They said the barrow was cursed.
Long ago, before frost claimed the fieldstones and moss drowned the trail markers, the shield-maiden’s ancestors buried a king there—her own blood, if the stories were true. He had died with gold in his hand, a circlet on his brow, and betrayal in his heart. No kin dared speak his name now, not even in drink. Only the mound remained: a swelling of earth ringed by broken stones, its silence deeper than winter.
But Yrsa remembered the ring.
It had once rested on her mother’s hand, a simple gold band etched with spirals. Her mother claimed it was the last piece of the cursed hoard, pulled from the barrow generations ago before the family’s fortunes withered and fell. When her mother died, the ring vanished.
Until last night.
Yrsa had found it in her firepit, half-buried in ash. Cold. Untouched by flame.
She hadn’t wept. She hadn’t spoken. She had only gathered her cloak, her axe, and the iron-banded torch that burned with whale oil. And now, alone beneath a hollow sky, she stood before the barrow again, the fire dancing in her eyes.
The wind whispered her name, though no voice spoke it.
She stepped into the earth like a blade returning to its sheath.
The barrow swallowed light. Its throat was a narrow crawl of packed stone and bitter soil. Yrsa moved slowly, not out of fear, but respect. She knew the stories. The Draugr—deathless guardians of hoarded treasure—were no myth. They rose not for honor or vengeance, but for gold. For what they believed was still theirs.
And some gold, it seemed, called louder than others.
The tunnel widened into a low chamber. She paused, listening. The stillness was not empty. It pressed in with weight, like a breath held too long.
Her torch revealed the burial trove.
Old shields, blackened and split. A rusted helm with sea-glass eyes. Silver rings tarnished green. And there, on a stone bier at the center, lay a corpse in a shroud of rot and ruin. A crown of twisted gold still clung to its brow. Bone fingers gripped a blade across its chest.
But Yrsa’s eyes found something else.
A woman. Slumped against the far wall. Skin like wax. Her mother.
No sign of wounds. No blood. Just stillness, like she had sat down to rest and never rose again. And on her hand, cold and quiet, was the spiral ring.
Yrsa approached. Carefully.
She knelt. Reached for her mother’s hand and paused.
The corpse on the bier moved.
It was not a sudden lurch, no ghastly shriek. Just the sound of bone shifting against stone. The Draugr rose slowly, as though time itself helped lift its weight. Its eyes opened—amber coals in a ruined face.
"She took what was mine," it rasped. "As you will."
Yrsa didn’t flinch. "She took nothing. That gold was ours long before it was yours."
The Draugr stepped forward. The blade it held did not rust. It hummed with a memory of blood. "Then pay the price. As she did."
Yrsa stood. Her own axe, small beside the relic the Draugr carried, felt suddenly heavier.
"This ring cursed our name for generations," she said, voice steady. "It brought ruin, madness. We were shamed for greed we never chose."
"And still, you came for it."
"Not for gold. For her."
She met the Draugr’s gaze and in that hollow stare, she saw it: the man he once was. Proud. Terrified. Dying with his hoard while enemies closed in. The curse was not just in the gold. It was in the fear of letting go.
Yrsa took the torch. Lifted it high.
"Then burn it," the Draugr whispered.
She hesitated. "What?"
"End it. If your blood is stronger than mine… prove it."
Yrsa did not speak again.
She laid the ring beside her mother. Kissed her forehead. Then she poured the torch’s fire across the pile—the ring, the weapons, even the bier.
The flames caught slowly, fed by ancient dust and dry bones. The Draugr did not resist. He stepped back into the light and closed his eyes.
When it was done, and only smoke remained, Yrsa emerged from the barrow with ash on her skin and silence in her soul.
No treasure. No curse. No mother.
Only peace.
Some nights, the villagers claim they see her walking the edge of the field near the old mound. No torch. No weapon. Just a woman in a dark cloak, humming a song no one remembers.
And on her finger, no ring.
Only a scar—spiraled, faint, and glinting when the moon is high.