Chapter Thirty-Seven
I’ve heard stories, old and half-forgotten, that claim the valkyrians were the last of all beings to be created.
That the gods, ever amused, sat back and watched as the kingdoms tore one another apart.
But the goddess Themis grew weary of the bloodshed.
She, unlike the others, desired balance.
So she forged the valkyrians as protectors, guardians meant to bring order to the chaos wrought by divine hands.
Yet, as with all things touched by the gods, others intervened. And in time, the valkyrians were not left untouched by corruption.
Some say that although they were made to protect, they are just as capable of destruction. That they would not hesitate to reduce a kingdom to ash if it meant saving another.
Tabitha Wysteria
Freya and Ylva had left behind the lofty sanctuary of the Kingdom of Air some days prior.
Mounted upon their winged steeds, they had soared from the edge of the floating isle, the sky yawning wide beneath them.
Only after Freya had triple-checked Ylva’s posture and grip around her beast’s mane, ensuring the girl wouldn’t plummet into the sea below, did they descend, the wind singing through their hair as they glided towards the mainland.
They had flown long over the churning ocean before reaching land, where Freya’s sharp eyes caught sight of movement below: a group of witches marching northward. With great care, the pair had kept to the skies and mountain shadows, watching without being seen.
It was a sight both formidable and unsettling, so many witches and warlocks gathered in one place. But what stole Freya’s breath was the figure at the front.
Vera.
Laughing as though the world were not on the verge of ruin.
‘Who is that?’ Ylva asked quietly from their vantage point atop a crag overlooking the border of the wolverian kingdom.
The damp, fertile soil of the Fae lands had begun to give way to frostbitten patches of snow, the earth hardening beneath looming peaks.
Below them, the witches had made camp in an open clearing.
Freya’s gaze locked on Vera, seated by the fire as if she owned the day.
‘Do you know her?’ Ylva pressed, brow furrowing as she noted the way Freya’s shoulders had tensed.
‘I used to,’ Freya said, her voice little more than a breath. Her eyes swept across the camp, rapidly counting over a hundred, at least. A small army cloaked in smoke and spells.
Turning from the view, she settled herself with her back to a great slab of stone that concealed them from sight. Her attention wandered to the two winged horses—one chestnut, the other ivory—grazing quietly nearby. Anchors of a world that still made sense.
‘What do you mean, you used to?’ Ylva asked, her curiosity sharpening.
Freya plucked at the wild grass absently, fingers dancing over the blades. She wasn’t in the mood to explain, but Wren’s relentless inquisitions had taught her that silence only invited more questions. Ylva, she suspected, would be no different.
‘I think she’s no longer the witch I once knew,’ she said at last.
Ylva’s brow furrowed deeper. ‘What does that mean?’
Freya’s eyes flicked up, meeting Ylva’s with a glint of something unreadable. ‘I think that isn’t a witch at all.’
Confusion clouded the girl’s expression.
With an exaggerated sigh, Freya rolled her eyes and waved her off. ‘You don’t need to know every secret that passes through the world. Start unpacking. We’ll stay here for what’s left of the day and the night, most likely. Only the gods know how long they’ve been camped down there.’
‘Where do you suppose they’re headed?’ Ylva mused aloud, brows drawn together in thought. Before Freya could answer, she continued, ‘It must be the wolverian castle. But for what purpose?’
Freya bit the inside of her cheek, holding back her words.
A part of her pitied Ylva. So earnest, so determined despite the fractured memories.
And yet, perhaps ignorance was a kindness.
If the witches truly sought to destroy House of Snow, then Ylva, who remembered none of them, would be spared the grief.
There would be no mourning for a family she no longer recognised. Perhaps that was mercy.
‘We ought to eat,’ Freya said at last, choosing practicality over conversation.
Ylva nodded and darted off to the horses, where their satchels hung heavy with provisions.
She returned swiftly, laying out a modest spread: dried meats, salted fruits, nuts, and a wedge of crumbly cheese.
They ate in silence, the hush between them as thick as the mountain mist. But Freya could feel Ylva’s gaze shifting towards her again and again, subtle as a thunderclap.
‘Spit it out,’ Freya muttered around a mouthful of dried meat. ‘Keep staring like that and I’ll roll my eyes so hard they’ll fall out of my skull.’
Ylva choked on a slice of apple, coughing softly into her hand. Thankfully, they were high above and well beyond earshot of the witches below. No sound, however loud, would reach the enemy camp.
‘If the witches are heading north…’ Ylva began, her voice steadier now, eyes sharpened like steel. ‘If they attack the wolverians… there won’t be enough time to return and warn the valkyrians before it’s too late.’
Despite the hole where her memories once lived, Ylva had been brought up to speed after her rebirth.
Valkyrians made it a point to educate every sister anew on current politics, military movements, the delicate threads of diplomacy.
Knowledge, they believed, was the cornerstone of unity.
How else could all valkyrians vote, if not informed?
Freya said nothing, chewing slowly, her focus fixed on some distant, indifferent horizon.
‘But you already knew that,’ Ylva added, her jaw tight, voice laced with quiet betrayal.
Freya exhaled a quiet sigh, plucked a few slices of apple, and tossed them towards the horses, who nickered gratefully as they chewed.
She did not speak at once. Instead, she allowed herself the time to truly look at Ylva.
No, not Ylva, not really. It was Wren’s face she saw.
So achingly familiar. So heartbreakingly young.
