‘If you do find a way to betray us,’ Alma said, her voice like a blade wrapped in frost, ‘know this. There is no corner of these eight kingdoms, no celestial realm above or below, where you might hide from my vengeance.’
Freya’s lips curved into something dark and knowing.
‘I understand,’ she said, her voice soft as silk, as she glanced downwards to the white runes etched into her skin. Symbols of loyalty. Chains forged from ink and divine promise. Runes that tethered her to a sisterhood she had once chosen freely.
A sanctuary, they had called it.
A home for the forsaken, for the banished.
A sisterhood that had taken her in when her own husband had cast her out.
A sisterhood that had offered her a new name, a new life, and a cause worth believing in.
But they had made one grave miscalculation.
They had placed their faith in a goddess whose blood simmered with vengeance and whose heart had long since turned to ash.
…
Freya found Ylva some hours later in the quiet hum of thestables, the scent of hay and leather thick in the air, where the younger woman was tending to the two steeds they would soon ride into the sky. A smile ghosted across Freya’s lips as her focus fell upon her own mount, her winged beast of chestnut and coal. She lifted a hand, gliding it gently along its flank with a reverence she seldom afforded any living soul.
‘I see they’ve already bestowed you with your own companion,’ she remarked, nodding towards the pale, snow-dappled stallion Ylva was brushing.
Ylva turned, face alight with childlike wonder. ‘He’s beautiful.’
‘Have you ever ridden?’ Freya’s words faltered as realisation struck, silencing her tongue. Of course not. Until recently, Ylva had been a wolverian princess, bred to ride hulking giant wolves, not winged stallions that soared across the firmament. ‘Never mind. Finish your preparations. Rest. At first light, we depart.’ She turned, intending to seek out one of the supper halls nestled within the temple grounds, her thoughts already drifting towards wine and solitude, only to stop as hurried footsteps echoed behind her.
‘What is it now?’ she asked, casting a sidelong glance over her shoulder as Ylva caught up to her.
‘I’ve completed my tasks,’ Ylva said, standing a little straighter. ‘I wished to ask if I might accompany you to the hall. For supper.’
Freya gave an exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes. ‘There’s no need to be so bloody formal.’
‘Alma said that—’
‘I don’t give the faintest damn what Alma said.’
A beat of silence, then a quiet smile from Ylva. ‘You truly dislike her, don’t you?’
Freya exhaled sharply as they weaved through the moonlitgardens, the scent of night blooms lingering in the air, until the great hall unfurled before them. It was an open-plan structure, forged from ancient grey stone, roofless and open to the ever-constant warmth of the skies above. The floor was carpeted in soft grass, a living tapestry beneath their boots. At its heart stood long wooden tables, worn smooth by time and conversation, around which valkyrians gathered in lively clusters, talking, laughing, and raising their goblets between spoonfuls of steaming stew.
Life among valkyrians was one of purpose. Each soul contributed, some as cooks, others as scholars or trainers. Many toiled lovingly in the gardens or tended to the winged steeds in the stables. All trained in shifts, sharpening both blade and mind, and when their duties waned, they passed the time in shared joy, bathing in the crystalline pools, gliding through clouds on the backs of their beasts, or lounging beneath the sun-kissed trees.
It was a simple life. A beautiful one. At least, when the drums of war did not whisper along the horizon.
Freya gave a curt nod of thanks to the valkyrian who handed her a modest bowl of stew, and strode to the nearest bench, sinking down with a soft sigh. She quirked a brow at Ylva, who promptly followed, bowl in hand.
‘I don’t dislike Alma,’ Freya said at last, between spoonfuls of the bland meal. She tried and failed not to grimace. Valkyrians were masters of skies and war, but culinary arts were clearly not among their famed talents. ‘She simply has a knack for interfering in matters that do not concern her.’
Ylva dipped her spoon into the stew, stirring it absently, her thoughts clearly adrift. The distracted motion drew a faint frown from Freya.
‘You should eat,’ she said gently, though her tone carried athread of steel. ‘The journey ahead will be long, and far from easy.’
Ylva gave a small nod and took a tentative bite, though it seemed more from obligation than appetite.
‘I keep having these strange dreams,’ she said suddenly, her voice as faraway as her gaze, the spoon once again tracing circles in the bowl. Her blue eyes shimmered, unfocused, lost in a memory only she could see.
Freya chewed slowly, then licked her lips, her curiosity piqued. ‘Dreams? What sort?’
