Son of Kalev, my new work of fantasy fiction. Check it out!
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In the shadow of forgotten gods, where the world still breathes magic and blood runs thick with destiny, a hero will rise from legend itself.
Son of Kalev: Song of the North & Blood of the Ancient Oak is a sweeping folk fantasy epic set in the primordial wilderness of ancient Eesti, where the veil between worlds grows thin and prophecies written in starlight begin to unfold.
Born beneath the sacred oak that has guarded the northern realms since time immemorial, son of Kalev carries within him the legacy of giants. His father, the mighty Kalev—a colossus among men—has fallen, leaving a land vulnerable to ancient evils stirring once more. As foretold by the blind seer of the misty marshlands, Kalev’s coming heralds both salvation and ruin. The young giant must navigate a treacherous world where demonic forces loyal to Sarvik’s bloodline emerge from shadow realms, seeking vengeance against the line that once defeated their master.
Guided by fragmented visions and armed with his father’s legendary sword—forged from a fallen star and tempered in the tears of forest spirits—Kalev embarks on a perilous journey across the ancient lands.
But salvation comes with a price. For to truly claim his birthright and fulfill the prophecy of the ancient oak, Kalev must confront the blood magic that flows through his veins—power that could either save his homeland or consume it entirely.
In a world where songs become spells, oaths bind beyond death, and the whispers of ancestors guide the living, one man stands between freedom and eternal darkness. The fate of Eesti hangs in the balance, awaiting the choice of a hero born to either break chains or forge them.
Son of Kalev: Song of the North & Blood of the Ancient Oak weaves rich Nordic mythology with epic fantasy in a tale of heroism, sacrifice, and the enduring power of legend. Perfect for fans of The Witcher, The Last Kingdom, and The Bear and the Nightingale.
PROLOGUE
THE RAVEN’S SHADOW
The widow pressed her back against the ancient oak as the northern wind howled across the plains of Eesti. Her fingers, cracked and bleeding from the cold, clutched her tattered cloak against her throat. Three days she had wandered since the fever had taken her husband, three days with nothing but the bitter taste of grief on her tongue and the hollow ache of hunger in her belly.
“The gods have abandoned me,” she whispered, her words swallowed by the wind. “Just as the warmth abandons the world when winter comes.”
Dark clouds rolled overhead, heavy with snow and shadow. In the distance, ravens circled a copse of pines, their harsh cries like laughter. The widow narrowed her eyes. Ravens. Always ravens. Harbingers of death and misfortune. Yet she had no choice but to continue forward, toward whatever fate awaited her.
As she crested the hill, something caught her eye—a flash of movement amidst the swaying grasses. She approached cautiously and found a hen, its feathers sleek and golden, pecking at the frozen ground.
“Come here,” the widow called, her voice hoarse from disuse. “Come to me.”
The hen regarded her with one bright eye before darting away. The widow pursued, her hunger giving her strength, until she came upon a nest tucked beneath a blackthorn bush. Within it lay a single egg, mottled brown—a grouse’s egg, larger than any she had seen before.
“The gods give gifts to the patient,” she murmured, scooping up the egg with reverent hands. As she did, a shadow fell across her face.
A raven, black as midnight, perched on a nearby branch. Unlike its kind, it did not cry out or take flight at her approach. Instead, it watched her with eyes that gleamed like polished obsidian.
“What do you want of me, creature?” the widow asked, clutching the egg to her breast.
The raven tilted its head. “Not what I want of you,” it said in a voice like grinding stones, “but what you will do with what you have found.”
The widow stumbled back, nearly dropping her prize. “You speak!”
“All things speak, if one knows how to listen.” The raven spread its wings. “Take the hen and the egg, but leave me be. No good comes from taking what belongs to the shadows.”
“I need to survive,” the widow replied, steeling herself. “My husband is dead, and winter comes. I will take all three.”
