Chapter Twenty-Four
Astrid couldn’t breathe.
Freya’s body was limp in her arms, practically weightless. As though the goddess had already claimed her soul and reincarnated her into her next body.
Someone took hold of Astrid’s shoulders and gave her a good shake. Vera, her lips moving. She was saying something.
Astrid could not hear anything.
She was screaming.
An armored hand reached for Astrid. With wild abandon, Astrid unsheathed Freya’s dagger and slashed.
Hedda only just moved her hand in time. She shouted, waving people back.
Astrid rose. Her fingers were slick with Freya’s blood. She released a wordless wail of agony.
Hands up in defense, Vera stepped toward Astrid. Astrid lunged at her with the dagger, and Vera staggered back, stunned.
Blood pounded in Astrid’s ears. She was aware of only two things—the crumpled body at her feet, and the need to protect Freya the way Freya had protected her these last ten years.
The faces in front of her blurred, unrecognizable. A few dared to come closer. Astrid stood her ground for what felt like hours, years: a tireless guard, a devotee to her deity, a mourner standing vigil.
She stared down at Freya’s face. The skin was beginning to turn purple, bruised and sickly.
Astrid had pictured Freya dying a thousand ways: from stress, prematurely aged, or else sick, like humans tended to become. She had known Freya would be gone too soon from her life—had felt it in every interaction—but she could never have imagined losing Freyanow.
It was unthinkable. Unreal. And yet here she was, standing over Freya’s dying body.
The few guards left in the room parted as someone new arrived. Astrid’s thoughts moved like sludge, not recognizing their face but instead the distinctive staff and the priestess robes.
Brenn approached, staff held in front of her as if herding a scared animal. Astrid returned to her body, grounded by the recognition.
The dagger clattered out of her grasp.
“Please let me care for her, Your Majesty,” Brenn said. “I turned back as soon as I was far away enough to receive the goddess’s messages. She needs my help. I can heal her.”
Astrid’s feet were leaden as she dragged herself to the side.
Brenn’s face, usually so controlled, fell when she saw Freya. Astrid’s heart lurched. She had feared the worst, but she always feared the worst. If Brenn thought Freya looked bad…
Freya really could die.
“I need you to summon the priestesses from Vakker’s temple,” Brenn said to Varin. When he didn’t move, she added, “Now!”
Varin scrambled away, calling directions to the guards.
Astrid tried to speak, but her throat was hoarse from screaming. “You always work alone,” she rasped. “She told me. You can’t do magic with others.”
“Your Majesty,” Brenn said, and Astrid saw she was crying—of course she was, because Astrid was being selfish as always, and Brenn loved Freya too. “I cannot heal a wound this severe by myself.”
Nonetheless, Brenn knelt next to her friend and pressed a hand to her chest. The sound of chanting filled the room as everyone waited in silence. Freya’s chest glowed under Brenn’s touch, and then began to rise and fall steadily.
Freya was alive. For now.
Astrid stepped back, and her fingers caught on Hedda’s armor.
“We should give her privacy to work, Your Majesty,” said Hedda, and Astrid numbly nodded her assent.
