Be grateful for the monsters, little girl.
It’s the monsters that keep the demons away.
In the Norse-inspired kingdom of Frostheim, Ivar has witnessed the worst the world has to offer—violence, greed, and betrayal. With his family’s honor destroyed at the hands of those he once loved and his newborn sister’s life hanging by a thread, he is consumed by a ruthless determination to keep her safe, even if it costs him his life. But as his journey pulls him into a web of bloody vengeance and buried secrets, he risks losing not just the fragile peace he clings to, but the humanity he’s fighting to protect.
Across the sea, Baldwin, a Berserkr bounty hunter with no memory of his past, finds himself in the war-threatened kingdom of Tybalta and is tasked by the King to stop an impending enemy invasion. Baldwin’s mission takes a sinister turn when he discovers a chilling truth—the enemy wages war on the vulnerable, trafficking children to further their agenda. As he delves deeper into the heinous atrocities perpetrated against children, Baldwin must confront his own fractured morality, torn between the need to stop the invaders and the sacrifices he must make to save the innocent.
In two powerful stories of vengeance, loss, magic, and redemption, Ivar and Baldwin stand against ascendant evil, each forced to confront the darkness where demons wear human faces.
Physical preorders ship on release day - July 21st, 2026.
All copies will be personalized and signed by me and include swag. eBook and audiobook versions will release the same day.
Opening my eyes, I found myself sitting on a stool in the corner of my forge, smoking a pipe, reliving the memory as I watched my boy hammer out his frustrations. This was his second attempt at quenching the steel. Pic lifted the metal and held it out to the fire, studying its shape. Confident in its blazing color, he dipped the sword into a barrel filled with oil, a sizzling plume of smoke singing from it, bringing music to the forge. He pulled the steel from the barrel, still smoking. The oil left on the blade ignited in a fiery blast that nearly singed the boy’s eyebrows, but quickly burned itself out. He held the blade out to the fire, inspecting its shape. There was a clear bend in the metal that shouldn’t have been there. I watched as my boy put the blade in a clamp. Then, while it was held firm, he pulled the sword toward himself with all his might, trying to correct the deformity.
“Not too much! Ease into it!” I yelled from the shadows.
Pic shot me a glaring look. “I know!”
Hearing the anger in his voice, I decided to let it go, leaning back against the stone wall and returning to my pipe. I watched him learn from experience, knowing if I interfered and the boy failed, I would be blamed. But I remained nearby, ready to help the boy back up if he needed it.
He strained against the blade as it slowly came back into shape, still cooling from the forge. With a sudden, jarring crack, the metal snapped in half, sending Pic falling to the floor. He threw the broken blade at the stone wall out of frustration. “Blast it!”
I walked over and placed my hand on his shoulder. “If it can’t handle the stress from having you bend it back into shape, it wouldn’t have held up in battle. It is better to start over and make something new.”
Pic shook his head. “I did everything you said! How come the steel broke?”
I gave him a reassuring smile. “Pic, just because we do everything we are supposed to, doesn't mean the outcome we want is guaranteed. Leave room for the unexpected. Remember, life is like a forge—it is hot, and hard things will happen to you just as the hammer beats the steel against the anvil. We, as men, have two choices: we can break from the stress or we can become something useful. If you choose to overcome, you will overcome. If you choose to break, you will break. But the price will be paid either way. You will be beaten. You will be bent. You will be placed in the coals and heated until you feel like you are going to melt. Then, you will be beaten again and again, and just as you start to take shape and have grown accustomed to the heat, that too will be stripped from you, and your life will grow cold and dark and void. What will you do? Are you going to bend? Curve? Break? Or will you harden into a better man, having experienced trials of life, and become something useful?”
Pic nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry I lost my temper, Father.”
“You just barely turned eleven,” I replied. “You have plenty of time to learn. Just take it slow and you’ll get there.”
He let out a deep exhale, looking to me as his anger washed away like footprints in the sand. “Will you help me start over?”
“Just because it’s broken doesn’t mean it can’t be mended,” I said. “Grab the broken blade and cut it into four pieces. Then file down the sides. Once that’s completed, stack the pieces together and wire them tight so they can't move. You’re going to need new welds, so you better use plenty of flux.”
Pic grabbed some water and did as I directed. He worked hard, his expression filled with determination and eagerness.
“That looks good,” I commended. “Now cover the metal in flux and stick it into the fire. You want to get that fire hot, so don’t forget to work your bellows while you watch the steel.” The boy looked exhausted, but never let up on his efforts. As the steel heated, I brought him a tin of water, watching the steel beside him as it grew nearly white in the coals.
“I think that’s the color you want. Grab the tongs and start drawing out your blade on the anvil. Work slowly and you’ll be alright. Shaping takes time.”
His hammer strikes were precise despite his exhaustion. The boy’s sweat dripped upon the hot steel with a sizzle as he shaped it. It took an hour of careful heating and hammer strikes before the blade had taken shape. Pic placed the sword on the anvil once more to make a final adjustment to the steel, striking it a few more times before dropping it into the oil. The blade was nearly white hot with hues of orange. Another burst of flame erupted from the barrel, followed by the smell of hot oil as the liquid bubbled for a moment, then fell silent. After a moment, he pulled the sword from the quench and onto a nearby wooden table.
Pic held a lamp over the blade, examining it for imperfections. Any bend, curve, twist, or crack would lead to a structural failure when used in battle. After careful study, he placed the blade in my hands. “What do you think?” he asked, pride in his voice.
He had done a wonderful job. The blade held its shape well in the quench, and it seemed to have cooled evenly. I handed the blade back to my son. “This is fine workmanship, son. Well done. Now, use a file to put a blade on the steel, place a handle on the tang, and then you will have created a tool. Its usefulness will be determined by the way you use it.”
We worked through the night, sharpening the edge, wrapping a dark leather handle around the tang, and installing the pommel. As we finished, I took the blade, etching the letters P.B. on both sides of the hilt along with a black leather sheath.
“What do the letters stand for?” He beamed. “Pic and Baldwin?”
“No, that’s your name, boy—Pic Baldwinson.”
Pic ran his fingers over the etching. “I will honor your name, Father.”
I squeezed my boy’s shoulder. “I know you will, son.”