Wren, who had barely stepped into her twenties before fate had seized her by the throat and remade her into something immortal.
A valkyrian. A warrior carved out of sorrow and steel.
When Freya finally spoke, her voice was cool, quiet. ‘What do you wish for me to say?’ The sharpness of her tone landed like a slap. Ylva flinched, leaning back as though the distance might soften the sting.
‘So what, then?’ Ylva demanded, voice trembling. ‘We simply stand by and watch as innocent wolverians are slaughtered?’
‘You heard Alma,’ Freya said, popping a few nuts into her mouth with a shrug. ‘We are observers. Nothing more.’
‘Unless innocent lives are at risk. Then surely—’
‘Then surely what?’ Freya cut in, her glacial blue eyes glinting with dry amusement. ‘You’ll fly down there, blades drawn, and stop a hundred witches yourself? Come now. No. We observe, and we leave them to their war.’
‘That’s not—’
‘That’s not what?’ Freya’s snort was laced with something bitter, ancient.
‘The valkyrian way? Let me remind you of a piece of history you may have forgotten in your rebirth. A hundred years ago, the drakonians razed the Kingdom of Magic to ash. And where were the valkyrians then? Did they intervene? They could have. But they did not. The Great War raged on for years while they stood idle, watching a kingdom burn. Only when the end was already upon us did they raise their swords and pretend to play saviours.’
Ylva’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. Her voice, when it came, was barely a breath. ‘But why…?’
‘I’ll teach you my own lesson,’ Freya murmured, dropping a few more nuts into her mouth, the weight of sorrow coiling like ivy around her heart.
‘No one in these wretched eight kingdoms is truly innocent. They all bear bloodstains, whether upon their hands or buried deep within their souls. And more often than not, it’s those who shout the loudest about being righteous, kind, or brave who are the most deceitful of all.
They’re the ones who never listen, who trust only the sound of their own voice.
They call themselves merciful, but only because they’ve convinced themselves that their way causes no harm.
And they call themselves brave, when in truth, they fear any world not shaped in their own image. ’
She sighed, rolling her neck to ease the stiffness earned from nights spent sleeping on the ground. ‘Valkyrians are so paralysed by the fear of repeating their past mistakes that they’ll do precisely that, over and over again. That is their gravest flaw.’
‘Why didn’t they do anything?’ Ylva asked, her voice small. ‘During the Great War?’
Freya looked down at her pale hands, deceptively youthful but bearing the spirit of someone who had walked through centuries. ‘Because to intervene would have meant killing more lives than letting a few burn. Eliminating one kingdom was easier than reshaping the world.’
‘But that’s wrong. The witches didn’t deserve—’
‘No one was innocent, Ylva,’ Freya said sharply, cutting her off. Her voice was quiet, but it was laced with fatigue.
Ylva exhaled, long and heavy, frustration dancing across her features.
She grabbed a wedge of cheese and bit into it in silence, her stare distant.
Freya couldn’t help the faint grin that tugged at her lips as she watched her.
There was more the girl wanted to say. Freya could see it, plain as day, but for now, she was keeping it locked behind clenched teeth.
After a few minutes of quietly observing the valkyrian make a series of faces as she chewed, Freya gave in with a sigh, brushing the crumbs from her lap. ‘Come on then,’ she said, tone dry but not unkind, ‘say what’s gnawing at you and be done with it.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Ylva replied with a shrug, attempting nonchalance.
Freya rolled her eyes. ‘You’re not five years old. Speak.’
Ylva paused, then set aside what was left of her meal.
She wiped her hands on her bare legs, mud-streaked from the forest floor and left exposed by the sparse armour the valkyrians so favoured.
She didn’t seem to mind the grime, and the image tugged at something deep in Freya’s memory.
Wren wouldn’t have cared either. She would’ve worn the mud like a second skin and laughed when someone told her otherwise.
Freya stared at her, really stared, wondering if the ghost of Wren lingered somewhere beneath the surface of this new girl. Wondering… and foolishly hoping. Because if there was even a fragment of Wren still breathing in Ylva’s chest, there might yet be a chance to bring her back.
But you shouldn’t care.
And she didn’t. Not truly. Freya had her own battles, her own burdens. If Wren was lost forever, if this girl remained Ylva and no more, what did it matter? The world was full of lost souls with familiar eyes and forgotten names. Freya had seen hundreds. Thousands.
And yet...
‘I just hope…’ Ylva began softly, her voice fragile and small, as though speaking through a dream, ‘I just hope that whoever I was before… I was truly kind. That no matter what happened, I would’ve always tried to do what was right.’
Freya’s chest clenched, the pain sharp and unexpected. Her fingers curled tightly around the leather strap of her satchel, hidden in the shadows, the whiteness of her knuckles giving her away. That single sentence had cut deeper than it had any right to.
‘You were,’ she whispered, voice barely audible.
Ylva turned her face, searching Freya’s expression. ‘How can you be so sure?’
Freya met her glare. ‘Because I’ve never been either kind or good.
So I recognise it when I see it.’ She stood, brushing herself off, beginning to gather their belongings in preparation for sleep.
Her eyes strayed one last time to the camp below, to the flickering firelight that danced across the face of the witch named Vera.
But only for a moment. Before Ylva could notice, Freya looked away.
‘You were the kindest of us all, Ylva,’ she said over her shoulder, the words heavy with truth. ‘The world lost a brave and gentle soul the day you died.’
And with that, she turned her back, leaving the girl with starlight and silence.