The raven’s feathers ruffled. “Then remember my warning when blood soaks the soil of your homeland and giants walk the earth once more.”
Before she could respond, the widow’s hand darted out and seized the bird by its legs. It thrashed and pecked, drawing blood from her wrist, but she would not release it.
“You will feed me for days,” she told it, tightening her grip.
In the hall of Uku, lord of the skies, three brothers stood before the high seat. Their shoulders were broad as oak trunks, their arms corded with muscle from years of war and work. Yet even they seemed small beneath the vaulted ceiling of cloud and starlight.
“The time has come,” Uku declared, his voice rolling like thunder across the hall. “The North grows restless. Ancient powers stir in the deep places of the world. Each of you must go forth and claim your kingdom.”
The eldest brother stepped forward, a man with eyes the color of winter ice. “I will take the western lands, where the sun drowns each night in the sea.”
The second brother, whose beard was red as fire, nodded solemnly. “And I shall rule the southern plains, where the harvest is rich and the rivers run warm.”
But the youngest—Kalev—remained silent, his gaze fixed on something only he could see. Unlike his brothers, whose faces were open as the day, Kalev’s features were carved from shadow and stone, a fortress few could penetrate.
“And you, Kalev?” Uku asked. “Where will you make your mark upon the world?”
Kalev looked up, and the hall grew cold beneath his gaze. “I will go where fate takes me,” he said simply. “To the land that needs me most.”
Uku studied him for a long moment. “So be it. But beware—the path of fate is rarely straight, and never gentle.” He raised his hand, and the air shimmered. “Look.”
An image formed in the center of the hall—a land of dark forests and silver lakes, of mist-shrouded bogs and limestone cliffs beaten by a restless sea.
“Eesti,” Uku said. “A land of ancient magic and older sorrows. It awaits a king who can match its wildness with his own.”
Kalev stepped forward to touch the vision, his fingers passing through it like smoke. “How will I reach this place?”
The great doorway of the hall burst open, and a massive eagle swooped inside, its wingspan blocking out the light, its talons sharp as daggers.
“On wings of legend,” Uku replied, as the eagle landed before Kalev. “The journey will not be easy, nor will what comes after. Are you prepared to bear the weight of a crown, Kalev? To become not just a king, but the father of a nation?”
Kalev met the eagle’s piercing gaze without flinching. “I fear neither height nor depth, neither blood nor fire. I will go.”
His brothers clasped his shoulders in farewell, their faces solemn with the knowledge that they might never meet again in this world. Then Kalev climbed upon the eagle’s back, his fingers twisting into its feathers.
“Remember,” Uku warned as the eagle spread its massive wings, “even kings bow before fate in the end.”
The eagle launched itself into the air, and Kalev with it, soaring up through the opening in the roof of the hall and into the endless sky beyond.
The widow’s cottage stood at the edge of the forest, smoke curling from its chimney into the twilight sky. Inside, the hen and the egg rested by the hearth, warming in its glow. The raven she had cast into the corner, deeming it unworthy of her attention.
“Grow,” she whispered to the egg, stroking its shell with gentle fingers. “Grow and bring me comfort in my solitude.”
As if in answer, the egg began to crack, fine lines spreading across its surface like lightning across a stormy sky. The widow leaned closer, her breath catching in her throat as the shell split open.
But it was not a bird that emerged. Instead, a tiny hand reached out, followed by another. The widow stumbled back in shock as a child—perfect in form, with skin like polished ivory and hair the color of sunlight—crawled from the remnants of the shell.
“What sorcery is this?” the widow gasped.
The child looked up at her with eyes as green as summer leaves. “Mother,” she said, her voice like the tinkling of silver bells.
Before the widow could respond, the hen began to transform as well, its feathers melting away to reveal soft skin and long, golden hair. In moments, a second maiden stood before the hearth, this one taller and more regal than the first.
“Salme,” the first child said, pointing to herself. Then she gestured to the second. “Linda.”
