No such luck.
‘We need help,’ Arden urged, stepping swiftly to her side, his voice edged with urgency. ‘The witches were heading for the wolverian castle. We need every blade, every hand we can muster.’
Ylva halted mid-step, her gaze snapping back to him. ‘Then I should return to my people and warn them. We could rally and come to your aid.’
‘It will take too long.’
She exhaled, a quiet sigh carrying the weight of a choice she did not wish to make. Deep within, she knew he spoke the truth, but it gnawed at her, this abandoning of duty to her own. Freya’s disappearance loomed in her mind like a storm on the horizon, unspoken and heavy. Yet still, Ylva was valkyrian, andvalkyrians placed the needs of the many above their own sorrows. Freya was strong; wherever she was, she would endure.
‘Very well,’ Ylva said at last, her voice carrying a soldier’s resolve. ‘I shall help.’
She deliberately ignored the relief in Arden’s green eyes, and the warmth it sparked, unwanted, in her chest. She wanted to ask him, to demand why he looked at her as though they had shared another life, another time. But questions like that were forbidden; valkyrians were not meant to feel such familiarity, to blur the lines of discipline with attachment. She had already broken enough rules.
So she swallowed the thought, buried it where no one could see, and wiped the stray feeling from her expression before extending her hand for him to shake.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Arden Briar,’ she said, her voice edged with formality. He smiled, so wide it seemed almost painful, as though joy itself might split him apart. Yet he took her hand gently, his touch warm and steady, and for a fleeting moment it sent an unfamiliar heat blooming in her chest. A strange, disquieting sensation. A whisper of home.
‘The pleasure is all mine, little wolf,’ he replied.
Ylva withdrew her hand sharply, breaking the contact. ‘Don’t call me that. It isn’t my name.’
His grin only deepened, unrepentant, eyes dancing with some private amusement.
‘Is that so?’ he teased.
She shifted the sword at her hip, movements precise, deliberate, before striding back to reclaim her bow and arrows. The bow settled across her back with the ease of an old friend, yet she could feel his gaze still on her, steady, unwavering, like he beheld not a mere warrior, but some fallen goddess misplaced among mortals.
‘And what should I call you, then?’ he asked, his voice warm with a smile that refused to fade.
Ylva’s lips curved, subtle but genuine.
‘Call me Ylva.’
I fear the day Mal Blackburn discovers the truth.
The real truth.
Tabitha Wysteria
Mal strode through the volcanic corridors in silence, her fingertips gliding along the obsidian walls as though she could feel the centuries of darkness soaked into the stone. Blue flames flickered in iron sconces, casting restless shadows that danced like spectres across the hallways.
The main hall yawned before her, cavernous and cold, its air thick with the scent of ancient power. At its heart stood a long black table, carved from some forgotten mountain’s core, its surface polished until it reflected the flames like dark water. Beyond it, a great hearth crackled, its fire a low growl of heat in a chamber otherwise steeped in chill. To one side sat the Moirai, veiled and eternal, their spindly fingers forever at work, spinning and weaving an endless golden thread that shimmered unnaturally in the dim light.
Mal lingered at the threshold, watching them with hooded eyes. As one, the three sisters looked up, their faces shifting like water, young one moment, ancient the next, as if time itselfcould not decide what shape they ought to wear.
‘God-Killer,’ one hissed, her teeth sharp and inhuman beneath the edge of her veil.
Mal merely arched a brow and let her attention drift back to their work. The golden thread called to her, an endless lifeline of fate itself, glimmering against the dark.
‘Death cannot be avoided,’ a voice murmured, smooth and cold.
Mal turned her head. There, sprawled with irreverent ease, sat Hades. The Lord of the Underworld reclined in his blackened throne, feet propped upon the edge of the table like a careless king. In one hand he tossed a rotten black apple into the air, catching it lazily as his crimson eyes glowed with sly amusement.
‘You’ve done it at last,’ he said, a grin curving his mouth. ‘You’ve become the God-Killer.’
Mal advanced, her every step echoing against the polished floor, until she stood by one of the many obsidian chairs. Long fingers curled over its back as she drew it out with an unhurried scrape, lowering herself gracefully into its embrace, her gaze fixed unflinchingly on the god beside her.
Hades poured a measure of deep crimson wine into a goblet and slid it towards her, leaning forward as though sharing a secret. His hand gestured invitingly, urging her to drink.
