The displaced Valkyrie had been like a sister to Sutrelle's mother. And after Ragnarök, when Surtr had kidnapped Sutrelle's mother, Valkyrie had insisted he take her too, though she would be a prisoner. But over time, Surtr had come to find Valkyrie useful and had tasked her with babysitting Sutrelle.
Valkyrie squeezed Sutrelle's arm, sending a jolt through her. Sutrelle straightened and lifted her eyes the way Valkyrie taught her.
"We should go," said Valkyrie.
Sutrelle nodded, and Valkyrie's hand dropped away as she squared her shoulders and turned to leave.
Sutrelle held her head high as she passed servants, Thadren's men, as well as her father's. She would never dare to assume such a posture if her father remained in the room, but Valkyrie told her if she ever wanted to garner an ounce of respect, she needed to at least try to appear like she possessed a shred of dignity. Easy for Valkyrie to say, she was a Valkyrie. Sutrelle was the unwanted daughter of a tyrant who took every opportunity to remind her how little she was worth.
They made their way to the farthest end of her father's palace. The corridor opened into a chamber carved from black volcanic stone, smaller than most palace closets. Rough-hewn walls softened by years of neglect. A narrow stone bed sat pushed against the far wall, draped in a single blanket dyed the color of dried blood, the only fabric Muspelheim's markets carried. A makeshift workbench dominated the opposite corner, its surface scarred with burn marks and littered with half-finished rings, pliers, and stones she’d polished by hand until her fingers bled. No windows, there were no windows this deep in the palace, but she'd mounted a row of tallow candles along a stone shelf, their stubs melted into pale pools that gave the room its only glow. The ceiling hung low, though for Sutrelle's slight frame it posed no problem. The bare obsidian floor was worn smooth under her feet from years of pacing.
She stepped inside, allowing herself to be cocooned by her space’s familiarity.
She caught her reflection in the polished copper disc mounted beside her workbench- a makeshift mirror she'd hammered flat years ago. The face staring back was too delicate for the realm, all wrong for a fire giant's daughter. Her jade-green eyes, her mother's eyes, sat wide-set above fine-boned cheeks rather than being broad and heavy. Her thick auburn-ginger hair spilled in heavy waves past her shoulders, nearly to her waist, the copper tones catching the candlelight so that the strands themselves seemed to burn. The rough-spun tunic hung shapeless on her narrow frame, ash-gray and scratchy against her pale skin, which carried none of the molten undertones of her father's people. She looked away from the disc. She always looked away. At least if she didn’t look at her reflection, she could pretend she looked like everyone else in the kingdom, except for the size. She barely came up to most males’ chests.
The smell of her soap and candle wax, along with the metallic scent of her metalworks, soothed her. Brought her back to the present. To her safe space.
The sulfur stench from the corridor couldn't reach her here. The room, tucked behind two turns and a heavy door of riveted iron, that she shut behind her. Instead, she breathed in tallow smoke, the bite of heated metal, and the faded scent of the tallow soap cake Valkyrie had smuggled in, now whittled down to a sliver on the shelf. Beneath it all, the deep mineral tang of polished rocks and metal, cooling on her workbench. She pressed her back against the closed door. Outside, somewhere in the palace, the volcanic vents groaned and hissed, a low rumble she felt through the soles of her bare feet, vibrating up through the floor. But in here, the sound muffled to a distant pulse, almost like a heartbeat. Almost safe.
Valkyrie stood near the doorway, arms folded across her chest, her golden hair crushed against the stone doorjamb. Valkyrie was tall, almost a full head and more above Sutrelle, with a lean, athletic build. Her storm-gray eyes swept the space the way they always did: checking corners, cataloguing items, measuring threats, searching for anything amiss. Old scars traced pale lines along her forearms where they emerged from the rolled sleeves of her long coat, a battered thing the color of wet clay that hung past her knees and concealed, at least three blades. The coat smelled of oiled leather and ash. Valkyrie’s jaw set in the same hard mask she wore everywhere, though the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction once the door clanged shut behind them. She positioned herself between Sutrelle and the only entrance without seeming to think about it. A habit, drilled deep as bone.
When she was young, she'd loved the amount of space in her room, until she'd searched the castle to find that her room was one of the shabbiest. Even Valkyrie's room had been furnished nicer- and she was a prisoner. Not that Sutrelle cared; her room was her own space. No one else entered, but Valkyrie, and only two servants ever came to summon her if needed. Where some might see the lack of furniture as a slap in the face, Sutrelle took advantage of the space and used the vacant area to store her books and all her mother's things. Sutrelle wasn't sure her father was aware she'd taken her mother's remaining possessions and put them in her room, but he'd never asked about them either.
Sutrelle sat on her bed, staring at her collection. A shelf of small wooden carved figurines Valkyrie had made for her as a child. A small sewing kit she used to mend her clothing when damaged. And, favorite of all, several groupings of stones she spent years collecting and polishing. She stared at her hands and pulled from deep within her. They glowed red, then white-hot as her magic pulsed through her veins, awaiting her command. A command she rarely uttered.
"Do you think I'll be able to take my things when I leave with Thadren?"
Sutrelle’s gut clenched.
"No," said Valkyrie without pretense. "Because you aren't leaving with Thadren." Valkyrie strode to Sutrelle’s bed, pulled out a dragon's hide bag, and tossed it to Sutrelle.
"Did you hear something? Is father making us live here?" She tried not to let her fear ring through in her voice.
"I've arranged a way out for us."
Sutrelle stared at Valkyrie. "What?"
Valkyrie hurried to the closet. "Take only things you cannot live without. Nothing of little consequence, and nothing that can be used against you."
"I... I don't understand."
Valkyrie grabbed a pair of plain pants and a muddy brown shirt from the back of Sutrelle's closet. "Put these on."
Sutrelle stared at the clothes. "But, Valkyrie-"
Valkyrie grabbed Sutrelle by the arms. "No. I’m no longer Valkyrie. I am Val, and you are Elle. I've made arrangements for us. I'm getting you out of here."
Val? Elle? Were they changing their names? What good would that do?
"How?" Sutrelle asked.
Val’s golden braid swung back and forth as she shook her head. "There's no time to explain. I secured us passage. There’s a place we can go. You can have a life free of your father, Thadren, and everything else. A place where you can be someone different."
Sutrelle bit the skin of her thumb. "But..."
Val grabbed her arms and pinned them down. "I promised your mother I would take care of you. I promised to keep you safe. I can't do that once you are married. I've been working on this for close to a year. I didn't tell you because I wasn't sure it would come through, and I didn't want to get your hopes up. But it came through."
Sutrelle swallowed hard. She wanted to leave. Gods knew she did. She wanted to be free, but... fear gripped her. If her father ever found her, the punishment would most certainly be death.
