Chapter 67 Danica
Danica
The great hall of ásgard falls silent as the truth of Baldr's fate echoes off ancient walls.
Frigg's fingers whiten against her throne's armrests, immortal face crumpling as each word strikes like physical blows.
Beside her, Odin sits motionless, his remaining eye fixed on some distant point none of us can see.
Bryn kneels before Odin, her shoulders slumped in defeat. "AllFather, I am sorry…I Failed ásgard." Her voice cracks. "I should have known sooner that Baldr—"
Odin leans forward, his single eye piercing through Bryn. "Já, Valkyrie. Was it not your sworn oath? To shield this realm and its prince?" Each word falls heavy as judgment.
I feel Bryn's pain radiating through the Faerite Stone, but seriously, this is getting old. It's like watching a tennis match of guilt and blame, and I'm about to grab the racket and whack them both over the head with it.
Bryn's head bows lower. "I failed to—"
"Oh my god, enough!" The words burst out of me, my patience snapping. "Bryn, you didn't kill Baldr. You didn't hand Loki a 'Go Fuck Shit Up' free pass. This pity party shit stops."
Erik's hand finds Bryn's shoulder, silver eyes fierce. "Dani is right, this ends now."
I get it—the AllDadddy just found out a wannabe snake whisperer murdered his kid. Grief makes people act like assholes, even divine ones. But watching Bryn beat herself up over Loki's epic betrayal is making my savior senses tingle, and not in the good way.
Odin's eye locks onto me, and my throat constricts. Shit. Did I just overstep my bounds? Mouth off to the God of Gods in his own hall while he's grieving his dead son?
Way to go, Dani. Real smooth.
But goddamn it, I'm sick and tired of watching Bryn flagellate herself for things beyond her control.
She's been through enough already, what with the whole 'destined to be a savior's mate but psych, just kidding' thing.
Losing everything she's known—she doesn't need to add 'failing to stop a god of lies and trickery' to her guilt resume.
So I lift my chin and meet Odin's stare head-on.
Because if there's one thing I've learned in this whole 'prophesied savior' gig, it's that sometimes you have to stand your ground.
Even if your knees are shaking and your palms are sweating and you're pretty sure you might puke on an ancient Norse god's boots.
The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring.
I can feel Bryn's tension, Erik's readiness to jump in front of me if Odin decides to go all 'wrath of the gods' on my ass.
But Rhyland's reaction really sends a shiver down my spine.
He's coiled tight, every muscle tensed, ready to tear Odin apart if he so much as twitches in my direction.
The bond between us thrums with his barely restrained fury, a hurricane just waiting to be unleashed.
But I don't back down. I can't. Not when it comes to the people I love.
Finally, Odin's eye narrows. His lips twitch beneath his beard, and for a moment I'm sure he will smite me where I stand. But then he inclines his head, just a fraction. "Bold words, Lightborn." His voice is like gravel underfoot. "But perhaps not unwise."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Holy shit. I just faced down Odin and lived to tell the tale. Mark that one down in the record books, folks.
Rhyland's hand finds mine, his grip tight enough to border on painful. "You're going to be the death of me, woman." His mental voice is a growl, equal parts exasperation and fierce pride.
"Hey, you knew what you were signing up for when you mated me," I shoot back, squeezing his hand. "Savior of the Realms, remember? Mouthing off to the gods kind of comes with the territory."
His answering snort echoes through my head, and for a moment, the weight of everything—Baldr's death, Loki's betrayal, the looming threat of Moretemis—feels just a little bit lighter. Because with Rhyland by my side? I can face anything—even the wrath of an AllFather.
Frigg's sob shatters the silence. Her shoulders shake as she presses trembling fingers to her lips, each tear crystallizing before hitting the ground.
My heart aches, knowing I'll never meet the real Baldr—the true prince of ásgard, not the serpent who wore his face like a carnival mask. Another thing to add to Loki's tab of cosmic fuck-ups.
Heavy footsteps echo through the hall, and we turn to see Heimdall approaching. His golden armor catches the torchlight, making him look like a walking sun. His ancient eyes—those eyes that see everything—fix on Odin.
"AllFather." His voice resonates with the weight of eons. "The Liesmith has paid for his treachery with his life." His gaze shifts to Rhyland and me, and I resist squirming. "The Savior and her mate have proven themselves worthy. The Zephyrite stone now rests with its destined bearer."
