Chapter Forty-Five
A thousand years past, the witches bestowed upon each realm a magical gift, tokens of power wrapped in mystery.
To the wolverians, they granted enchanted artefacts, forged to aid survival in the unforgiving wilds of their homeland.
The desert folk received a bewitched stretch of sand, ever-shifting beneath moonlight to bewilder and repel unwelcome travellers.
And the valkyrians… they were given floating islands, suspended in the heavens like dreams tethered to the sky.
But I have always wondered, what was the true intent behind such lavish offerings?
Were they acts of goodwill? A gesture of alliance between kingdoms?
Or was there something far older, far deeper, woven into those gifts, something we have yet to understand?
In time, I’ve come to accept one thing as truth: no one gives freely, not even witches. Deeds cloaked in kindness often conceal the sharp edge of purpose. There is always a reason.
Tabitha Wysteria
Freya and Ylva had kept their distance, shadows trailing shadows, careful not to let the witches catch even the whisper of their presence. They did not need eyes to follow them; they were valkyrians, born with the instinct to track as easily as others breathed.
Freya halted, sinking into a crouch, her fingers brushing across the frostbitten earth. Footprints, many of them, pressed deep into the snow, sharp and hurried. Vera’s army was close, too close. But there was something else there, marring the pristine white…
Ylva crouched beside her, fingertips ghosting over the snow, tracing the dark smear marring the ground. Her voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with unease. ‘Ash.’
Freya’s jaw clenched. That was never a good sign, especially not when witches were involved. ‘We’re hours behind them.’
‘We should fly,’ Ylva urged, already rising and gesturing towards their winged steeds. ‘We could reach them before they unleash whatever horror they’re crafting.’
Freya considered, the thought tempting, but finally exhaled a sharp breath and shook her head. ‘We are observers, not saviours. We do not intervene.’ She caught the tightening of Ylva’s jaw but ignored it. ‘We continue on foot, less chance of being seen.’
Without waiting for protest, Freya pressed forward through the snow, the cold biting at her boots. Behind her, Ylva faltered for only a heartbeat before following, leading the two winged horses with silent reluctance.
They moved through the snow-laden forest in wordless silence, every step placed with the care of hunters stalking prey.
Their valkyrian cloaks were drawn tightly around their bodies, the thick wool catching the wind’s bite, and their boots—fur-lined and sturdy—crunched softly on the frozen earth.
Even the winged horses were cloaked in heavy blankets, their breaths rising like phantom clouds in the chill.
For hours they pressed on, driven by the faint acrid scent of distant fire clinging to the wind. Freya knew what waited beyond the trees: ruin, blackened and hollow, yet her heart felt nothing for it. The world could burn for all she cared, so long as she could cradle her family again.
But when her gaze slipped to Ylva whose brow was furrowed, lips pale with worry, something twisted deep within Freya’s chest, a faint echo of care she had long thought dead.
‘We should stop and eat,’ she said at last, her voice barely more than a breath.
Ylva shook her head, jaw set with quiet resolve.
‘You must be tired,’ Freya pressed softly.
‘No,’ Ylva replied, iron in her tone. ‘We keep moving.’
And so they did.
The forest embraced them in its muted hush, the snow here sparse beneath the canopy’s reach, though flakes still drifted lazily from above.
Yet it wasn’t the silence of the woods that gnawed at Freya’s mind, it was Ylva’s silence.
Wren had never been quiet; Wren had been wild laughter and defiance wrapped in skin.
But this wasn’t Wren. This was someone else.
Someone Freya needed to start accepting.
A sudden hand gripped her arm, halting her mid-step.
Freya turned, confusion etching her features, only for her veins to run cold at the sight of Ylva’s face, ashen and wide-eyed, carved with a dread so raw it silenced even the forest around them.
Slowly, Freya pivoted to face forward.
They had reached the forest’s edge, where the last line of skeletal trees stood like mourners bearing witness to a silent atrocity.
From their blackened boughs hung bodies, swaying gently in the winter breeze, their glassy eyes wide and unseeing, yet seeming to warn them to turn back.
Beyond, in the small clearing, the village burnt.
