‘Which one?’ Thanatos asked, leaning in to see for himself.
Mal pointed with a shaking finger, her heart breaking apart with every breath.
‘It must be wrong,’ she said, the words barely forming.
But Thanatos shook his head solemnly. ‘No, Melinoe. The book is never wrong. If the name is here, it means the mortal has died.’
The world seemed to close in around her.
Mal turned blindly, stumbling from the library into the cold, narrow streets beyond. She collapsed onto the ground, clutching her hair in her fists as a raw scream tore from her throat, a sound full of anguish and disbelief. For in that cursed book, she had seen a name.
The name of a friend.
The name of a princess.
The name of someone who, it seemed, was lost to her forever.
Wren Wynter.
I’ve heard whispers, rumours carried on the wind, that the goddess Themis did not forge the valkyrians to keep peace between the mortal kingdoms, as the old tales claim. No, she created them as warriors. Not for kings or queens, but to stand against gods themselves. To be a shield not between realms, but against divinity.
Tabitha Wysteria
Freya had set aside her usual armour for ceremonial robes. The morning had been spent in preparation, the valkyrians readying themselves to welcome a new sister into their fold.
Freya had wrapped her body in the traditional robes of white and gold reserved for such sacred rites, allowed one of her sisters to weave her brown hair into intricate braids and adorn it with fresh blooms, before retreating to spend the remaining hours tending to their horses.
Four islands, suspended high above the world, were home to the valkyrians.
Long ago, the gods had crafted many wonders and among them, one had created the valkyrians to uphold justice and offer protection where it was needed most.
But Freya knew the islands had not always floated amongthe clouds. A thousand years past, the witches had gifted each kingdom a singular enchantment. They had bewitched the desert, allowing its dunes to shift beneath the stars, confounding those who dared enter, even the witches themselves. To the wolverians, they had bestowed magical artefacts to aid in hunting and survival across their brutal landscapes.
And to valkyrians, they had granted their islands the gift of eternal flight, lifting them high above the waters, safe and out of reach.
No creature, not even those born with wings, could ascend to them because the magic forbade it. Only the valkyrians’ horses, once ordinary beasts, had been blessed with wings, the sole creatures permitted to traverse the skies and reach their ethereal home. Should a wyverian mount their wyvern and attempt to fly towards one of the distant islands, they would soon find themselves engulfed in a thick shroud of cloud. And when they finally broke through the mist, the island would have vanished, as though it had never been there at all. Should they manage to glimpse it again, it would always seem to drift farther and farther away, retreating like a mirage upon the horizon, forever just out of reach.
‘You look very thoughtful,’ a voice said behind her.
Freya started, though she hid it well or so she hoped. She continued to brush her brown mare, refusing to turn towards the valkyrian who had approached.
‘She is to become one of us today,’ Alma said, her voice calm and certain.
Freya sighed, then finally turned to face her.
Alma was no princess, but a member of the Council, the true ruling body of the valkyrians. Freya had often wondered why they even chose a princess, a figurehead in a society where royalty held no true power. Among their people, it was theCouncil who planned, who voted, who led. The title of princess was ceremonial at best, bestowed by Council vote every few years, a tradition more symbolic than sovereign.
Reluctantly, Freya followed Alma out of the stables and into the gardens beyond.
Even after all this time, it was difficult not to be awed by the island’s beauty. The temples were small, their stone facades weathered and ancient, yet every surface was draped in greenery, as if the earth itself had risen to embrace them. Fountains sang their crystalline songs, and cascades tumbled from hidden heights, filling the air with the soothing murmur of flowing water. Flowers bloomed in abundance, riotous in their colours, and lush plants spilt over every corner. Horses roamed freely, grazing or nuzzling the valkyrians who passed them, some clad in gleaming armour, others draped in flowing robes.
No two valkyrians looked alike; each woman bore her own unique beauty, a myriad of skin tones, hair colours, and eyes like stars in every hue. Yet they all carried the same sacred white markings carved into their skin, etched there at the moment of their rebirth, a symbol of their eternal duty.
‘You care for the girl,’ Alma said, nodding towards a figure seated on the grass among two other valkyrians.
Freya’s chest tightened painfully at the sight.
Wren Wynter was no more.
