Chapter Three
I’ve heard whispers, rumours carried on the wind, that the goddess Themis did not forge the valkyrians to keep peace between the mortal kingdoms, as the old tales claim.
No, she created them as warriors. Not for kings or queens, but to stand against gods themselves.
To be a shield not between realms, but against divinity.
Tabitha Wysteria
Freya had set aside her usual armour for ceremonial robes. The morning had been spent in preparation, the valkyrians readying themselves to welcome a new sister into their fold.
Freya had wrapped her body in the traditional robes of white and gold reserved for such sacred rites, allowed one of her sisters to weave her brown hair into intricate braids and adorn it with fresh blooms, before retreating to spend the remaining hours tending to their horses.
Four islands, suspended high above the world, were home to the valkyrians.
Long ago, the gods had crafted many wonders and among them, one had created the valkyrians to uphold justice and offer protection where it was needed most.
But Freya knew the islands had not always floated among the clouds.
A thousand years past, the witches had gifted each kingdom a singular enchantment.
They had bewitched the desert, allowing its dunes to shift beneath the stars, confounding those who dared enter, even the witches themselves.
To the wolverians, they had bestowed magical artefacts to aid in hunting and survival across their brutal landscapes.
And to valkyrians, they had granted their islands the gift of eternal flight, lifting them high above the waters, safe and out of reach.
No creature, not even those born with wings, could ascend to them because the magic forbade it.
Only the valkyrians’ horses, once ordinary beasts, had been blessed with wings, the sole creatures permitted to traverse the skies and reach their ethereal home.
Should a wyverian mount their wyvern and attempt to fly towards one of the distant islands, they would soon find themselves engulfed in a thick shroud of cloud.
And when they finally broke through the mist, the island would have vanished, as though it had never been there at all.
Should they manage to glimpse it again, it would always seem to drift farther and farther away, retreating like a mirage upon the horizon, forever just out of reach.
‘You look very thoughtful,’ a voice said behind her.
Freya started, though she hid it well or so she hoped. She continued to brush her brown mare, refusing to turn towards the valkyrian who had approached.
‘She is to become one of us today,’ Alma said, her voice calm and certain.
Freya sighed, then finally turned to face her.
Alma was no princess, but a member of the Council, the true ruling body of the valkyrians.
Freya had often wondered why they even chose a princess, a figurehead in a society where royalty held no true power.
Among their people, it was the Council who planned, who voted, who led.
The title of princess was ceremonial at best, bestowed by Council vote every few years, a tradition more symbolic than sovereign.
Reluctantly, Freya followed Alma out of the stables and into the gardens beyond.
Even after all this time, it was difficult not to be awed by the island’s beauty.
The temples were small, their stone facades weathered and ancient, yet every surface was draped in greenery, as if the earth itself had risen to embrace them.
Fountains sang their crystalline songs, and cascades tumbled from hidden heights, filling the air with the soothing murmur of flowing water.
Flowers bloomed in abundance, riotous in their colours, and lush plants spilt over every corner.
Horses roamed freely, grazing or nuzzling the valkyrians who passed them, some clad in gleaming armour, others draped in flowing robes.
No two valkyrians looked alike; each woman bore her own unique beauty, a myriad of skin tones, hair colours, and eyes like stars in every hue. Yet they all carried the same sacred white markings carved into their skin, etched there at the moment of their rebirth, a symbol of their eternal duty.
‘You care for the girl,’ Alma said, nodding towards a figure seated on the grass among two other valkyrians.
Freya’s chest tightened painfully at the sight.
Wren Wynter was no more.
This girl still resembled her. The pale, luminous skin now shimmered faintly with runic light whenever the sun kissed it, the blue eyes that had once danced with mischief, the hair as pale as a winter morning.
Physically, she was almost the same.
But it was the spirit behind those eyes that had changed beyond recognition.
Wren Wynter had once been a flame, vibrant, full of laughter and reckless compassion, forever skipping forward, forever speaking, forever laughing.
She had dreamt of a world better than the one she had been born into, and had chased it with fearless hope.
This girl, this new soul, observed the world with measured calm. She moved with the discipline of a warrior, spoke sparingly, and carried a serenity that Wren had never possessed.
Freya looked away.
‘What do you want, Alma?’ she asked, unable to keep the irritation from her voice.
‘I think you should stay away from her,’ Alma said, folding her hands neatly into the wide sleeves of her robe.
Freya snapped her attention towards the valkyrian, studying her.
Alma was striking with golden eyes that gleamed like molten metal and the darkest skin Freya had ever seen, her scalp entirely shaved, giving her an austere beauty that demanded respect.
‘Why?’ Freya asked, suspicion sharpening her tone.
‘Because it will be hard on you,’ Alma replied simply.
‘Someone must train her,’ Freya said, defiant.
