Aftera flight that made my inner thighs scream for mercy, Gullfax finally touches down outside a towering ice gate that looks like it was built by the abominable snowman. Our golden boy takes a knee, while Rhyland helps me navigate the dismount without turning it into another unintentional pole dance.
Don't get me wrong—galloping through actual clouds for four hours straight on a magical stallion is exactly as epic as it sounds, but nobody warns you about the saddle soreness of straddling a horse at a thousand feet.
The view was insane, though—like being in first class if the airplane was made of pure muscle and golden fur, and the windows were replaced with face-numbing wind and cotton candy clouds. We'd burst through cloud banks that felt like cool mist against my skin, then emerge into patches of pure sunlight—then turning everything into a wintery starry night. Watching the landscape below shift from Ásgard's gleaming spires to Zephyria's snow-capped peaks was like witnessing geography on fast-forward.
I'm rocking some serious shieldmaiden chic—a white fur-lined cloak, leather bracers, and buckskin pants that are cozy and badass. And, of course, my trusty daggers are strapped to my hips because a girl's gotta accessorize. Rhyland and Erik look like they just stepped off the "Viking Vogue" cover, all rugged furs and dangerous charm.
"My lady, welcome to Valor's Watch," Gullfax announces as I slide down Rhyland's chest, trying not to get distracted by the feel of his abs through his tunic.
Speaking of distractions, can we talk about Baldr's ride? Gullfax isn't the only equine overachiever in this realm. Baldr's mount is none other than Sleipnir, Odin's steed. And get this—the horse has eight legs. Eight. As in, two times the normal amount.
What, were four legs just not enough for the All-Father? Did he look at regular horses and go, "Nah, needs more limbs"?
"Thanks for not dropping me from the stratosphere, buddy," I murmur to Gullfax, reaching up to give our charger an appreciative scratch. He dips his big head with all the grace of a gentleman, though I swear I catch a glimmer of amusement in those otherworldly eyes.
The wind is biting enough to make a polar bear think twice about going outside, but between my fancy Viking fur coat (which is totally going in my permanent wardrobe rotation) and my own personal power heater, I'm managing not to turn into a Dani-sickle.
A stable hand appears—because even divine warrior compounds need horse wranglers—and leads Gullfax away toward what looks like the Ritz-Carlton of horse accommodations.
"I will await for you both,"Gullfax says as he follows with his usual majestic swagger, probably looking forward to whatever passes for premium hay in this realm.
We crunch our way through the ankle-deep snow towards a gate that looks like it was carved out of a glacier by a giant with anger issues. Seriously, this thing is massive. And guarding it? A bunch of Viking dudes who look like they go tree tipping for fun. They stand there, still as statues, their armor and weapons glinting in the frosty light.
Baldr takes the lead, strutting to the gate like he owns the place. Which, I guess, technically, he does, being Odin's son and all. He has a quick chat with one of the guards, and then, with a groan that sounds like a giant waking up, the gates begin to swing open.
We follow Baldr inside, and the moment I cross the threshold, it feels like someone just pulled the plug on my mojo. I gasp, stumbling a step as a wave of exhaustion hits me. Erik and Rhyland freeze mid-stride, looking as confused as I feel.
"What the hell? Did someone turn off our magic?" I ask, trying to shake off the sudden drain.
Baldr glances back, a smug little smile on his perfect face. "Ah, yes. Forgive me, I forgot to mention. These ancient runes—" he gestures to the glowing symbols carved into the archway, "—they equalize all who enter. Powers, enhanced abilities, magical advantages... all temporarily suppressed."
He spreads his hands with theatrical flair. "Can't have a fair training ground if some warriors can throw lightning while others rely on steel, now can we? The wards leave only your natural physical abilities and fighting skills." His eyes gleam with amusement at our discomfort. "Don't worry—healing factors remain intact. We're not barbarians, after all. Dead warriors make for rather boring training sessions, wouldn't you agree?"
"It takes everything,"Rhyland whispers, and I can practically feel his frustration.
"Care to elaborate on that, babe?" I shoot back, my frown deepening by the second.
"Meaning even our vampire abilities are gone. And our bond—I can't feel you." he clarifies, and suddenly, I feel like I've been sucker-punched.
He's right. I can't feel him either.
I glance at Erik, hoping for reassurance, but he nods grimly. Great, it's not just me—we're all powerless in this supernatural dead zone.
"Well, this just keeps getting better and better," I grumble, wondering if the Valkyries have a suggestion box where I can file a complaint.
"Can't even get into your pretty little head," Rhyland growls, sounding like a lion who's had his favorite toy taken away. I instinctively reach for our mental bond, only to hit the psychic equivalent of a brick wall. Radio silence. Supernatural connection? Currently out of service.
"Ah, yes." Baldr interjects. "Fascinating how quickly we rely on those mental links, isn't it?" He taps his temple. "But imagine the advantage—coordinating attacks without a word, sharing battle strategies while your opponent remains deaf to your plans." His perfect smile widens. "This ensures every warrior must master the art of true combat communication. Hand signals, body language, reading your partner's intent through movement alone."
He gestures to a pair of Valkyries sparring nearby, moving in perfect synchronization without a word between them. "That, my friends, is skill earned through sweat and blood—not supernatural shortcuts."
"Well, isn't that just perfect," I huff, beyond done with all these magical blocks. Who knew I'd actually love having a sexy man living rent-free in my head? But here I am, feeling weirdly empty without that constant warm presence of Rhyland's thoughts tangled with mine. It's like missing a limb I never knew I needed until some ancient ward decided to play fun police with our supernatural Wi-Fi.
The compound stretches before us. Huge longhouses with serpent-carved peaks dominate the landscape, their weathered walls dark against the snow. Smoke curls from countless chimneys, creating a hazy ceiling beneath the looming mountains surrounding us like nature's fortress walls.
Two women are putting on quite the show in the central training grounds—their swords singing through the frigid air as they dance their deadly waltz. Snow kicks up around them in glittering clouds, their grunts of exertion echoing off the surrounding peaks.
The smell of woodsmoke mingles with roasting meat and fresh bread, making my stomach growl embarrassingly loud. Cooking fires dot the compound, surrounded by warriors who look like they could bench press a car without breaking a sweat.
