world around her faded—the maids’ hushed chatter about the comet’s passage, the hearth’s crackling, even the wind’s vicious howls beyond the tower walls. All that remained was the precious, innocent being she now held.
She brushed her fingertip against the baby's cheek, marveling at its softness—so impossibly tender, yet already etched with the promise of inner fortitude. The child’s eyes, wide and unblinking, met her own with a depth that unsettled and awed her in equal measure.
Her chest overflowed with joy as she felt the gentle heat of her daughter’s tiny body nestled close to hers, the rhythm of her heartbeat a testament of a new life brought forth this night. Woizlava’s lips parted, the name forming instinctively, as if it had come to her from beyond the veil of time itself.
“Milena,” she breathed, her voice barely more than a sigh, yet filled with immense love and reverence.
She did not know why she had chosen it, only that it had settled in her heart long before this moment, waiting to be spoken aloud.
The child let out a contented sound, as though she already knew the name as hers to bear.
“Do you see, Dobrawa?” Woizlava murmured, still gazing at her daughter. “She is perfect.”
The midwife nodded. “Some children are born simply to live, my lady, but others are drawn forth by threads already woven.”
Woizlava’s breath caught. “What do you mean?”
Dobrawa only smiled knowingly before stepping back, watching as Pribislav entered.
He moved with the authority of a man accustomed to command. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore a heavy cloak over a tunic marked with the heraldic emblems of his house. The torchlight played over the worn leather of his belt, where his sword rested—a reminder of the battles fought, both on the field and in the halls of power. His dark hair, streaked with the first traces of silver, clung to his temples, framing a face carved with the hard lines of war and rule. His beard, neatly trimmed but thick, accentuated the sharpness of his jawline.
He scanned the room with the wary calculation of a man who had seen too much and trusted little. And yet, beneath the hardened exterior, his composure wavered the moment his eyes settled on the newborn.
Pribislav had not always belonged to this world of decorated halls and embroidered tunics. He had been born to the old ways—raised among the Obotrite warrior clans who cried out their gods’ names, painted their shields and faces with ritual symbols, and invoked their ancestors in battle. He had once stood before the altars where offerings were laid to Veles, and listened as his elders called upon Mokosh for guidance at her sacred stone etched with the great oak of the three realms of existence.
It had not been faith alone that turned Pribislav’s mind toward conversion, but the cold calculus of political survival. The pressures of shifting loyalties and the ever-encroaching reach of Christendom had left him with little choice. The Holy Roman Empire was an unrelenting force, its influence spreading across the Slavic lands through persistent persuasion, fire, and steel. The decision had not been simple, nor had it been painless. Both his father and brother fell to Henry the Lion’s crusade against the pagan Wends, yet by embracing baptism, Pribislav had secured the endurance of his bloodline and the future of his people.
He had turned his back on the gods of his forefathers, now scorned as heathen superstition, and as he donned the garments of Christian rule, he knew that not all had forgiven his decision, that many in his domain still called it betrayal in hushed voices. But just like the old gods, alliances demanded sacrifices. Power in this new age was not merely taken with the sword—it was forged through faith and the binding of hands in the halls of Christendom. And now, as he looked upon his daughter, he wondered what future she would inherit—one shaped by the faith he had chosen, or by the blood that still carried memory of the past.
Reluctantly, he reached down and lifted the child from Woizlava’s arms. Her weight was almost nothing, but it anchored him in place as though he had been struck by a force larger than himself. She stirred in his arms, her little fingers curling against the rough fabric of his cloak. He had prepared himself for another son, another heir, another warrior. Instead, he held a daughter. And yet, in those piercing blue eyes that met his own without fear, he saw the fire of his people—the spirit of the ancestors who refused to be forgotten.
A strange sensation coiled within him. He stood at the threshold of something greater than the wars he had waged or the lands he had ruled. As he looked at her delicate features, he thought of the old gods again, the ones who had been left behind. Could it be that they still watched, still lived in the blood of his kin? He swallowed hard, brushing a roughened thumb over the child’s hand.
“She is strong,” he declared at last.
Watching the moment unfold, Dobrawa spoke with quiet certainty. “She will need to be.”
Pribislav’s jaw clenched as he exhaled. “She will be baptized.”
His voice was firm, allowing no room for discussion. The words were not merely a proclamation but a necessity—an assurance that his daughter would be bound to the faith he had sworn to uphold, and that, above all else, she would be a daughter of Christendom.
His gaze shifted to Woizlava, the mother of his children, the woman who had given him both an heir and now a vessel through which their house might rise. His expression softened, and he gave her a solemn nod—a silent acknowledgment of her endurance. It was not the effusive gratitude of a tender husband, but something unspoken between them. A warrior’s respect. A ruler’s veneration. At that moment, she had done what was expected, and in his own way, he honored that.
Pribislav placed the infant back in Woizlava’s arms and straightened, rolling his shoulders back as though shaking off a weight he had not expected to bear. His attention lingered on the child for a heartbeat longer before he turned away, his heavy boots echoing against the stone floor as he moved toward the door, pausing only briefly before stepping through. His cloak swayed behind him, its fur trim catching the torchlight as he disappeared down the dimly lit corridor. His mind was already elsewhere, turning over thoughts of the future, of what this night would mean—not just for his family, but for all of Mecklenburg.
