Chapter Seventy-Two
Rey
I’m dressed as a Valkyrie.
I’ll admit, this wasn’t what I would have picked for myself to ride into battle.
But whoever did pick it for me knew their stuff.
Long white-sleeved shirt with a matching corset fitted tight against my body.
Sewn-in patterns of gold make a design of wings on the front, while the shoulder armor is made of golden feathers jutting out at sharp angles.
The long white cape flows out from the shoulders and rests against my calves.
Embroidered runes on the skirt catch the light when I move. A gold belt cinches around my waist, a perfect place for weaponry. A raven’s head clicks into place as the buckle.
And finally, a small, crown-like helmet rests on my hair, leaving the top of my head exposed. There are nine tiny spikes that protrude out of the top, maybe resembling the Nine Realms? I’m not sure.
I braid my hair back and look in the mirror.
I feel like I’m being mocked.
The daughter of Odin.
Who can’t even protect her stepmother or save the world from her own father. How poetic that I should be dressed up for the occasion.
Still, though. I have to admit: I look like a warrior.
I just wish I felt like one.
I mentally slap myself and reach for Laufey’s note, tucking it into my corset, then grab my very real knives, situating them in the hidden compartment of my skirt.
Finally, I grab my phone, which feels oddly out of place, and head into the hallway, letting my door close behind me. The lock doesn’t work anymore, but it’s not like I’m planning on coming back here after tonight anyway.
Aric’s standing there, waiting for me.
I completely stop breathing.
He’s shirtless.
My eyes lock on the mask covering his face—half a white skull, stark and merciless, and half painted in shades of blue with lilacs growing across the bone like something both sacred and savage. Horns twist upward from the crown like a fallen ancient king.
His cape—a heavy royal blue—falls in thick folds to the floor, sweeping past the dark brown leather of his pants and the laced boots wrapped tightly around his calves.
He’s leaving nothing to the imagination.
Smooth muscle basically smacks me upside the head—arms, abs, chest. He looks every inch the Giant he is.
My pulse pumps against my ribs in an uncontrollable cadence.
I just don’t know if it’s telling me to run or stay.
His icy expression doesn’t waver.
My head feels too heavy, my body too weak under the weight of him and the costume I’m wearing—maybe the moment, too. “You look good.”
His gaze rakes over me slowly, deliberately, and though he doesn’t speak, the hunger in his eyes says everything. Even behind the mask, it’s there—in the way his eyes hood, the way his stare pins me in place and dares me to move.
Desire doesn’t pick sides.
It simply wants.
He gives me his back like that’s it, that’s the pep talk. We walk in silence to the elevator and of course, because it’s Reeve, he’s already there leaning against the wall, waiting for us.
He also has a cape, but his is green. He grins. “Thought it would be funny.”
“It’s not,” Aric snaps.
Okay, so maybe I’m losing my mind, but I do crack a smile, earning a little wink from the bastard who threatened me earlier.
Well, at least the myths are right about one thing—Loki is truly every inch a confusing little dick.
One minute I want to strangle him, the next I’m trying not to laugh, then the next I’m like, okay, but the supervillain cape and black crown are working for him.
College is confusing.
His crown is smaller than Aric’s. It rests around his head like mine and has four spikes that twist into black antlers with bloodred tips.
He’s wearing an all-black leather chest plate with a silver snake sewn into it and matching black leather pants.
Black armored gloves cover his hands, and on the tips of his fingers are long, razor-sharp black nails that make noise every time he clenches his fists.
He looks intimidating as hell.
We all pile into the elevator. “This is cozy,” Reeve pipes up.
“Shut your goddamn mouth.” Aric glances up as if praying for patience.
Reeve looks between us. “Listen, I think if we all talk things through and come up with a really good plan so I don’t have to kill people I like, then things will work out.”
Aric and I are both silent.
“Or have it your way, I guess.” He rocks back on his heels and sniffs the air. The elevator hits the lobby level. “I remember this fitting better.”
“That’s what happens when you get old, Loki,” I say sweetly. “Your body just isn’t what it used to be.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it.” He winks.
Aric lets out a growl.
“Naturally, after his untimely death,” he adds like that’s somehow helpful.
We walk out into the lobby, where everyone else is gathered. I sent a text to Ziva earlier, asking for them to wait for me. I didn’t expect Aric or Reeve to show.
Eira looks like death itself. Not in the sloppy, last-minute-Halloween way—in the way that makes your stomach twist and your skin crawl.
Her usually polished features are hollowed out, her eyes ringed in dark shadow that sinks them deep into her face, making her cheerful smile look like a mask she borrowed from a corpse.
Her hair falls in a glowing sheet from the top of her head, but with strategic strands sticking out like the fractured halo of something fallen wrapped around her head like a crown.
She leans on a staff—slick, black, and gnarled at the top—and every inch of her skin-tight leather ensemble screams predatory.
The outfit is sculpted in sharp angles and ridges, leaving little to the imagination.
Bloodstains streak down from her torso, dripping over her thighs, painted across her arms like she’s just walked out of a massacre.
She wasn’t kidding when she said she was dressing up as Hela, and I’m not completely convinced this isn’t the real deal. Please, Gods, no more surprises.
“Death does devour us all.” She winks. The words are playful. The delivery isn’t.
