‘If you kill Hades,’ Kage warned, his voice taut with unease, ‘you will be stepping neatly into Freya’s snare, giving her exactly what she desires.’
‘Good,’ Mal replied, her tone a low, dangerous purr. ‘I do not fear her. I will have her head, as I will have the rest of theirs, brother. I shall paint the walls of the Underworldcrimson with their blood and hang their severed heads as trophies upon its gates. Let her come for me, her folly will be her last act.’
‘Mal…’
‘Take care of him for me, Wren,’ she said softly, slipping her hand from his grasp. ‘While I am gone.’
Kage’s eyes widened as they drifted towards the great white wolf. Those piercing blue eyes gleamed with recognition, and the beast dipped its noble head in solemn agreement.
‘Mal, don’t do this,’ Kage urged, stepping forward, desperation leaking into his voice. ‘If you try to kill the gods…’ He could not even finish the thought. The world already trembled, splintering beneath the weight of their fates. Should she continue on this path, who could say what ruin would follow?
He made to pursue her, but an unseen force wrenched him back, holding him fast as though the very air conspired to keep him still.
‘The castle lies upon a different plane,’ Mal said, turning her head just enough for her words to cut through the distance. ‘You cannot follow me there.’
‘What are you going to do?’
Mal smiled, a smile Kage had never seen before. It curled at the edges with something wicked and merciless, wearing his sister’s face yet not hers at all.
‘I am going to destroy it all,’ she said, and without another glance, she strode through the gates and disappeared into the castle’s waiting dark.
Many have pondered the quiet enigma of the valkyrians. Why they never search for the lives they left behind, the families that once held their hearts. Why, when a familiar face greets them with trembling hope, they look on with calm indifference.
It is not merely the law that forbids them from seeking out their pasts. No, it runs deeper, etched into their very flesh. The runes carved into their skin do more than mark them; they silence the ache of memory, dull the pull of love and longing. Valkyrians are reborn not as daughters or wives, not as sisters or mothers, but as warriors. And the emotions that once stirred within them, so fierce and mortal, are carefully muted.
They do not return to their homelands because they feel no need to. They do not weep for what was lost because their souls no longer recognise the shape of grief. Even when a husband, a child, a brother comes with arms outstretched, they see only a stranger.
It is a cruel mercy. To know that the one you mourned walks the earth again.
And yet their eyes hold no memory of you.
Worse still…
No desire to remember.
Tabitha Wysteria
Ylva’s eyes fluttered open, a groan slipping past her lips as a dull ache pulsed at the back of her skull. She rubbed thetender spot and took in her surroundings, blinking against the muted light. She lay atop a bed of blankets within the confines of a modest tent, its fabric steeped in the earthy scent of pine and smoke. Her valkyrian armour still encased her, cold against her skin, and thank the gods, nothing felt broken.
She wasted no time. With a sharp breath, she pushed herself upright and slipped out of the tent, every muscle taut with wariness. Her bow and quiver of arrows leaned casually against the green canvas, and she seized them at once, stringing an arrow in readiness for whatever threat might present itself.
The air was thick with the chill bite of snow, heavy upon the ground, and the sight told her instantly where she had been taken. This was the Kingdom of Ice.
But these were not wolverians.
No, the figures moving through the camp carried themselves differently, their grace otherworldly. Fae.
One of them froze mid-step upon seeing her, whatever bundle he carried slipping from his grasp as he hurried towards her. Ylva instinctively drew the bowstring tighter, the arrow’s tip hovering dangerously close to his face. The stranger stopped at once, hands raised in peace.
‘Do not loose your arrow, little wolf,’ he said gently, his voice rich and warm. ‘I mean you no harm.’
Ylva’s head tilted in suspicion as she studied him. He was tall, his frame powerful yet elegant, with dark skin and short, neat black hair bound simply at the back. But it was his eyes, emerald-green, luminous as sunlight through leaves, that held her breath for a fraction of a second. Her gaze lifted to the antlers crowning his head, majestic and sweeping like living branches sculpted from bone and ancient magic.
‘Do you like what you see?’ he asked with a teasing lilt, though there was something weary beneathit.
‘Where am I?’ Ylva demanded, her bowstring taut, unwavering. ‘Who are you?’
At that, his expression shifted. Sadness, raw and sharp enough to prick at her own chest, flashed across his handsome features. It struck Ylva unexpectedly, making her falter, confused as to why it felt as though she were somehow the cause of it.