‘And there are plenty of valkyrians who would gladly take on the task,’ Alma countered, resuming her graceful stride.
Freya followed, though reluctance weighed down her steps.
‘You are too close to the girl, Freya. It is not wise. Proximity clouds judgement. You may make a mistake.’
Freya snorted. ‘I do not make mistakes.’
‘And there,’ Alma said, her golden eyes narrowing, ‘speaks the arrogance of the god within you.’ Her voice was sharp, cutting through the heavy air.
‘But let me remind you. You asked to keep your true nature hidden from the other valkyrians. None among them knows you are divine. I have honoured that.’
‘And I am grateful, Alma,’ Freya said, her voice softening, though the pride within her remained unbent.
Alma halted, turning to face her fully, her gaze laden with something close to pity.
‘But I must also remind you, Freya, that by choosing secrecy, you chose, too, to become one of us. Valkyrian. Bound to the kingdoms’ needs above your own.’
‘Have I not upheld that vow?’ Freya challenged.
‘You came to us, to the Council, many years ago,’ Alma continued, ignoring the interruption, ‘pleading for sanctuary from the grasp of Hades. The Council granted it. We have guarded your secret faithfully. But I know, Freya, that gods often believe themselves above those they walk among.’
Freya smothered the bitter smile that tried to rise to her lips. ‘Do you not worship them?’
‘We do,’ Alma admitted. ‘But we are valkyrians first, protectors above all else.’ Her eyes darkened. ‘Protectors of every soul. Even from the likes of your kind.’
‘I only want to help her,’ Freya said, the words leaving her more brittle than she intended.
Alma held her gaze, searching her with a ferocity so sharp that Freya wondered, fleetingly, whether the valkyrian could see straight through her.
‘I do hope that is the truth,’ Alma said at last, her voice heavy with warning. ‘But I have been known to be wrong before.’ With that, she turned and disappeared into the gardens, her steps swift and sure.
Freya’s eyes strayed unwillingly back to Wren, or the girl who had once been Wren, still seated on the grass, listening to the other valkyrians with serene attention, clad in white robes that gleamed beneath the sun.
The sight unnerved her.
It was too wrong.
Too still.
She looked away, swallowing against the tightness that coiled painfully in her chest.
She was a god.
And gods did not care for mortals.
Freya turned and walked away, ignoring the suffocating ache that pressed like a hand around her heart.
…
The Temple of Air was perhaps the most breathtaking of them all.
A modest structure, it opened onto a small, sacred pool where valkyrians gathered to perform their ancient rites.
Water cascaded in glittering streams from the heights of the temple, flowing across the stone floor before spilling into the pool’s mirrored surface.
Thick vegetation, heavy with blooms, had grown wild around the temple, hiding it from all but those who knew where to find it.
A secret wonder nestled within the embrace of nature.
Freya stood quietly to one side, her arms folded, her sharp blue eyes fixed on the Council as they gathered to receive the newest among them.
Across the glade, Wren approached the pool, clad in a simple white robe, her steps measured and sure.
‘We honour today our goddess. The goddess of justice,’ Alma proclaimed, stepping forward and raising a ceremonial blade high into the sunlight. ‘We honour her with a new daughter, a new sister, a new warrior.’
Freya fought the urge to roll her eyes.
She had met the goddess they invoked—Themis—and while she was hardly the worst of the divine pantheon, she was undeniably tiresome, forever embroiled in endless, exhausting arguments about right and wrong.
‘Themis, accept our offering,’ Alma continued solemnly, drawing the blade across her own arm. Blood welled and fell in scarlet droplets into the waters below. She turned and nodded to Wren.
Freya’s gaze refused to stray from the girl, the ghost of Wren Wynter, as she let the robe fall from her shoulders and stepped gracefully down the three stone steps into the pool. Her naked body shimmered, etched with brilliant white runes that seemed to pulse with their own living light.
The moment Wren submerged herself beneath the water’s surface, the runes blazed, illuminating the temple and the sky above.
A bow, crafted with reverent care from the bones of a fallen valkyrian horse, had been placed in Alma’s hands, awaiting Wren’s re-emergence.
When she rose again from the depths, the glow of the runes had dimmed to a softer, steady gleam. Without hesitation, Wren bowed low and accepted the bow offered to her.
Other valkyrians moved forward, wordless and efficient, dressing her in the warrior’s armour, steel and leather shaped to her slight frame. She stood still as stone, her blue eyes distant, focused on nothing.
Once she was fully arrayed, Wren raised her arm.
Alma approached once more, slicing deep into the offered flesh with her blade.
Wren turned, letting her blood drip into the sacred pool, and in that moment, her eyes flared brilliant white as the valkyrians accepted her into their embrace.
‘Welcome home,’ Alma said, her voice ringing clear across the gathered valkyrians. ‘Ylva.’