Chapter Twenty-Eight
They will never admit it, but there is a reason the Great War dragged on for as long as it did, why such horrors were unleashed upon the witches, why our kind endured tortures so vile they still haunt the earth.
The valkyrians only intervened at the final hour.
They watched.
They waited.
Because, deep down, they believed that sacrificing one land was a small price to pay for the safety of the rest. So they let our blood stain the rivers like ink, and when they finally arrived to end the war, they clapped themselves on the back and crowned themselves saviours.
Tabitha Wysteria
Freya felt it in her bones. A stirring beneath the surface, like the tremble of wind before a storm.
For days now, she had watched the valkyrian warriors, their murmurs hushed and hurried, wary glances exchanged like secrets borne on the wind.
Trouble was brewing. And Freya could not help but smile.
Perhaps now the council would finally heed her warnings.
She spotted Alma striding towards one of the many stone temples that crowned the floating island.
There was a stiffness in her gait, tension etched across her usually effortless grace, something altogether uncharacteristic.
In those golden eyes, so often unshaken, Freya glimpsed something she had never seen before.
Worry.
Without hesitation, Freya followed, her fingers brushing the hilt of her sword to ensure it remained at her hip, faithful, familiar, and ready. She weaved through the dream-spun gardens and cascades of crystalline waterfalls, her pace swift, heart sharper still.
Movement to her left caught her attention. She paused, if only briefly, as Ylva appeared beside her, her stride urgent as she tried to keep up.
‘Go away,’ Freya warned, her voice clipped.
Ylva frowned but did not falter. ‘Why?’
‘I need to speak with Alma. Alone.’
‘Why?’
Freya hesitated, just for a breath, and in that instant, she wondered if perhaps a sliver of Wren was beginning to emerge through the cracks. Ylva, ever the loyal hound to order, was not known for questioning command. And yet, here she was.
‘War is coming,’ Freya said at last, the words falling like a blade drawn in silence.
Ylva said nothing more, simply matched her pace, the two of them quickening their steps to reach Alma, who had since slipped into the temple’s embrace.
Within, the sanctum was every bit as exquisite as its exterior.
Vines coiled and flowered across white-stone walls, their petals catching the sunlight that poured in unhindered from the ceiling.
At the far end, a still pool gleamed, one of many sacred basins used for rites both ancient and intimate.
Runes whispered across the archways, etched into the stone like ancient breath, humming with protection and wisdom.
As always, there was no roof above them, not that one was ever needed. On these sky-bound isles, the weather never dared to change. The sun reigned eternal, and the warmth wrapped itself around everything like a blessing.
Freya found Alma standing at the edge of the circular pool, its surface still as glass, reflecting the endless blue above. The valkyrian turned at the sound of her approach, golden eyes rolling skyward.
‘I must admit,’ Alma said, with the weariness of someone used to being pursued, ‘you are nothing if not persistent, Freya.’
‘The valkyrians seem uneasy.’
‘We are ever uneasy,’ Alma replied.
Freya let out a scoff. ‘Is that so?’
Alma sighed, the sound soft as wind through ancient stone. ‘I’ve sent scouts. Word has come that the witches are on the move.’
Freya stepped closer, her gaze sharp. ‘Moving? To where?’
‘It’s unclear,’ Alma replied. ‘But it appears they are drifting northward, like a dark wind rising.’
Freya nodded slowly, the pieces forming in her mind. ‘The wolverian army is still trapped behind the wall. The witches will strike now, while the others are penned in. This is their hour. They mean to dismantle the kingdoms, Alma, one by one. We cannot afford to sit idle any longer. We must act.’
Something flashed through Alma’s golden eyes, something unreadable, something Freya instinctively mistrusted.
‘You are not wrong,’ Alma conceded. ‘But their movements are scattered, too diffuse to track with certainty.’
‘Then send more scouts,’ Freya pressed, her voice edged with steel. She tried to still the trembling in her hands, to hide the way they curled into fists. But she knew Alma had noticed.
‘I’ll go myself,’ she added. ‘I’ll follow their trail. If they strike, I can give the signal. We won’t be caught unawares.’
Alma’s expression darkened, contemplative. ‘The last we heard, they were approaching Floridia, in the Kingdom of Fauna.’
‘Then let me go there.’
Alma’s eyes narrowed. ‘I could just as well send another.’
Freya bit down on the urge to snap, her jaw tight with restraint. ‘I cannot remain here, useless. I need purpose. I need motion. I warned you about the witches and I was right.’
