Chapter 2: The Valkyries' Feast
Before Caius could formulate a protest, or even a coherent thought, Astrid moved. She didn’t ask. She simply bent, hooked one arm behind his back, the other under his knees, and lifted him as if he were a sack of feathers.
“Hey! Wait—I can walk!” he yelped, his voice cracking. His hands fluttered, unsure where to land, finally settling for gripping his own torn trousers in a futile attempt at modesty.
“You’re slow. And we’re losing the light,” Astrid said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She adjusted her grip, hoisting him higher against her chest. She smelled of cold mountain air, worn leather, and something else, something metallic and clean, like a storm-rinsed blade.
Then she did something strange. She dipped her head slightly, her nose almost touching his hair, and took a short, deliberate breath.
“Hmm,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “You smell of pine and fear. And something else… earthy. Male.”
Caius felt his face burn. He was utterly, completely captive. The world tilted as she began to walk, her strides long and impossibly steady despite his weight and the uneven ground. He squeezed his eyes shut, the dizzying motion and the sheer, overwhelming presence of her making his head spin.
When he dared to look again, the forest was a blur. The trees thinned, then vanished altogether, replaced by a sharp, biting wind and the crunch of gravel under Astrid’s boots. They were ascending a steep, winding path carved into the side of a mountain. The air grew thin and cold, tasting of stone and vast, open sky.
He peeked over her shoulder. Below, the Blackwood was a rumpled blanket of grey-green, shrouded in the mist he’d just escaped. Above, clinging to the mountain’s spine like an eagle’s aerie, was the village.
It wasn’t a town of delicate spires and white walls like his own capital. This was a place of function and fortitude. Sturdy longhouses of dark timber and thick thatch hunched against the wind, their roofs looking like the fur of some great slumbering beast. Fires burned in pits, their flames whipping in the gusts, casting long, dancing shadows.
And there were Valkyries everywhere.
They were all tall, all muscular, their hair shades of gold and wheat and ash, braided intricately or left to stream wild in the wind. They moved with a contained power that made the royal guards back home look like children playing dress-up. Some practiced with spears, the wooden shafts cracking together with a sound like splitting stone. Others tended to huge, feathered creatures that looked like wolves with wings, grooming their glossy pelts.
The silence fell in a wave.
One by one, every activity ceased. The sparring stopped. The grooming paused. All eyes, pale blue and steely grey, turned toward Astrid and her burden.
Astrid didn’t break stride. She carried him right into the heart of the village square, the packed earth firm beneath her feet. Caius felt hundreds of gazes pin him in place. He tried to make himself smaller, a futile effort in the arms of a goddess.
“Astrid,” a voice called, sharp with curiosity. “What’s that you’ve caught?”
“It’s a prince,” Astrid replied, her voice carrying easily. “He fell off his horse.”
A ripple of low laughter moved through the crowd. It wasn’t cruel, but it was frank, amused. They began to close in, not threateningly, but with a dense, curious energy. A wall of muscle and leather and intent surrounded them. Caius felt a primal urge to curl into a ball.
Then a Valkyrie with a long, white-blonde braid stepped forward, her eyes scanning Caius with clinical interest. “He’s scrawny. Is he broken?”
“His pride, maybe,” Astrid said, a hint of that earlier amusement in her voice. She shifted her weight, preparing to set him down. The movement jostled him, and his grip on his torn trousers failed. The fabric fell open.
The change in the atmosphere was instantaneous and absolute.
The casual curiosity vanished, replaced by a stunned, electric silence. The clinical gaze of the white-braided Valkyrie dropped, widened, and then shot back to Astrid’s face in sheer disbelief. A murmur started, not of words, but of sharp intakes of breath and low, guttural sounds of astonishment.
“By the All-Father’s one good eye…” someone whispered.
Another, younger Valkyrie with freckles dusting her nose actually took a step back, her hand flying to her mouth. “Is that… is that real?”
The stoic, warrior-like demeanor of the entire assembly fractured. They weren’t looking at a pathetic prince anymore. They were looking at a walking contradiction, a biological puzzle. The whispers grew, layering over each other.
“Look at the size of it.”
“—on that little frame? How does he—"
“Astrid, where did you find this?”
Their voices lost the edge of command, becoming higher, laced with a girlish, bewildered fascination that was utterly at odds with their formidable physiques. They weren't flirting, not exactly. It was something more primal, a sheer, unadulterated shock that bypassed all their training and decorum. They were like physicists who had just witnessed an object defy gravity.
Caius wanted to die. Right there. He clutched the torn fabric, his knuckles white, his face a mask of hot humiliation. He stared at the ground, at the worn leather of Astrid’s boots, anywhere but at the ring of stunned, beautiful faces.
Astrid looked down at him, then at her sisters, a slow, knowing smile playing on her lips. She finally set him on his feet, but kept a firm hand on his shoulder, preventing him from bolting or collapsing.
“It seems,” Astrid announced to the captivated crowd, her voice cutting through the buzz, “our guest is under a witch’s curse.” She gave his shoulder a slight, almost possessive squeeze. “He’s staying with me.”