Flames devoured rooftops and walls, their orange tongues licking the heavens, spitting smoke into the cold sky.
Ylva quickly tethered the winged horses to a nearby trunk, her movements sharp with urgency, while both women drew their weapons.
Freya’s hand curled tight around the hilt of her sword as she stepped forward, each footfall heavy with resolve.
Ylva followed at her back, bow strung and arrow poised, her sharp eyes scanning the shadows between the flames.
They halted at the first body, craning their necks to take in the sight of an elderly woman, her lifeless frame swaying softly, silver hair tangled with frost.
‘We should cut them down,’ Ylva whispered, her voice raw.
Freya gave a curt nod, and together they lowered the seven lifeless forms one by one, laying them gently in the snow as if returning dignity to their broken souls. She longed to dig graves, to give them peace beneath the frozen earth, but time was a luxury they did not have.
‘We need to check the village for survivors,’ Freya said, her voice carrying the weight of command.
Moving cautiously, every step deliberate, they approached the burning settlement. Freya’s blue eyes swept the charred husks of huts, each one collapsing under the hunger of flame. Then her gaze snagged on something at the forefront of the village, something arranged deliberately, welcoming them.
Heads.
Dozens of them, severed and mounted upon wooden poles, silent sentinels of horror.
Freya let her sword-hand fall limp at her side, her shoulders bowing beneath the weight of the horror before her.
Her grip on the hilt tightened until her knuckles whitened, the cold metal biting into her palm as she stared at each severed head, each frozen face.
Their blue eyes stared skyward, glassy and unblinking, as though in their final moments they had turned heavenward, whispering silent prayers that had gone unanswered.
A curse slipped past Freya’s lips, low and bitter.
Ylva rushed ahead, bow drawn and ready, weaving between the burning huts as she shouted for survivors. Her voice echoed hollow against the crackle of fire and the groan of collapsing timber. But Freya already knew there would be none. There was a stillness in this place that only death could bring.
‘Not even the children were spared,’ Ylva whispered when she returned, her voice trembling as she stood beside Freya, eyes wide and bright with fury.
‘Come,’ Freya said, her voice low, heavy with restrained grief. ‘We need to return for the horses.’
‘Do we not bury them?’ Ylva’s words caught in her throat, disbelief flaring in her tear-bright eyes.
‘We do not have time.’
‘But—’
‘If we linger to bury the dead, we’ll lose the witches’ trail,’ Freya said firmly, though her tone softened at the edges. ‘And there may be more villages in their path.’
Ylva’s jaw tightened, her voice a dangerous whisper. ‘Even if we do reach them… we are forbidden to intervene.’
‘Yes,’ Freya replied, spinning on her heel to retrace her steps. But she halted almost instantly, the silence behind her slicing through the air like a blade. No footsteps followed.
Freya turned sharply just in time to see Ylva darting towards the far edge of the village, racing for the tree line where the witches had likely vanished into the forest.
‘Damn it!’ Freya spat, lunging after her. Snow dragged at her boots, slowing her, while Ylva flew across the white expanse with startling speed, as though some buried part of her wolverian blood had awakened at last.
Freya caught up with Ylva just as the younger woman broke into the shadowed embrace of the woods. She seized Ylva’s arm, her grip like iron. ‘What in the gods’ names do you think you are doing?’
‘I’m going after them,’ Ylva snapped, wrenching herself free, defiance blazing in her eyes. ‘You can return for the horses and follow your precious orders. I will not.’
‘Damn it, Ylva, you can’t—’
A searing blast of magic tore through the air, cutting Freya’s words short and hurling both valkyrians off their feet.
Freya slammed against the rough bark of a tree, the impact stealing the breath from her lungs.
She forced herself up, snatching her sword from its scabbard with a hiss of steel.
Beside her, Ylva was already crouched and steady, her bow drawn, the string taut, an arrow aimed high into the dark lattice of branches.
A cackle split the silence, wicked and mocking, rippling through the trees like the call of some unholy bird.
Freya scanned the shadows, every sense sharpened, but no figure emerged. No flash of purple eyes, no glimmer of spellcraft. Step by careful step, she edged towards Ylva until they stood back to back, their breaths shallow, hearts beating in unison.