Ziva shudders. Her contrast couldn’t be sharper—she’s draped in a simple white dress that flutters with every step, a delicate harp tucked under her arm. She looks like she wandered out of some pastoral painting. “Judge not,” she huffs. “I went Greek last-minute. Or…Roman?”
I frown. “What are you?”
“Cupid.” Her grin is wicked.
Reeve groans. “Of course you are.”
I glance at Rowen. He’s the simplest of all, just a sharp black suit that fits too perfectly to be casual.
It’s his eyes, though, that make me do a double take.
They’re brighter tonight, edged with something that flickers with determination.
I grip my necklace. At least I have his protection tonight.
He looks over at Aric and then me. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Yay, party.” Reeve’s sarcasm cuts through as he slouches forward.
And just like that, we fall into step, costumes brushing against each other, headed down toward the football field, where the Hunt and the feast wait like a trap ready to be sprung.
Campus sprawls in front of us like a kingdom preparing for war.
It doesn’t look like the same place I’ve been hiking through between classes.
Tonight, the gates are open—really open.
Alumni have pulled up in polished black SUVs, glossy limos, and sports cars with engines that make so much noise, I’m annoyed. The air reeks of money and power.
And at the center of it all: the massive stadium and the Endir Vikings, all lined up in full cosplay.
They have helmets with iron horns, and I’m pretty sure the fur draped across their pads was bought from IKEA in rug form, then cut up and glued.
They’re marching around in formation, chanting, yelling about shield walls, and laughing.
A few of them are so drunk, they trip over their own swords.
Safe to say Endir’s more known for its academics than its sports.
An outdoor buffet stretches the length of the football field.
A completely gaudy feast fit for a king with candles of every shape and size lit down the table.
Whole roasted boars glisten on saucers next to bread piled like multiple armies are about to pillage.
Platters of carrots, leeks, and onions. Dozens of golden pitchers filled with what I hope is mead or something strong.
It also feels a bit like home.
Reeve’s the first to speak up. “Old world meets new. They’ve been running this since forever. Nothing like an ancient tradition dressed up as a frat party.”
Aric doesn’t respond. His eyes flick briefly to the lake as we pass. It’s turbulent, slapping against the shore. The sky is clear, no wind. The violence in it doesn’t make sense.
“How many feasts are we having?” I mumble, mostly to myself.
Reeve rubs his hands together. “Thought you’d never ask. The Hunt happens in three diabolical stages. Phase one—” He points to the middle of the field. “Behold, drink and be merry.” He holds up two fingers. “Two is usually when you have a significant other who’s agreed to go with you.”
Reeve turns a judgmental stare my way.
“Assuming they don’t dump you before the big event, you sit together and feed each other.
Showing true trust in food is directly related to trust for the actual Hunt, which is phase three.
This is basically your excuse to run through the forest. There are games set up on different trails, but the only part that’s mandatory is that whatever trail or adventure you stumble upon, you have to finish and cross the creek that feeds the lake at the end.
The water is the final ceremonial cleansing of your sins in front of the Gods and everyone.
Afterward, we end up back where we started for the bonfires and fireworks to officially kick off the school year—and, of course, to feast! ”
I snort. “And here I thought it was just a myth about Odin releasing ravens.”
“It’s that, too,” Aric says quickly. “You know Sigurd. He likes to honor old traditions and mix in the new.”
At least a hundred students mill about, all in elaborate masks and costumes. The air feels thick, charged, like the entire campus knows what’s coming.
I spot a group outside the student union holding torches, thrusting them high as if summoning something. The flames illuminate carved masks, the distorted faces of wolves, stags, and ravens everyone seems to be wearing.
“The professors,” Reeve says casually. “Tradition.”
Tradition. They love that word around here.
And I’m a bit surprised Endir’s professors are shouting around a fire.
“We aren’t actually hunting anything, right?” I ask. “It’s just a party? A play on words?”
“Spirits. Ghosts. Trolls. And men who deserve worse,” Aric answers. “At least that’s what the Hunt used to be about. Right, Reeve?”
Reeve snaps to attention. “Yes, its original intent was exactly that.”
The tension among the three of us is suffocating.
Ziva elbows me. “You okay?”
I let out a rough exhale. “Fine.”
She raises her hand to pat me on the shoulder, then thinks twice about it. “Too pointy.”
“Cool, right?”
Eira lets out a snort. “When do we get to party?”
“After the ceremony,” Reeve says. “And after all the alumni and parents have arrived.” He turns to face us and starts walking backward.
“Everyone needs to relax. Think of it as a game. A race through the forest. Get to the other side, and you win. Get caught, you pay a price.” He smirks.
“Has anyone ever even looked up Odin’s Wild Hunt? ”
Odin. He was a good hunter.
And then he trained me to be better.
I open my mouth. “Odin would lead the charge into the forests with his ravens chasing after spirits. Most humans disappeared or didn’t survive the night.”
“Survival is always key,” Aric adds.
The crowd goes silent around us when we arrive. At first I think it’s because we’re dressed so extravagantly, but they’re looking behind us, awe on their faces.
When I turn, I no longer have to wonder about what’s captured their attention, because Odinfather has arrived.
And he looks every inch the God he is.