The valkyrians only intervened at the final hour.
They watched.
They waited.
Because, deep down, they believed that sacrificing one land was a small price to pay for the safety of the rest. So they let our blood stain the rivers like ink, and when they finally arrived to end the war, they clapped themselves on the back and crowned themselves saviours.
Tabitha Wysteria
Freya felt it in her bones. A stirring beneath the surface, like the tremble of wind before a storm. For days now, she had watched the valkyrian warriors, their murmurs hushed and hurried, wary glances exchanged like secrets borne on the wind. Trouble was brewing. And Freya could not help but smile. Perhaps now the council would finally heed her warnings.
She spotted Alma striding towards one of the many stone temples that crowned the floating island. There was a stiffness in her gait, tension etched across her usually effortlessgrace, something altogether uncharacteristic. In those golden eyes, so often unshaken, Freya glimpsed something she had never seen before.
Worry.
Without hesitation, Freya followed, her fingers brushing the hilt of her sword to ensure it remained at her hip, faithful, familiar, and ready. She weaved through the dream-spun gardens and cascades of crystalline waterfalls, her pace swift, heart sharper still.
Movement to her left caught her attention. She paused, if only briefly, as Ylva appeared beside her, her stride urgent as she tried to keep up.
‘Go away,’ Freya warned, her voice clipped.
Ylva frowned but did not falter. ‘Why?’
‘I need to speak with Alma. Alone.’
‘Why?’
Freya hesitated, just for a breath, and in that instant, she wondered if perhaps a sliver of Wren was beginning to emerge through the cracks. Ylva, ever the loyal hound to order, was not known for questioning command. And yet, here she was.
‘War is coming,’ Freya said at last, the words falling like a blade drawn in silence.
Ylva said nothing more, simply matched her pace, the two of them quickening their steps to reach Alma, who had since slipped into the temple’s embrace.
Within, the sanctum was every bit as exquisite as its exterior. Vines coiled and flowered across white-stone walls, their petals catching the sunlight that poured in unhindered from the ceiling. At the far end, a still pool gleamed, one of many sacred basins used for rites both ancient and intimate. Runes whispered across the archways, etched into the stone like ancient breath, humming with protection and wisdom.
As always, there was no roof above them, not that one was ever needed. On these sky-bound isles, the weather never dared to change. The sun reigned eternal, and the warmth wrapped itself around everything like a blessing.
Freya found Alma standing at the edge of the circular pool, its surface still as glass, reflecting the endless blue above. The valkyrian turned at the sound of her approach, golden eyes rolling skyward.
‘I must admit,’ Alma said, with the weariness of someone used to being pursued, ‘you are nothing if not persistent, Freya.’
‘The valkyrians seem uneasy.’
‘We are ever uneasy,’ Alma replied.
Freya let out a scoff. ‘Is that so?’
Alma sighed, the sound soft as wind through ancient stone. ‘I’ve sent scouts. Word has come that the witches are on the move.’
Freya stepped closer, her gaze sharp. ‘Moving? To where?’
‘It’s unclear,’ Alma replied. ‘But it appears they are drifting northward, like a dark wind rising.’
Freya nodded slowly, the pieces forming in her mind. ‘The wolverian army is still trapped behind the wall. The witches will strike now, while the others are penned in. This is their hour. They mean to dismantle the kingdoms, Alma, one by one. We cannot afford to sit idle any longer. We must act.’
Something flashed through Alma’s golden eyes, something unreadable, something Freya instinctively mistrusted.
‘You are not wrong,’ Alma conceded. ‘But their movements are scattered, too diffuse to track with certainty.’