‘Prepare to run,’ Freya murmured. ‘I’ll distract them.’
‘No,’ Ylva retorted, her voice iron. ‘I won’t leave you.’
Freya closed her eyes for a fleeting moment, swallowing her anger. ‘Do not be difficult. That is an order—’
Another lance of green magic screamed past, shattering the bark of a nearby tree in a burst of splinters. Ylva spun and loosed her arrow in one fluid motion. A strangled cry cut through the trees. A hit.
And then chaos erupted.
The forest erupted into life, shadows uncoiling as if the trees themselves had birthed them, and within heartbeats a dozen witches and warlocks encircled them, their eyes gleaming like feral predators in the half-light.
Freya clenched her jaw, every instinct screaming to unleash the godlike power coiled within her veins, power enough to silence them all in a single breath. But Ylva must not know. Not yet. So Freya gripped her sword tighter and chose to fight as a valkyrian, biding her moment.
Ylva loosed arrow after arrow with swift precision, yet the witches deflected each strike effortlessly, shimmering wards flickering with every impact.
Freya lunged at the nearest witch, ducking low as green light flared from the woman’s hands.
The blast seared the air above her head, harmless as Freya slid across the snow, the cold biting her palms. She rose in a single fluid motion, her valkyrian blade singing as it carved through flesh and sinew, slicing clean through the witch’s throat.
A warlock’s attack came fast, emerald energy sparking against the steel as Freya turned her sword into a shield, its weight reverberating up her arms. In the same breath she drew a dagger from her hip and hurled it, silver flashing before it buried itself in his leg.
His scream was music enough to buy her time, and she drove her boot square into his face, the crunch of bone echoing like brittle wood.
But no matter how swiftly she felled one foe, another filled their place, closing in with relentless precision.
Her eyes sought Ylva, finding her struggling, her bowstring drawn and released again and again in a rhythm as frantic as her heartbeat.
The enchanted valkyrian quiver at her side ensured an endless stream of arrows, each one tipped with the ancient magic of their ancestors, a gift forged by witches a thousand years ago so a valkyrian would never fight empty-handed.
And still, it would not be enough.
Noise travelled far in such silence. This skirmish would summon more witches, more warlocks, until the forest drowned beneath an army. And no matter how formidable Freya was, even she could not fight an army alone.
Freya swung her sword once more, steel biting through the cold air, before twisting it into a shield against yet another blast of magic.
Yet her gaze kept flicking back to Ylva, who was slowly being driven against the rough bark of a tree, her bowstring straining, her arrows loosed in frantic rhythm.
The witches had noticed her falter and, emboldened, crept ever closer, hungry smiles curling their lips as they advanced.
Freya cursed under her breath.
They were losing this battle.
And then she saw it, a witch raising her hands, power already blooming in her palms, ready to strike Ylva down. Freya closed her eyes. She reached into the buried places of herself, places she had sworn to keep chained, and summoned her power.
It felt like coming home.
Like breathing for the first time in centuries. Like the return of a part of her soul she had cast into darkness long ago, now breaking free in an unstoppable rush. It was life. It was her.
Freya screamed, lifting her hands as raw energy surged through her veins and burst outward in a blazing shockwave, slamming into the witches and warlocks like a tidal wave of pure force. One by one they collapsed, their bodies strewn across the snow, unconscious before they even touched the ground.
She did not hesitate.
She snatched up her sword and sprinted for Ylva’s side.
‘What…’ Ylva’s wide, ocean-blue eyes darted from Freya to the fallen witches, disbelief etched across her features. ‘How did you…’
Freya grabbed her wrist and pulled. ‘No time. Run.’
In an instant, the shock melted from Ylva’s face.
The soldier, the valkyrian, returned, her expression sharpening into iron focus.
She nodded once, raising her bow again as they fled, tearing through the forest, over the scorched fields where the village still burnt, and into the shadows of the next wood where their winged horses waited.
They mounted without slowing.
‘We need to hide,’ Freya said, spurring her beast into a gallop.
And together, the two valkyrians vanished into the depths of the forest, shadows swallowed by shadow.