Wings of Fire (GL)

The battlefield was still, but it was not quiet. Even in death, the echoes of war remained—the scent of blood thick in the air, the bodies of fallen warriors strewn across the scorched earth. The crows had begun their feast, circling above in slow, knowing spirals.

And then, they came.

A rush of wind. The distant clang of steel. Shadows descending from the darkened sky.

The Valkyries.

Freydis landed first, her boots hitting the ground with quiet finality. Her armor gleamed beneath the dying sun, her silver-plated gauntlets stained with the remnants of battle. She swept her gaze across the field, her expression unreadable. But then—her breath hitched.

Because she was here.

Sigrun.

Freydis turned just as Sigrun landed beside her, her dark wings folding against her back in a rush of feathers. Her long braid was loosened from battle, strands of gold catching the light as she surveyed the field with the same fierce precision that had always set her apart.

“We are late,” Sigrun murmured, her voice steady, but beneath it—something else. Something only Freydis could hear.

Freydis swallowed hard, gripping the hilt of her sword to steady herself. “The battle was over before we arrived.”

Sigrun glanced at her, amusement flickering in her eyes. “And yet, you seem disappointed.”

Freydis exhaled sharply, turning away before Sigrun could read her too easily. She had spent years perfecting restraint, tempering her emotions like steel at the forge. But Sigrun—Sigrun unraveled her.

It had always been this way.

From the first time they had ridden into battle side by side, from the first time Sigrun had smirked at her across a mead hall, daring her to look—to want.

Now, here they were again, standing amidst the dead, their duty pressing heavily upon them.

But the tension between them was heavier.

Sigrun stepped closer, her voice quieter now. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Freydis didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Because Sigrun was right.

Freydis had spent weeks ensuring they were never alone, weeks pretending that nothing had shifted between them on that last battlefield when Sigrun had reached for her—not out of necessity, not out of duty—but because she wanted to.

And Freydis had wanted it too.

She turned, finally meeting Sigrun’s gaze, something unreadable passing between them.

“We have a duty,” Freydis said, the words more of a defense than a statement.

Sigrun tilted her head slightly. “Do we?”

A challenge. A taunt.

And Freydis—gods help her—was losing the battle against herself.

Sigrun reached out then, slow and deliberate, her fingers ghosting over the leather straps of Freydis’s armor, lingering just long enough to be felt.

Freydis’s pulse hammered. “Sigrun…”

Sigrun’s smirk softened, just slightly. “Tell me you don’t think about it. About us.”

Freydis clenched her fists, her breath shallow. She could lie. She could walk away.

But then Sigrun leaned in, her lips brushing just close enough to Freydis’s ear to send a shiver racing down her spine.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” Sigrun whispered.