The practice was created to guard against corruption, to ensure no manipulation could take root among their ranks. For even if a valkyrian is coerced or threatened, their blood remains honest. It cannot be swayed. It will reveal only the truth of their heart, the choice they truly desire.
Tabitha Wysteria
‘Higher,’ Freya instructed, her hands clasped neatly behind her back as she paced in a slow circle around the young woman once known as Wren. Now, the figure before her stood taller, steadier, a bow raised with precision, blue eyes narrowed in concentration as they locked onto the target ahead. ‘Breathe. In and out. Focus.’
Ylva obeyed, drawing in a slow breath before releasing the arrow. It soared across the sun-dappled garden, slicingthrough the stillness before embedding itself with a soft thud into the trunk of an ancient tree.
‘Not bad,’ Freya murmured, though her spine prickled with an unwanted sensation. She cast a glance over her shoulder and, unsurprisingly, found Alma watching them from a polite but deliberate distance.
‘Is something wrong?’ Ylva asked, her gaze following Freya’s to the silent observer.
‘No.’
‘Then why does she keep staring?’ Ylva frowned, tension flickering across her brow. ‘Am I doing something wrong?’
‘You’re not,’ Freya said through gritted teeth. ‘Alma simply enjoys fussing over new warriors, ensuring they’re adjusting properly during their first few weeks.’
Ylva accepted this with a thoughtful nod and returned to her stance, her focus shifting back to the task at hand. Freya, however, gave Alma one last, lingering look, a glacial glare that needed no words, before resuming the lesson.
Even in rebirth, valkyrians awakened with the knowledge of combat etched into their runes. An inheritance of war and discipline, no matter who they had been before. But muscle still needed time to remember what their runes already knew. Practice remained essential.
Another arrow flew, striking the target dead-centre. Ylva didn’t so much as blink. No smile, no ounce of satisfaction. She stood in poised silence, waiting, always waiting, for Freya’s next command.
It was the silence that unsettled Freya most. Wren had never known how to hold her tongue, not even in the midst of chaos. She had filled the world with words, laughter, endless thoughts and questions. But this woman before her was a ghost in comparison.
It’s not her, she’s gone,Freya reminded herself for what felt like the hundredth time.
‘Let’s move on to the swords,’ she said, turning to retrieve one of the practice blades she had laid upon the grass. Around them, the gardens echoed with the low music of water cascading nearby, punctuated by the sounds of exertion, the clash of steel, the rhythm of boots, the rough breaths of training valkyrians.
Ylva placed her bow on the ground with care and reached for a sword. Her armour, sleek and elegant in white, silver, and gold, clung to her with effortless grace. Valkyrian armour was designed for agility: light, leaving much of the body bare, yet expertly shielding the vital points.
‘I heard you’re the one who brought me here,’ Ylva said softly as she adjusted her grip on the blade.
‘Who told you that?’ Freya asked without looking up.
Ylva gave a small shrug. ‘Does it matter?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Did we know each other?’
‘You know I can’t answer that,’ Freya replied, her tone clipped. ‘And they warned you against asking.’
Ylva nodded once, an acknowledgement, nothing more, and without further pause, lunged.
Their swords collided in a rush of motion, steel against steel. Freya blocked the strike, then delivered a swift kick to Ylva’s stomach, sending her staggering back but only for a breath. Ylva recovered quickly, darting forward once more with newfound vitality, moving like wind through reed, her long white braid trailing behind her in a blur of light.
Their runes shimmered under the sunlight, glowing faintly as they danced across the grass. Freya’s boot caught Ylva’s shoulder, but the younger woman twisted with expert precision, seized Freya’s ankle mid-movement, and threw her.
Freya hit the ground hard. Not injured, but surprised. Before she could rise, the cool kiss of a blade met her throat.
She looked up into those piercing blue eyes. So familiar, yet no longer the same, and felt her heart clench. How easily the world shifted. How swiftly the people within it became strangers.
Ylva extended her hand, and Freya, after the briefest hesitation, allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. She left her sword lying in the grass among the other weapons and settled down cross-legged beneath the soft shade, reaching for the fruit she had brought. Without a word, she handed an apple to Ylva, who accepted it with a small nod of thanks.
Together, they sat in companionable silence, their gazes drifting to a cluster of valkyrians training beneath the sweeping canopy of a weeping willow. The warriors moved in perfect unison, blades slicing through the air in disciplined arcs, a fluid choreography of war.
‘Ylva,’ Freya said at last, tasting the name for the first time aloud, letting it linger on her tongue. There was something strange in saying it, like touching silk where there had once been steel. She chuckled, softly.
