‘If we linger to bury the dead, we’ll lose the witches’ trail,’ Freya said firmly, though her tone softened at the edges. ‘And there may be more villages in their path.’
Ylva’s jaw tightened, her voice a dangerous whisper. ‘Even if we do reach them… we are forbidden to intervene.’
‘Yes,’ Freya replied, spinning on her heel to retrace her steps. But she halted almost instantly, the silence behind her slicing through the air like a blade. No footsteps followed.
Freya turned sharply just in time to see Ylva darting towards the far edge of the village, racing for the tree line where the witches had likely vanished into the forest.
‘Damn it!’ Freya spat, lunging after her. Snow dragged at her boots, slowing her, while Ylva flew across the white expanse with startling speed, as though some buried part of her wolverian blood had awakened at last.
Freya caught up with Ylva just as the younger woman broke into the shadowed embrace of the woods. She seized Ylva’s arm, her grip like iron. ‘What in the gods’ names do you think youare doing?’
‘I’m going after them,’ Ylva snapped, wrenching herself free, defiance blazing in her eyes. ‘You can return for the horses and follow your precious orders. I will not.’
‘Damn it, Ylva, you can’t—’
A searing blast of magic tore through the air, cutting Freya’s words short and hurling both valkyrians off their feet. Freya slammed against the rough bark of a tree, the impact stealing the breath from her lungs. She forced herself up, snatching her sword from its scabbard with a hiss of steel. Beside her, Ylva was already crouched and steady, her bow drawn, the string taut, an arrow aimed high into the dark lattice of branches.
A cackle split the silence, wicked and mocking, rippling through the trees like the call of some unholy bird.
Freya scanned the shadows, every sense sharpened, but no figure emerged. No flash of purple eyes, no glimmer of spellcraft. Step by careful step, she edged towards Ylva until they stood back to back, their breaths shallow, hearts beating in unison.
‘Prepare to run,’ Freya murmured. ‘I’ll distract them.’
‘No,’ Ylva retorted, her voice iron. ‘I won’t leave you.’
Freya closed her eyes for a fleeting moment, swallowing her anger. ‘Do not be difficult. That is an order—’
Another lance of green magic screamed past, shattering the bark of a nearby tree in a burst of splinters. Ylva spun and loosed her arrow in one fluid motion. A strangled cry cut through the trees. A hit.
And then chaos erupted.
The forest erupted into life, shadows uncoiling as if the trees themselves had birthed them, and within heartbeats a dozen witches and warlocks encircled them, their eyes gleaming like feral predators in the half-light.
Freya clenched her jaw, every instinct screaming to unleash the godlike power coiled within her veins, power enough to silence them all in a single breath. But Ylva must not know. Not yet. So Freya gripped her sword tighter and chose to fight as a valkyrian, biding her moment.
Ylva loosed arrow after arrow with swift precision, yet the witches deflected each strike effortlessly, shimmering wards flickering with every impact. Freya lunged at the nearest witch, ducking low as green light flared from the woman’s hands. The blast seared the air above her head, harmless as Freya slid across the snow, the cold biting her palms. She rose in a single fluid motion, her valkyrian blade singing as it carved through flesh and sinew, slicing clean through the witch’s throat.
A warlock’s attack came fast, emerald energy sparking against the steel as Freya turned her sword into a shield, its weight reverberating up her arms. In the same breath she drew a dagger from her hip and hurled it, silver flashing before it buried itself in his leg. His scream was music enough to buy her time, and she drove her boot square into his face, the crunch of bone echoing like brittle wood.
But no matter how swiftly she felled one foe, another filled their place, closing in with relentless precision.
Her eyes sought Ylva, finding her struggling, her bowstring drawn and released again and again in a rhythm as frantic as her heartbeat. The enchanted valkyrian quiver at her side ensured an endless stream of arrows, each one tipped with the ancient magic of their ancestors, a gift forged by witches a thousand years ago so a valkyrian would never fight empty-handed.
And still, it would not be enough.
Noise travelled far in such silence. This skirmish would summon more witches, more warlocks, until the forest drowned beneath an army. And no matter how formidable Freya was,even she could not fight an army alone.
Freya swung her sword once more, steel biting through the cold air, before twisting it into a shield against yet another blast of magic. Yet her gaze kept flicking back to Ylva, who was slowly being driven against the rough bark of a tree, her bowstring straining, her arrows loosed in frantic rhythm. The witches had noticed her falter and, emboldened, crept ever closer, hungry smiles curling their lips as they advanced.
Freya cursed under her breath.
They were losing this battle.
And then she saw it, a witch raising her hands, power already blooming in her palms, ready to strike Ylva down. Freya closed her eyes. She reached into the buried places of herself, places she had sworn to keep chained, and summoned her power.
It felt like coming home.
Like breathing for the first time in centuries. Like the return of a part of her soul she had cast into darkness long ago, now breaking free in an unstoppable rush. It was life. It was her.