When the chamber quieted and servants retired to their quarters, Dobrawa reached into the folds of her worn leather satchel and withdrew a carved piece of aged birch. The strange symbol etched into its surface seemed to glow faintly in the candlelight. This was no mere trinket, but a relic—heavy with the whispers of forgotten gods and the haunting prayers of the women who had borne it before her. It had journeyed through time, guarded in the hands of priestesses and healers, each passing it on with the knowledge that it would find its match in due season.
Dobrawa had received the talisman many winters ago, when her grandmother entrusted it to her during the Korochun rites, held on the longest night of the year, marking light’s victory over darkness. She had been just a girl then, but the old woman’s words had stayed with her through the years: One day you will stand before the one fated to carry it forward.
“Berkana . . .” Dobrawa intoned, lifting the rune toward the light, her gaze filled with devotion and memory.
It was a symbol of birth and transformation—a warden of the life force that flowed through women, the earth, and the eternal cycles of renewal, long kept by the mothers of hidden paths—those who walked the forests and spoke with the unseen. Though much of their wisdom had been lost to time, this sacred token endured.
She gently pressed it into Woizlava’s trembling palm.
“This is not merely a gift, my lady. It has always belonged to her,” she whispered, glancing at the now peacefully sleeping infant. “It holds the power that binds itself to those destined to shape the world rather than be shaped by it. You will know when she is ready. The hour will come—and when it does, place it in her hands and let fate take its course.”
Woizlava traced its surface, feeling an unexpected pull beneath her fingertips.
“It is both a promise and a trial,” Dobrawa continued. “It speaks of growth, protection, and a path not easily walked, yet one that must be. Berkana bears the spirit of those who came before this child, and will guide her toward a destiny only she can claim. It heralds new beginnings, my lady.”
Outside, the wind raged on, sweeping through the battlements like a wild beast. But the comet had long since vanished, its fiery trail devoured by the night, leaving only darkness in its wake. And in the high chamber of the castle, cradled at her mother’s heart, a newborn girl slept—her fate already written in the silent language of the gods.
Spoilers: Alessa M. Norwen’s evocative Historical Fantasy Runebound, the first book in her The Last Rune of Rungardvik series is about a kingdom caught in the crossroads of great change. Change in religion, change in alliances, change in expected gender and social roles, and a change in conflict and diplomatic relationships between separate kingdoms.
Milena, Princess of Mecklenburg, is arranged to marry Heinrich of Lundberg of the Saxon House of Welf to secure Mecklenburg's standing within the Holy Roman Empire. She is not happy about being sold and given away like a bargaining chip.
Milena fights her own way. Despite the kingdom being Christian, Milena secretly studies the old Pagan religion and practices intuitive and clairvoyant abilities. She uses her secret practice to fight against this arrangement and to carve her own path.
Milena is a character who strives to find her own agency and independence despite this Christian upbringing which tells her that she should be submissive to male authority like her father, future husband, and the Church. It's a man's world and Milena is told that she has no choice but to accept it.
As previously mentioned Runebound features a kingdom that is on the crossroads of change. Mecklenburg in Pomerania was largely pagan and had several small enclaves with chieftains. Milena's mother, Woizlava was the descendant of pagan chieftains and still practices the old ways though she outwardly identifies as a Christian.
Her husband, Milena's father Pribislav is a Christian and expects his family to follow suit. However though he holds the Church in high esteem, his conversion has less to do with spiritual reasons and more to do with pragmatism. The Holy Roman Empire is a formidable force that is expanding. Pribislav is simply backing the right horse and siding with the winner.
Milena also recognizes this division through two people in charge of her education: Bishop Anselm, head of the church and Pribislav’s spiritual advisor and Dobrawa, Woizlava’s midwife who trained her in the pagan arts in secret and is now doing the same to Milena. These two represent the clashing faiths that surround the story because unlike Melania’s parents who had to compromise who they were, Anselm and Dobrawa will not.
Bishop Anselm is a conniving manipulator who uses the fear of God as a weapon to maintain his authority. He is the type of person that would thrive in modern day as the living embodiment of the Christian hypocrisy that would ordering murder, rape, genocide on anyone and throw Biblical buzz words and Apocalyptic terms around to make it justifiable. Anselm uses threats, violence, intimidation, abuse, spies, and at one point arson to force his authority.
Anselm is a prominent advisor that keeps Milena at a distance. He knows that she is a threat to him with her intelligence, intuition, and strong will. He stresses the Biblical passages which state women should be subservient to men and that they are the bearers of original sin so Milena’s observation could be considered questionable even potentially Satanic. As long as she is packed away and married off, he is free to dominate Pribislav and rule Mecklenburg from behind the throne.
While Anselm uses Christian doctrine to diminish Milena’s presence, Dobrawa encourages her. Instead of dogmatism directed on behalf of a male God, she tells the princess stories about ancient gods, goddesses, heroes, and heroines from Slavic Mythology (Those who are interested in mythologies from around the world will like this beginner's introduction to figures like Perun, Veles, Rod, Mokosh, Morana, Chernabog, The Firebird, and Baba Yagga).
Dobrawa guides Milena through visualizations where she displays precognitive abilities. Milena is gifted runes that serve as touchstones to communicate with the deities and spirits around her. Instead of telling her to be submissive, Dobrawa inspires her to maintain her own strength and leadership skills.
Milena is able to retain a willful presence despite attempts to censor or stifle her. She challenges an arranged marriage without her consent. Then when the situation becomes dire and marriage veers towards inevitable, she decides that even if she has to get married, she is going to give her future husband a hell of a time. He won't have even the slightest notion that he can control her.