Bryn lifts the horn to her lips again, drinking deep and desperate. Her remaining wing twitches with each swallow. I recognize that look in her eyes—I've seen it in countless warriors who've lost limbs, purpose, and pride. But this... this is different. A Valkyrie without flight is like a vampire without fangs, a fundamental piece of identity torn away.
She catches me watching, and her eyes flash with defiance, but it's dulled by mead and misery. The proud warrior who challenged me mere hours ago drowns herself in alcohol, trying to numb a wound that no amount of drinking will heal.
Her hands shake slightly as she refills the horn. The gesture hits too close to home, stirring memories of my own battles with inadequacy. A warrior without purpose, a protector who failed to protect—some wounds cut too deep.
Heimdall and Baldr's footsteps fade into the howling wind in search of more firewood, leaving us with crackling flames and suffocating silence. The question burns in my throat until I can't hold it back. "How are you holding up?"
Her bitter laugh cuts sharp. "How am I holding up?" She takes another long pull from her horn, eyes flashing with familiar fire despite her pain. "Oh, I'm just kyn-ligr. Nothing quite like having your identity literally carved off your back to really make you appreciate life." Her words bite with lethal sarcasm. "Please, spare me your pity party, vampire. I don't need you to point out how pathetic I've become."
Theself-loathing in her voice mirrors what I've heard in my own too many times to count. But there's steel beneath the bitterness—the same unwavering strength that made her one of the most feared Valkyries in Zephyria. Even broken, she burns brighter than most warriors at their peak.
The words scrape out of my throat like gravel. "This isn't your identity, Bryn." My fists clench with frustration at her self-imposed exile into misery. "Wings don't make the warrior. Your heart, your strength, your duty—that's what makes you who you are. One wing or none, you're still a—" The words die on my tongue as I realize what I was about to confess.
The firelight catches her face as she goes still, her horn frozen halfway to her lips. Those dual-colored eyes pin me like swords across the flames. "I'm still what, Erik?" Her voice carries that dangerous edge that makes lesser men tremble.
The silence stretches between us, taut as a bowstring about to snap.
A growl of frustration escapes me. "Forget it."
Snow crunches under her boots as she stalks toward me, dropping beside me. Even wounded, she moves like a warrior—like a force of nature. Those impossible eyes lock onto mine, burning with challenge. "No. Finish what you were going to say." Her voice rises with each word, sharp as a blade's edge. "I'm stillwhat?Don't you dare back down now. Say it!" The last word echoes off the cave walls, carrying all her pain and fury.
The words tear from my chest before I can stop them. "A beautiful woman."
Time freezes as I drown in those impossible eyes. The gold one blazes like captured sunlight, while its Nordic blue twin holds all the frost of our surroundings. My gaze bounces between them, unable to choose which is more mesmerizing. Her breath catches, quick and sharp, the sound loud in our shared silence.
She breaks first, turning away with a bitter laugh. "Right. Of course, you'd say that." The words are a dismissal, but her pulse—gods, her pulse tells a different story entirely.
The mate-bond beats between us like a living thing, her proximity making my control strain at the edges. That rapid heartbeat, the slight dilation of her pupils—signs I've learned to read over countless years, now torturing me with possibility.
My fingers find her chin, turning her face back to mine with gentle insistence. "Look at me." The words come out rougher than intended. "It's true. You're beautiful." Her eyes widen slightly at my intensity. I need her to understand—to see what I see. The fierce commander who leads her Valkyries with unwavering strength. The warrior who dances through battle like it's an art form—the woman who stands toe-to-toe with gods and doesn't blink.
Something flickers in those extraordinary eyes—vulnerability so rare it steals my breath. For just a moment, her mask slips, showing me the woman beneath the legend. For a heartbeat, she leans almost imperceptibly into my touch. Then, like a shield slamming into place, her walls rise again. She pulls away, leaving my hand holding nothing but cold air.
"I should check on the others," she mutters, rising with unsteadiness. Her fingers tremble slightly as she adjusts her remaining wing, and her scent carries notes of confusion and something deeper, something she's not ready to acknowledge.
The ghost of her nearness lingers like a phantom touch, my mind racing through lifetimes of experience yet finding no precedent for this moment. The mate-bond thrums with possibility—or perhaps warning. After eons of existence, I'm unsure of every instinct I've honed. Her reaction spoke volumes: the trembling pulse, dilated pupils, that moment of vulnerability before her walls slammed back into place. All signs pointing to—
Bryn's battle cry shatters my contemplation. Grave Warden finds my hand before conscious thought, my body moving at vampire speed toward her position. Through the swirling snow, Heimdall and Baldr stand surrounded by shambling Draugr, their rotting forms a stark contrast to the pristine white landscape.
But Bryn—gods, Bryn moves like she never lost that wing. Her sword flashes as she positions herself before Baldr, shield raised with deadly purpose. Even broken, even wounded, she's still every inch the Valkyrie warrior. The sight stirs something in my chest—pride and protection warring for dominance.
The Draugr surge forward in a wave of rotting flesh and ancient armor. I position myself at Bryn's exposed side—where her wing should be—and she bristles at the implied protection. But pride can go fuck itself when you're facing down an army of undead bastards.
Let her rage. Let her curse. Let her fight my presence all she wants.
The image of her broken body in the snow is carved into my mind like acid on steel. Her blood painted the pristine white. Her wing shredded. Her proud spirit shattered because I let my cursed pride keep me from her side.
Never again.
This time, I won't stand aside.
Grave Warden sings through the air, cleaving through decayed bone and preserved sinew. Bryn's sword flashes beside mine in perfect sync, her movements still graceful despite her injury. We fall into a deadly dance—back to back, blades becoming extensions of our arms. Each strike is precise, each defense covering the other's blind spots.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Baldr's form retreating like the coward he is while Heimdall stands his ground. The prodigious god's sword blazes with divine light as he cuts through three Draugr with a single sweep.
A rotting axe swings toward Bryn's unprotected side. I duck under her shield arm, catching the blow on Grave Warden's crossguard. The impact jars my shoulders, but I use the momentum to spin, decapitating the creature. Its head rolls across the bloody snow as Bryn dispatches another with a savage thrust through its chest cavity.
"I don't need your protection!" she snarls as we move together to face the next wave. Her words lack conviction, though—we both know her balance is off, and the missing wing weakens her defenses.
