“We do not require his help,” I spat, the words venomous. “It’s far too late. My daughters lie cold and lifeless. Their eyes will never open again.”
Pain tore through me like a jagged blade, spilling the blood of my soul onto the ground between us.
“And now this man appears—now—after the slaughter, after the screams, after the fire? Where was he before they were ripped from our arms?”
My gaze snapped back to the stranger. Fury twisted every muscle in my body as I stepped toward him.
“Or perhaps you’re the one who summoned the death-mongers. How convenient that you arrive from nowhere and claim to fix what’s already been destroyed.”
Zara stepped between us. “Balthazar, stop. How can you accuse a man who came to help us of such evil? He had nothing to do with the deaths of our children—he only wishes to aid us.”
I turned on her, my voice low but scorching. “You’re right, Zara. This is your fault.”
Her face crumpled.
“I loathe you. I despise you. I am disgusted by you.” My voice broke, but I didn’t stop. “I no longer want you in my life.”
Zara gasped, stumbling back as if I’d struck her. Her eyes flooded with pain.
“I don’t need you,” I said coldly. “Freya is dead, and it’s becauseof you.You had to see me and say goodbye; because of that choice, our children were left unguarded. They died alone.”
The silence that followed was suffocating—thick and heavy with everything we couldn’t take back.
I staggered back, gasping for breath as grief crushed my chest. My beard was damp, tangled with blood and sweat. Zara stood in the moonlight, pale and quivering, her skin glowing like starlight against the darkness. Her eyes locked with mine, shimmering with agony and disbelief.
Then the man cleared his throat.
“My name is Mathias Alastair,” he said softly, voice calm but commanding. “And you both must come with me.”
He took a step forward, his eyes not filled with fear but with something else: understanding, mourning, and strength.
“I see the agony carved into your face,” Mathias said, his gaze locked onto mine. “I feel your misery, even from here. You may blame me if it numbs the pain—but I swear to you, on my life, I had no hand in your children’s deaths. I did not summon the Timehunters.”
He stepped forward, looming. “You must leave this place and come with me. It is no longer safe. I know who you are, Balthazar. And I can help you. I can help you understand your darkness—its purpose, its power. You can start again. You can build a new life, a new family. But not if you stay here and tear each other apart.”
He extended his arms, not in threat, but in offering. “Come with me. Let me help you. Let me help Zara. You need me more now than ever before.”
“No!” I roared, the word cracking the air like a bolt of lightning. “I don’t trust you—I never will! I refuse to go!”
I turned away, and there they were.
Tove. Revna. Meya. Astrid.
Their small bodies had been gently arranged, heads touching in a circle of stillness and sorrow. Pieces of wood had been stacked around them—someone, likely Zara, had prepared their funeral pyre, ready to send them to Folkvangr.
A warrior’s rite.
A mother’s heartbreak.
“There’s nothing you can say that will make me want to understand who I am,” I growled. “It’s too late. They’re gone.My precious, sweet girls—gone. What point is there in living and knowing when the only things I lived for have been ripped away from me?”
The agony rose in me like a tempest, a wildfire in my chest that consumed everything it touched—reason, hope, restraint. I felt it scorch through my veins, devour my thoughts, and leave nothing but smoke and screams in its wake.
“I have no purpose now,” I said, voice hollow. “Except one. Vengeance.”
I clenched my fists, trembling.
“I will burn those fucking Timehunters down to their bones. I will erase their name from time itself. That is all that matters. Not answers. Not origins. Not starting over. Only vengeance.”