The widow sank to her knees, her mind reeling. “The gods have blessed me,” she whispered. Then her gaze fell upon the raven in the corner, and fear clutched at her heart. If the hen and the egg had become maidens, what would become of the bird of ill omen?
As if sensing her thoughts, the raven stirred, its form twisting and stretching until a third girl stood in its place—but unlike the golden sisters, this one had hair black as midnight and eyes that reflected no light.
“You cast me aside,” the dark maiden said, her voice cold with accusation. “Remember this when the time comes to choose.”
Years passed, and the maidens grew in beauty and grace. Word spread across the land of Salme and Linda, whose loveliness outshone the stars themselves. Suitors came from near and far, bearing gifts and promises of devotion.
On a midsummer’s eve, when the veil between worlds grew thin, the first of the great suitors arrived.
The sun descended from the sky in the form of a young man with hair of flame and skin that glowed like molten gold. He knelt before Salme, offering a crown of light.
“Be mine,” he said, his voice warm as summer noon, “and you shall never know darkness or cold again.”
Before Salme could answer, the moon appeared, silver-haired and pale as frost, his movements fluid as water.
“The sun burns too hot,” he told her, extending a hand that sparkled with stardust. “Come with me, and I will show you the beauty of shadow and reflection, the gentle light that guides travelers home.”
A third figure emerged from the gathering darkness—a man cloaked in velvet night, his face pierced with countless pinpricks of light.
“The stars see all,” he whispered to Salme. “Choose me, and the universe itself will be your garden.”
Salme looked between them, her heart torn. Finally, she turned to the stars, reaching for his outstretched hand. “I choose you,” she said softly. “For in your light, I see eternity.”
The sun and moon departed in sorrow, but their grief was short-lived. For as they turned to leave, they beheld Linda, standing in the doorway of the cottage, her beauty no less radiant than her sister’s.
Once more they made their offers, joined again by the stars. Linda listened politely to each, her eyes revealing nothing of her thoughts.
Then came a sound like distant thunder, growing louder until the earth itself seemed to tremble. Over the horizon appeared a giant of a man, taller than the ancient pines, his shoulders broad as a mountain’s base. His beard was black as storm clouds, his eyes the gray of turbulent seas.
“Kalev,” whispered the dark-haired servant girl, who had watched the proceedings from the shadows. “The king has come.”
The giant approached, each step leaving an imprint in the soil that would remain for generations to come. He carried no gifts, wore no fine clothes. Yet when he spoke, his voice resonated with power that made the celestial suitors seem like pale shadows.
“I am Kalev,” he said simply, his gaze fixed on Linda. “I offer no pretty words, no trinkets from the heavens. I offer only myself—a mortal king with mortal failings. I will die one day, and you will weep. But until that day, I will build a kingdom worthy of your grace.”
The sun, moon, and stars stepped back, recognizing a force even they could not overcome. Linda moved forward, placing her small hand in Kalev’s massive palm.
“I choose the path of mortality,” she declared. “With all its joys and sorrows, its beginnings and its ends.”
As Salme departed with the stars and Linda with Kalev, the dark-haired maiden watched from the doorway of the cottage, her eyes gleaming with a knowledge beyond her years.
“And so it begins,” she murmured. “The tale of glory and grief, of heroes and monsters.” She looked to the north, where storm clouds gathered on the horizon. “And when it ends, I will still be here, watching . . . waiting.”
The widow, now aged and bent, joined her at the threshold. “What do you see, child of the raven?”
The maiden smiled, a curve of lips without warmth. “I see blood on the snow, tears turning to lakes, stone women weeping for lost children. I see a son who will shake the foundations of the world.”s
“Kalev,” the widow whispered. “Kalev has come and he is without equal.”
“Yes,” the dark maiden replied. “And like all who reach for greatness, he shall fall furthest when fate finally claims its due.”