Chapter Sixty
Many have pondered the quiet enigma of the valkyrians. Why they never search for the lives they left behind, the families that once held their hearts. Why, when a familiar face greets them with trembling hope, they look on with calm indifference.
It is not merely the law that forbids them from seeking out their pasts.
No, it runs deeper, etched into their very flesh.
The runes carved into their skin do more than mark them; they silence the ache of memory, dull the pull of love and longing.
Valkyrians are reborn not as daughters or wives, not as sisters or mothers, but as warriors.
And the emotions that once stirred within them, so fierce and mortal, are carefully muted.
They do not return to their homelands because they feel no need to. They do not weep for what was lost because their souls no longer recognise the shape of grief. Even when a husband, a child, a brother comes with arms outstretched, they see only a stranger.
It is a cruel mercy. To know that the one you mourned walks the earth again.
And yet their eyes hold no memory of you.
Worse still…
No desire to remember.
Tabitha Wysteria
Ylva’s eyes fluttered open, a groan slipping past her lips as a dull ache pulsed at the back of her skull.
She rubbed the tender spot and took in her surroundings, blinking against the muted light.
She lay atop a bed of blankets within the confines of a modest tent, its fabric steeped in the earthy scent of pine and smoke.
Her valkyrian armour still encased her, cold against her skin, and thank the gods, nothing felt broken.
She wasted no time. With a sharp breath, she pushed herself upright and slipped out of the tent, every muscle taut with wariness.
Her bow and quiver of arrows leaned casually against the green canvas, and she seized them at once, stringing an arrow in readiness for whatever threat might present itself.
The air was thick with the chill bite of snow, heavy upon the ground, and the sight told her instantly where she had been taken. This was the Kingdom of Ice.
But these were not wolverians.
No, the figures moving through the camp carried themselves differently, their grace otherworldly. Fae.
One of them froze mid-step upon seeing her, whatever bundle he carried slipping from his grasp as he hurried towards her. Ylva instinctively drew the bowstring tighter, the arrow’s tip hovering dangerously close to his face. The stranger stopped at once, hands raised in peace.
‘Do not loose your arrow, little wolf,’ he said gently, his voice rich and warm. ‘I mean you no harm.’
Ylva’s head tilted in suspicion as she studied him.
He was tall, his frame powerful yet elegant, with dark skin and short, neat black hair bound simply at the back.
But it was his eyes, emerald-green, luminous as sunlight through leaves, that held her breath for a fraction of a second.
Her gaze lifted to the antlers crowning his head, majestic and sweeping like living branches sculpted from bone and ancient magic.
‘Do you like what you see?’ he asked with a teasing lilt, though there was something weary beneath it.
‘Where am I?’ Ylva demanded, her bowstring taut, unwavering. ‘Who are you?’
At that, his expression shifted. Sadness, raw and sharp enough to prick at her own chest, flashed across his handsome features. It struck Ylva unexpectedly, making her falter, confused as to why it felt as though she were somehow the cause of it.
‘This camp belongs to Princess Rio Hawthorne, of House of Wild,’ the Fae said, his voice warm but cautious.
‘We journey towards the stronghold of King Fannar, your fa—’ He bit the word short, lips snapping shut as though the rest might burn him.
‘Listen… may I lower my hands? They ache from holding them aloft, and I swear upon my antlers I’ve no intention of harming you. ’
‘No, do not dare—’ Ylva began, but she never finished.
The Fae dropped his arms and closed the distance between them with disarming ease.
Ylva faltered, bow taut in her grip, uncertain whether to fire or flee.
Before her instincts could decide, he batted the arrow aside and pulled her firmly into an embrace.
The bow slipped from her hands and landed softly in the snow.
Shock froze her limbs. This stranger, with his wild beauty and antlered grace, held her as if she were an old friend long lost. When she found her voice, she shoved him away.
‘What in the gods’ names do you think you are doing?’ she snapped.
‘You’re safe,’ he said simply, relief softening his features.
‘Where is Freya?’ Ylva demanded.
‘Who?’He tilted his head, confusion flashing behind those green, luminescent eyes. ‘We found you on the ground and…’ He sighed, his gaze dipping. ‘You were beside the body of Kage Blackburn.’
‘Who?’ The name struck no chord within her.
‘You truly don’t remember us, do you?’ he asked, and something like sorrow ghosted across his face.
Ylva rubbed the back of her neck, uncertain. ‘Show me.’
