‘Lift higher,’ Freya instructed, reclining languidly upon a moss-strewn log, her legs stretched before her with feline ease. Before her stood Ylva, bow in hand, the string taut and humming with tension. She was a natural—silent, steady, with a gaze as sharp as the arrow’s tip. The moment she loosed the string, the arrow sliced cleanly through the crisp garden air and struck the centre of the target with a resonant thud.
‘We ought to move on to swordwork next,’ Freya mused.
Ylva gave no answer. She never did. She obeyed with the silent devotion of one still caught between death and purpose. Most valkyrians were like this in the beginning: dazed, half-dreaming, their minds caught in the mist of rebirth. Their bodies had been forged anew, hardened for battle, imbued with unearthly speed and strength. Skills could be sharpened, yes. But from the moment their eyes first opened, they were soldiers.
Day by day, Ylva honed her craft, trained with tireless discipline, never questioning, never faltering. And Freya watched, always watched. Alma did too from a distance, yet never far enough. Her golden eyes tracked Freya’s every movement, heavy with suspicion, as if expecting betrayal with every breath. As though Freya might do the unthinkable.
But what harm could she do? Ylva was not Wren, not truly. The girl bore no memory of her past: no recollection of a royal wolverian lineage, no ties to family or throne, no true understanding of the war looming just beyond the veil. She did not laugh as Wren had, nor speak with her reckless tongue.
Still, Freya lingered. She was meant to deliver Ylva to Kage Blackburn, to present her as proof that Freya had fulfilled her end of the bargain. Only then would he be bound by his word, forced to act. But Alma’s vigilance made that impossible. If Ylva disappeared, they’d know who had taken her. They’d pursue. They’d punish.
No, Freya would bide her time. The witches would strike soon enough, and when they did, the valkyrians would be summoned. War would crack the earth open and in the chaos, Freya could deliver Ylva to Kage.
Until then, she would wait. She would be patient.
Even if patience was a virtue that had never once sat comfortably in her bones.
Ylva reached for her blade, a fine weapon hewn from sacred valkyrian stone and tempered in the crystal waters of their hallowed rivers. It gleamed faintly beneath the garden’s light, its weight perfectly balanced, its purpose unmistakable.
‘Lift your shoulder a touch higher,’ Freya instructed, her tone calm, measured.
Without warning, Ylva lunged.
She moved with vigour and intent, swift as a falcon and twice as fierce. Freya met her strikes with graceful deflection, her feet barely making a sound upon the grass. A smile ghosted across her lips, half-hidden. She admired the girl’s tenacity, her hunger for mastery. On the fifth pass, Freya struck with precision, her sword’s pommel connecting squarely with Ylva’s brow. The younger valkyrian stumbled, collapsing into the grass, and before she could rise, the cool bite of steel met her throat.
‘You did well,’ Freya said, the tip of her blade held steady, a teasing smile tugging at her lips.
Ylva grumbled under her breath, standing quickly. She rubbed her knuckles in clear frustration before seating herself on the nearby log, eyes flicking between the swaying canopy above and the distant figures of other valkyrians training across the garden’s vast expanse.
Freya followed, settling beside her with the fluid grace of someone at ease in both war and peace. From her satchel, she retrieved a green apple and began peeling it with a small blade, the motion slow and deliberate.
‘Do you remember anything at all?’ Freya asked, not looking at Ylva but rather at the curling strip of apple skin slipping onto the grass.
Beside her, Ylva stiffened.
‘You’re not supposed to ask that,’ she said curtly.
‘Mm,’ Freya murmured, unbothered. Obedience had never suited her. ‘So you don’t remember…?’ she pressed, voice softer now.
‘No.’
‘Nothing?’
Ylva hesitated, then glanced sideways. ‘Did you?’
Freya very nearly laughed. The question was almost cruel in its innocence.
Did she remember?
She remembered everything. Every moment, every betrayal, every name carved into her bones. She remembered the day Hades banished her from the Underworld, the cold slam of its gates echoing like thunder in her soul. She remembered her children, torn from her arms. She remembered all of it, every breath of pain.
But she only smiled, a bitter thing.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I suppose not.’
The last curl of apple skin dropped soundlessly to the grass, and a line of ants began their solemn procession, carrying the remnants away as if they, too, understood loss.
‘Why did you want to train me?’ Ylva asked, her voice quiet, yet edged with curiosity.
