All around me, I heard echoes—faint, distant, impossible.
Laughter.
Their laughter.
My daughters’ giggles drifted on the wind like ghosts. For a moment, I saw them—smiling, vibrant, dancing in the flicker of the flames.
Then the laughter twisted.
Distorted.
And their faces melted into snarling, blood-spattered masks—Timehunters, cruel and grinning, their blades dripping with the blood of my children.
“I swear on my life,” I growled, fists clenched so tightly my knuckles cracked, “I will tear down the Timehunters with every last ounce of strength I possess.”
I strode to the pyre and fell to my knees, the snow soaking through my trousers as my hands hit the ground. My chest heaved. My vision swam.
I leaned in and kissed sweet Tove’s brow, brushing a strand of hair from her face with trembling fingers.
“Farewell, Tove,” I whispered. “May Folkvangr welcome you into her arms.”
One by one, I repeated the ritual.
Revna.
Meya.
Astrid.
Each kiss broke a piece of me. Each prayer was a cry from the hollow well of my soul. I offered a silent one for Freya, though part of me still clung to the impossible hope that she might be alive.
Tears blurred my sight as I reached for a still-glowing branch—the last ember of my former life. The heat scorched my palm, blistering my flesh, but I didn’t flinch. It was nothing compared to the inferno inside my chest.
With shaking hands, I lowered the branch to the kindling beneath them.
Flames sparked. Then roared.
I watched the fire climb and devour—flesh, cloth, memory. Everything we had built. Everything we had loved.
A voice inside me screamed for revenge, howled for blood.
But another voice—a faint, fractured whisper—begged for forgiveness. It asked if this was truly the path forward. If I could ever find peace in this endless rage.
And for a heartbeat, I didn’t know which part of me to obey.
With one last shuddering breath, I turned from the blaze.
And walked into the abyss beyond.
Torn between retribution and redemption.
But vengeance had its claws in me now, dragging me forward, devouring every shred of hesitation until only the hunger for blood remained.
Chapter 1
Balthazar
“Please, Balthazar,” Zara whispered, her voice breaking as she reached for my arm. “We can’t stay here. Not with their ashes still warm in the wind. We have to leave… or we’ll drown in this sorrow.”