‘What is it you wish to see?’ His green eyes twinkled again, a brief spark of mischief despite the gravity of his words.
‘The body,’ she growled.
The light in his eyes dimmed, and he nodded, solemn once more. Together they crossed the camp, its snowy silence broken only by the distant crackle of fires and murmured Fae voices. At last, they reached a tent. He drew back the flaps, and Ylva stepped inside.
She froze.
There, lying in stillness, was a young man with pale skin and dark hair, his beautiful face marked by curling black horns that twisted like living obsidian. A wyverian.
‘Do you know who did this?’ she asked, her voice tight, almost breaking under the weight of an unfamiliar grief.
He shook his head slowly. ‘No. But I’ve offered to return the body to his kin, so they might at least know of his passing.’
‘Why not bury him here?’
‘Wyverians do not bury their dead,’ he replied, his tone soft with respect. ‘They burn them with wyvern fire.’
‘Were you close to him?’
The Fae hesitated, as though combing through distant memories. At length he sighed. ‘I suppose. Close enough. We leave tomorrow for the wolverian castle, to see what has become of them there. Then we travel across the Kingdom of Ice, onward to the Kingdom of Darkness.’
‘I need to find Freya.’
‘I do not know who this Freya is,’ he said, tilting his head with mild curiosity. ‘But what I do know, little wolf, is that now that I have found you, you will remain by my side.’
Ylva wrinkled her nose. ‘Pardon? I don’t even know you.’
He cast one final glance towards the lifeless body before taking her gently but firmly by the arm, guiding her out of the tent. She swatted at his hand, irritation flashing across her features.
‘You’re right,’ he said with an unbothered grin. ‘You don’t know me.’ He stopped, turned, and extended his hand with a flourish, his smile brightening like dawn. ‘Then allow me to remedy that. Arden. Arden Briar.’
Ylva arched a pale brow, eyes falling to his hand. Large, calloused, and far too certain of itself.
‘It doesn’t bite,’ he teased, his green eyes alight with mischief when she only stared.
‘I need to find Freya. I really don’t have time for this.’ She turned sharply, white hair whipping in the breeze like a banner, and strode between the rows of tents, silently praying her horse might be waiting among them.
No such luck.
‘We need help,’ Arden urged, stepping swiftly to her side, his voice edged with urgency. ‘The witches were heading for the wolverian castle. We need every blade, every hand we can muster.’
Ylva halted mid-step, her gaze snapping back to him. ‘Then I should return to my people and warn them. We could rally and come to your aid.’
‘It will take too long.’
She exhaled, a quiet sigh carrying the weight of a choice she did not wish to make.
Deep within, she knew he spoke the truth, but it gnawed at her, this abandoning of duty to her own.
Freya’s disappearance loomed in her mind like a storm on the horizon, unspoken and heavy.
Yet still, Ylva was valkyrian, and valkyrians placed the needs of the many above their own sorrows.
Freya was strong; wherever she was, she would endure.
‘Very well,’ Ylva said at last, her voice carrying a soldier’s resolve. ‘I shall help.’
She deliberately ignored the relief in Arden’s green eyes, and the warmth it sparked, unwanted, in her chest. She wanted to ask him, to demand why he looked at her as though they had shared another life, another time.
But questions like that were forbidden; valkyrians were not meant to feel such familiarity, to blur the lines of discipline with attachment. She had already broken enough rules.
So she swallowed the thought, buried it where no one could see, and wiped the stray feeling from her expression before extending her hand for him to shake.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Arden Briar,’ she said, her voice edged with formality.
He smiled, so wide it seemed almost painful, as though joy itself might split him apart.
Yet he took her hand gently, his touch warm and steady, and for a fleeting moment it sent an unfamiliar heat blooming in her chest. A strange, disquieting sensation. A whisper of home.
‘The pleasure is all mine, little wolf,’ he replied.
Ylva withdrew her hand sharply, breaking the contact. ‘Don’t call me that. It isn’t my name.’
His grin only deepened, unrepentant, eyes dancing with some private amusement.
‘Is that so?’ he teased.
She shifted the sword at her hip, movements precise, deliberate, before striding back to reclaim her bow and arrows.
The bow settled across her back with the ease of an old friend, yet she could feel his gaze still on her, steady, unwavering, like he beheld not a mere warrior, but some fallen goddess misplaced among mortals.
‘And what should I call you, then?’ he asked, his voice warm with a smile that refused to fade.
Ylva’s lips curved, subtle but genuine.
‘Call me Ylva.’