Alma cast a glance at Ylva, just a second, before turning back to Freya. Her shoulders sank with resignation.
‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘Go. Follow them. Report back with what you learn. But hear me well, if they do not strike, you do not act. Only if they attack, Freya. Only then do you send the signal for us to intervene. Is that clear?’
Freya inclined her head, suppressing the victorious smile tugging at her lips.
‘Crystal.’
Ylva stepped forward, voice steady. ‘I wish to accompany her.’
‘Out of the question,’ Alma replied at once, folding her dark hands before her as though the gesture might summon some final shred of patience she no longer possessed.
‘She must learn,’ Freya said with a careless shrug.
Her tone was light, nonchalant, but beneath it swirled an undercurrent of calculation.
She knew Alma didn’t trust her, not truly.
But then, how could the valkyrian possibly suspect what was truly unfolding?
She couldn’t know about the secret pact Freya had struck with Kage Blackburn.
She couldn’t guess that Freya needed Ylva to come with her, had planned for it.
‘We do not send young valkyrians out to scout so soon,’ Alma replied. ‘Ylva must continue her training.’
‘The best way to train is by practise. She can practise with me, out there, where it really counts.’ Freya could tell that Alma was growing suspicious.
‘Please,’ Ylva intervened just in time.
Alma waved them off with a sigh, her tone clipped. ‘Very well. Ylva, return to your quarters and begin preparations.’
But before Freya could speak, Alma cut in sharply, ‘Freya, you will remain.’
Freya stood still, her posture unmoved, though a sliver of irritation coiled at her spine. Ylva gave them both a final worried look before turning and running out of the temple.
Alma stepped closer, her eyes narrowing with the weight of suspicion. ‘I warn you now, Freya, whatever scheme is turning in that divine mind of yours, it ends here.’
‘I’m not scheming,’ Freya said smoothly, her expression solemn. ‘The runes etched into my flesh forbid me from turning against the valkyrians.’
‘Perhaps not directly,’ Alma murmured, eyes gleaming like burnished gold. ‘But you are a goddess. And goddesses are well-practised in the art of slipping through the cracks. In twisting rules into threads they can weave as they please.’
Freya allowed herself a smile, slow and faintly mocking. ‘Worry not, Alma. I have no intention of bringing harm to the valkyrians. Ylva will come to no harm under my watch. I swear it.’
Alma studied her, silent and unwavering. At last, she nodded. ‘I expect a message within a fortnight. If none arrives, I shall take it as a sign. And Freya—’
‘Yes, yes,’ Freya interrupted with a theatrical roll of her ice-blue eyes. ‘I’ll be back before then.’
‘You are not to interfere. You are there to observe. Nothing more.’
Freya inclined her head in false humility. ‘As you command.’
With that, Alma swept past her, her footsteps echoing softly around the sacred space. Whatever purpose had drawn her into the temple seemed now forgotten, discarded like incense smoke on the breeze. Just before stepping out into the ever-warm sunlight, Alma turned one last time.
‘Oh, and Freya?’
Freya looked over her shoulder.
‘If you do find a way to betray us,’ Alma said, her voice like a blade wrapped in frost, ‘know this. There is no corner of these eight kingdoms, no celestial realm above or below, where you might hide from my vengeance.’
Freya’s lips curved into something dark and knowing.
‘I understand,’ she said, her voice soft as silk, as she glanced downwards to the white runes etched into her skin. Symbols of loyalty. Chains forged from ink and divine promise. Runes that tethered her to a sisterhood she had once chosen freely.
A sanctuary, they had called it.
A home for the forsaken, for the banished.
A sisterhood that had taken her in when her own husband had cast her out.
A sisterhood that had offered her a new name, a new life, and a cause worth believing in.
But they had made one grave miscalculation.
They had placed their faith in a goddess whose blood simmered with vengeance and whose heart had long since turned to ash.
…
Freya found Ylva some hours later in the quiet hum of the stables, the scent of hay and leather thick in the air, where the younger woman was tending to the two steeds they would soon ride into the sky.
A smile ghosted across Freya’s lips as her focus fell upon her own mount, her winged beast of chestnut and coal.
She lifted a hand, gliding it gently along its flank with a reverence she seldom afforded any living soul.
‘I see they’ve already bestowed you with your own companion,’ she remarked, nodding towards the pale, snow-dappled stallion Ylva was brushing.
Ylva turned, face alight with childlike wonder. ‘He’s beautiful.’
‘Have you ever ridden?’ Freya’s words faltered as realisation struck, silencing her tongue.