"Nei." Odin's voice fills the hall, heavy with ages of grief. His eye finally focuses, finding Bryn's bowed head. "Even your sight was clouded, Heimdall. And my queen..." His words falter as Frigg's quiet sobs pierce the air.
Heimdall bows his head, acid-green eyes dimming. "The Liesmith's deception ran deeper than any could have foreseen. But now..." His gaze returns to me, intense enough to make my skin prickle. "Now the balance shifts. The prophecy moves forward."
I feel Rhyland tense beside me, his hand tightening around mine. Because yeah, no pressure or anything. Just the weight of multiple realms and a prophecy hanging over our heads. You know, typical Tuesday stuff.
The torches flicker, casting dancing shadows across Odin's face as he rises—radiating power that makes my head spin.
"My son..." His voice rumbles. "Stolen from us, while a serpent wore his face."
More tears fall as Frigg weeps. The sound of a mother's grief tears at something in my chest, and I have to look away.
Because if I don't, I might start bawling myself.
And wouldn't that be a sight? The prophesied savior, reduced to a blubbering mess in the halls of ásgard. Loki would be laughing his ass off.
Odin's eye closes, the weight of loss bowing even his immortal shoulders.
"Brynhildr." Odin's voice softens. "Rise, child of mine."
Bryn stands, shoulders still bowed under invisible weight. Odin's weathered hand reaches out, gently tilting her chin up until their eyes meet. The gesture reminds me of a father with his daughter, not an AllFather with his Valkyrie.
"You carry no shame here." His eye flicks to Erik, whose hand is now wrapped around Bryn's waist, then back to Bryn's face.
Something shifts in Odin's expression—understanding, perhaps.
Or acceptance. "The path before you is your own now.
" His words echo with the weight of divine blessing.
"Walk it with the same strength that has always made these halls proud. "
He bends, pressing his lips to her forehead. Bryn's breath catches, her eyes widening as centuries of duty dissolve in a single touch.
Without another word, Odin turns, his cloak sweeping behind him as he strides from the hall. The sound of his footsteps fades, leaving behind a silence that feels lighter somehow.
Frigg rises from her throne, gliding toward me. Despite her tears, she radiates power that makes my teeth ache. Her hands cup my face, calm as moonlight against my skin.
"You freed us from the serpent's coils, Lightborn. But beware—one shadow falls only for another to rise. When darkness comes, remember—light shines brightest in the deepest night." Her thumbs brush my cheeks. "You carry more than just prophecy in your heart. You carry hope."
She kisses my forehead, just as Odin did to Bryn. For a moment, I smell summer flowers and taste honey on my tongue.
"Remember," she breathes against my skin. "The darkest night comes before the brightest dawn."
Before I can ask what the hell that means, she's gone.
The mead hall of Valor's Watch echoes with ancient stories, though the only tale I care about is how long it will take Bryn to pack her suitcase. She's gathering her "treasured possessions," which in Valkyrie-speak probably means an arsenal of weapons and maybe a few hair ties.
I can't help the ridiculous grin spreading across my face. My sister—my actual, honest-to-gods sister—is coming home with us. Like, to the mortal realm.
Home.
The word makes me want to do a happy dance right here on these hallowed floors. Sorry, Odin, but your blessing translated to "go forth and get that vampire D."
I mean, let's be real. Long-distance relationships are hard enough when your boyfriend lives in another city. Try making it work across different realms of existence. "Sorry, honey, can't make date night. The Bifrost is down for maintenance." Yeah, no.
I can't wait to introduce her to all the wonders of modern life.
Netflix binges, where we can watch an entire season of something in one sitting without any divine interruptions.
Spa days with actual hot stone massages, not whatever passes for relaxation when you live in the clouds.
Online shopping—because something tells me Valkyrie armor isn't exactly comfortable for casual Fridays.
And Erik? Mr. "I-Never-Met-An-Emotion-I-Couldn't-Suppress" is practically glowing.
Well, as much as a vampire can glow without bursting into flames.
I've seen him crack more smiles in the last few hours than in all the time I've known him.
It's almost unsettling, like watching a gargoyle do stand-up comedy.
Though if he keeps up with the lovey-dovey eyes, I might have to start calling him Sir Smitten instead of Sir Stoic. And won't Lucian love that little nugget of ammunition?
God, we have so much to cover—yoga pants, Starbucks, reality TV, and brunch. My sister's about to get the whole mortal experience, which will be epic.