The Birth of Vikara

There was a time when Snæfell volcano still breathed, its caldera pulsing with molten fury, its deep veins stretching into the bones of the world. The volcano had stood for untold ages, a living monument to the ceaseless cycle of creation and destruction. Its rivers of fire carved the land, its ash-choked sky shaped the storms of Iceland, and those who lived beneath its shadow whispered to it as one whispers to a god.   Then, one day, it simply stopped.   There was no eruption, no final roar of defiance, only the slow dimming of the fire that had burned for millennia. The mountain fell silent. The air no longer carried the breath of molten stone. The rivers of lava cooled into blackened scars, hardened and lifeless. And at the heart of the hollowed peak, something crawled forth.   She was pale where the mountain had been dark, her skin gleaming with the faint shimmer of cooling embers buried beneath layers of frost. Her hair was white as dying ash, her eyes the coldest shade of ice. She moved with quiet precision, unscorched, unshaken, as if the fire that once ruled this place had recognized something greater and surrendered without a fight.   By the time the first villagers made their way up the slopes, the caldera was barren. There was no smoke, no heat—only the empty crater, and the faint footprints leading away. They did not find her, but they did not need to. The death of the volcano was proof enough.   The scholars and the faithful debated for years: Did she extinguish the mountain, or was she simply its last creation? Was Vikara a harbinger, a thief, or an heir? None could say for certain, but the story remained etched into records. The end of Snæfellsjökull marked the beginning of something else, something colder, quieter, it marked The Birth of Vikara.