Of course not. Until recently, Ylva had been a wolverian princess, bred to ride hulking giant wolves, not winged stallions that soared across the firmament.
‘Never mind. Finish your preparations. Rest. At first light, we depart.’ She turned, intending to seek out one of the supper halls nestled within the temple grounds, her thoughts already drifting towards wine and solitude, only to stop as hurried footsteps echoed behind her.
‘What is it now?’ she asked, casting a sidelong glance over her shoulder as Ylva caught up to her.
‘I’ve completed my tasks,’ Ylva said, standing a little straighter. ‘I wished to ask if I might accompany you to the hall. For supper.’
Freya gave an exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes. ‘There’s no need to be so bloody formal.’
‘Alma said that—’
‘I don’t give the faintest damn what Alma said.’
A beat of silence, then a quiet smile from Ylva. ‘You truly dislike her, don’t you?’
Freya exhaled sharply as they weaved through the moonlit gardens, the scent of night blooms lingering in the air, until the great hall unfurled before them.
It was an open-plan structure, forged from ancient grey stone, roofless and open to the ever-constant warmth of the skies above.
The floor was carpeted in soft grass, a living tapestry beneath their boots.
At its heart stood long wooden tables, worn smooth by time and conversation, around which valkyrians gathered in lively clusters, talking, laughing, and raising their goblets between spoonfuls of steaming stew.
Life among valkyrians was one of purpose.
Each soul contributed, some as cooks, others as scholars or trainers.
Many toiled lovingly in the gardens or tended to the winged steeds in the stables.
All trained in shifts, sharpening both blade and mind, and when their duties waned, they passed the time in shared joy, bathing in the crystalline pools, gliding through clouds on the backs of their beasts, or lounging beneath the sun-kissed trees.
It was a simple life. A beautiful one. At least, when the drums of war did not whisper along the horizon.
Freya gave a curt nod of thanks to the valkyrian who handed her a modest bowl of stew, and strode to the nearest bench, sinking down with a soft sigh. She quirked a brow at Ylva, who promptly followed, bowl in hand.
‘I don’t dislike Alma,’ Freya said at last, between spoonfuls of the bland meal. She tried and failed not to grimace. Valkyrians were masters of skies and war, but culinary arts were clearly not among their famed talents. ‘She simply has a knack for interfering in matters that do not concern her.’
Ylva dipped her spoon into the stew, stirring it absently, her thoughts clearly adrift. The distracted motion drew a faint frown from Freya.
‘You should eat,’ she said gently, though her tone carried a thread of steel. ‘The journey ahead will be long, and far from easy.’
Ylva gave a small nod and took a tentative bite, though it seemed more from obligation than appetite.
‘I keep having these strange dreams,’ she said suddenly, her voice as faraway as her gaze, the spoon once again tracing circles in the bowl. Her blue eyes shimmered, unfocused, lost in a memory only she could see.
Freya chewed slowly, then licked her lips, her curiosity piqued. ‘Dreams? What sort?’
‘Of a place I’ve never seen. It’s shrouded in shadow, dark and unfamiliar.’
Freya’s brow creased. ‘Dark?’
‘Yes. And I’m following a girl… someone I don’t know. But she isn’t valkyrian. She’s wyverian. At least, I think she is. It’s all very strange.’
Valkyrians, though stripped of the memories of their past lives upon rebirth, always retained knowledge of the world—the kingdoms, the gods, the stories woven through time like golden threads. They knew of distant lands, even if they had never walked them.
‘Strange how?’ Freya had set her spoon aside, her eyes narrowing with a dawning edge of suspicion.
Ylva shrugged, her expression troubled. ‘She doesn’t look like a wyverian I’ve seen before. There’s something… off about her.’
‘What do you mean?’ Freya’s voice was low now, coaxing but tense.
Ylva exhaled, brushing a hand across her forehead. ‘It’s only a dream.’
But Freya reached out and took her hand, gently at first, her grip firm but warm. ‘Tell me. Please.’
Startled, Ylva glanced down at their joined hands, surprise playing on her face.
‘I’ve never been to wyverian lands, but I don’t think that’s where I am in the dream,’ Ylva said softly. ‘And the girl… she seems wyverian, yes. But her eyes—’
Freya stilled, every muscle locked in place. Her grip unconsciously tightened.
‘Her eyes?’ she asked, her voice suddenly taut.
Ylva flinched slightly. ‘You’re hurting me.’
Freya leaned in, her grip now firm as iron. ‘What colour are her eyes, Ylva?’
A pause. A heartbeat.
‘They’re purple.’