Hear me, hall-folk, and hold this tale fast in your hearts. I sing of Thor Thunder-Bearer and Hrungnir Stone-Heart, of boast and challenge, of victory that leaves a scar.

Hrungnir was a giant of giants, his heart hard stone, his skull stone too, his courage sharp as flint, his pride heavier than mountains. On a stallion of stone he rode, and his words rang louder than shields: “No god can face me. No hammer can fell me.”

By guile was he drawn to Ásgarðr, by Odin’s wit and honeyed drink. Mead loosened his tongue and folly walked free. He swore to tear Valhalla from its roots, to drown the gods, to seize Freyja and Sif — and laughter died when Thor came home.

Mjöllnir was lifted. The challenge was spoken. Hrungnir fled, and the earth shook beneath him.

In Jötunheimr they armed him, not with steel but with stone: a great whetstone, keen-edged and cruel. They shaped him a helper of clay, Mökkurkálfi by name, but fear beat in that breast like a trapped beast. At the stone-fields they met.

Þjálfi spoke cunning words and the giant listened. Thor laughed and the sky answered. Hammer flew. Whetstone flew. They met between earth and heaven. Stone burst asunder. One shard fell and became the bones of hills. One shard struck Thor’s brow and buried itself deep. Yet Mjöllnir did not fail. Hrungnir’s head shattered. Stone-heart split. The giant fell — and his dead leg crushed Thor to the ground.

No god could lift it. Not one.

Then came Magni, child of Thor, three nights old and mighty already. He raised the leg and Thor stood free once more. Thus the giant died. Thus the gods were spared. But mark this, listeners: The shard was never drawn from Thor’s head. It rests there still. A memory of stone. A price paid even by the strongest. So I end the telling: Strength wins the field but battle leaves its mark. Even thunder carries a scar.