‘Do you have proof?’ Alma asked, once she’d restored order to the room.
Freya remained silent, lips poised but unmoving. Alma exhaled with visible frustration, about to turn her attention backto the Council and divert their thoughts before they wandered too far, but Freya moved first.
She rose with fluid grace and stepped towards the pool at the centre of the chamber. Her fingers found the dagger at her hip, the blade whispering free of its sheath like a promise.
‘I propose we vote,’ she said, her voice ringing with deliberate clarity, ignoring the flare of anger in Alma’s golden stare. ‘I say it is time we stop sitting idle while the world burns. I say we ride, now, and bring an end to the witches’ reign.’
Without waiting for approval, she sliced the heel of her palm, just enough to draw blood, and let a single drop fall into the milky white water.
One by one, in solemn silence, the councillors followed. Each rose, approached the pool, and offered their own cut, their own drop of red.
Freya stepped aside, satisfaction curling in her chest like smoke from a slow-burning fire. She watched Alma, whose composure had hardened into steel, finally stand and offer her blood last of all.
When the final droplet met the pool, crimson bloomed into white and the waters began to churn, a slow, swirling dance of blood and prophecy. Freya leaned forward, anticipation thrumming through her like a storm held just beneath the skin. If the water turned red, it would mean war. The Council would ride, and the valkyrians would march beneath the banners of righteous fury. But if the pool paled once more to white…Then Freya wasn’t sure what she would do.
She could ready her horse and ride into the flames alone perhaps, but little more. The runes etched into her flesh bound her, ancient markings that thrummed with command. A valkyrian could not defy the Council. She could not break the rules she had been born or rather, reborn, to obey.
There were, of course, ways to escape such bindings. She could cast herself into death and seek a new body to inhabit. But it was a gamble, and a costly one. Mortal vessels were fragile things, never truly meant to house gods. Some withered the moment divinity entered them, while others lingered briefly, rotting, warping, corrupted by the weight of power too vast to contain. And even that path was barred; her runes forbade self-harm. No valkyrian could fall by their own hand. They were forged for service.
And serve they would, until the battlefield welcomed them into Niflheim.
The waters stirred.
‘Well,’ Freya said at last, as the colour began to change. ‘That settles it.’
She turned without waiting for reply, the white fabric of her robes trailing behind her like smoke on wind. Behind her, golden eyes watched, and the waters, no longer red, had chosen silence over war.
I became a Seer through blood magic. I was the first witch ever to discover the art of it. And through it, with my blood, I have kept Mal Blackburn’s powers at bay.
I’ve also kept a close watch over her.
Tabitha Wysteria
The land upon which Mal fell was unlike anything she had ever known, a desolate realm sculpted by torment and despair. The earth beneath her was cracked and lifeless, as if it had never known softness or bloom. A thick orange mist hung low over everything, curling like smoke through the air, clogging the lungs with every breath. Mal gasped, coughing violently as she dropped to her knees, her throat burning.
A hand gripped her arm firmly, insistent, and hauled her upright.
All around her, the remnants of a forgotten world crumbled in silence. Shattered ruins lay strewn across the barren plain like the bones of something ancient and long dead. Through the haze, she glimpsed wandering souls, dragging their broken bodies forward, leaning against some unseen force that pushed them back with cruel, relentless pressure.
Some had collapsed entirely, sprawled upon the crackedearth, mouths stretched in silent screams of agony. The moment they caught sight of the newcomers, their eyes sparked with desperate hope, and they reached out, trembling arms lifting, pleading for contact, for salvation, for anything.
‘We need to keep moving,’ Thanatos said, his voice low but firm.
‘I can hardly feel my feet,’ Mal replied, her limbs heavy, as though the very ground beneath her was sapping the strength from her bones.
Without hesitation, Thanatos clasped Makaria’s hand in his own, then reached for Mal’s, his expression tinged with amusement. ‘You won’t make it across this cursed land without my aid.’
‘Is that so?’
‘I am Death,’ he said with a smirk.
‘And I am a goddess or so you feel compelled to remind me every waking hour,’ she muttered.
Thanatos chuckled, unbothered. ‘This is the dominion of one of Hell’s many kings. Belphegor. Not the worst of the lot, though not one for conversation either.’
‘Why does it feel as though I can’t move?’ Mal asked, struggling forward, each step more labour than the last. Her very marrow ached, her breath short, as though the air itself wished to lull her into stillness.
‘Each ring is ruled by a king, and each king punishes souls according to the sins they bore in life or those that linger in their hearts,’ Thanatos explained, gesturing with a nod towards the wretched souls dragging themselves through the mire. ‘This ring belongs to Sloth. That’s why your limbs are leaden. The realm weaves lassitude into your flesh, tempts you to rest, to yield. But if you stop, you’ll never leave. You’ll be one of them.’
