This was Floridia, the hidden jewel of the Fae.
And it was burning.
Flames licked the sky, a chorus of smoke and ash rising in haunting song. Fire consumed the majestic arbours, devouring the great trees that had stood for centuries. Arden was already running headlong towards the blaze, his silhouette disappearing through the smoke.
Kage did not follow. Instead, he moved with caution, his senses sharpened, his every step measured as though expecting the shadows themselves to strike.
He halted abruptly, something beneath his boot resisting his weight. Slowly, he looked down.
His breath caught.
Beneath him lay a hand, limp and lifeless.
His dark eyes lifted, scanning the grass, and saw it.
Bodies.
Dozens of them, strewn like broken dolls amidst the ruin. Fae men and women, young and old, their blood soaking into the scorched earth.
All of them dead.
I’ve heard stories, old and half-forgotten, that claim the valkyrians were the last of all beings to be created. That the gods, ever amused, sat back and watched as the kingdoms tore one another apart. But the goddess Themis grew weary of the bloodshed. She, unlike the others, desired balance. So she forged the valkyrians as protectors, guardians meant to bring order to the chaos wrought by divine hands.
Yet, as with all things touched by the gods, others intervened. And in time, the valkyrians were not left untouched by corruption.
Some say that although they were made to protect, they are just as capable of destruction. That they would not hesitate to reduce a kingdom to ash if it meant saving another.
Tabitha Wysteria
Freya and Ylva had left behind the lofty sanctuary of the Kingdom of Air some days prior. Mounted upon their winged steeds, they had soared from the edge of the floating isle, the sky yawning wide beneath them. Only after Freya had triple-checked Ylva’s posture and grip around her beast’s mane, ensuring the girl wouldn’t plummet into the sea below, did they descend, the wind singing through their hair as they glided towards the mainland.
They had flown long over the churning ocean beforereaching land, where Freya’s sharp eyes caught sight of movement below: a group of witches marching northward. With great care, the pair had kept to the skies and mountain shadows, watching without being seen.
It was a sight both formidable and unsettling, so many witches and warlocks gathered in one place. But what stole Freya’s breath was the figure at the front.
Vera.
Laughing as though the world were not on the verge of ruin.
‘Who is that?’ Ylva asked quietly from their vantage point atop a crag overlooking the border of the wolverian kingdom. The damp, fertile soil of the Fae lands had begun to give way to frostbitten patches of snow, the earth hardening beneath looming peaks. Below them, the witches had made camp in an open clearing.
Freya’s gaze locked on Vera, seated by the fire as if she owned the day.
‘Do you know her?’ Ylva pressed, brow furrowing as she noted the way Freya’s shoulders had tensed.
‘I used to,’ Freya said, her voice little more than a breath. Her eyes swept across the camp, rapidly counting over a hundred, at least. A small army cloaked in smoke and spells.
Turning from the view, she settled herself with her back to a great slab of stone that concealed them from sight. Her attention wandered to the two winged horses—one chestnut, the other ivory—grazing quietly nearby. Anchors of a world that still made sense.
‘What do you mean, you used to?’ Ylva asked, her curiosity sharpening.
Freya plucked at the wild grass absently, fingers dancing over the blades. She wasn’t in the mood to explain, but Wren’s relentless inquisitions had taught her that silence only invitedmore questions. Ylva, she suspected, would be no different.
‘I think she’s no longer the witch I once knew,’ she said at last.
Ylva’s brow furrowed deeper. ‘What does that mean?’
Freya’s eyes flicked up, meeting Ylva’s with a glint of something unreadable. ‘I think that isn’t a witch at all.’
