I awoke to the faint crackle of our smouldering fire and the soft thudding of boots outside the small cabin I was sharing with Theo and Patchy. Turns out, Asgardians aren’t suffering quite as much as I first thought on my way into the fortress; there are still decent places to live aside from the tents I saw on our way in. The scent of cold snow still clung to the air, mingled with roasting meat and the lingering sweetness of last night’s mead.

  My back ached… And so did my shoulder. Apparently, being thrown into a battlefield, taking the coldest snow wash known to man, and then sleeping on a wooden bed with a rolled cloak for a pillow did not qualify as heavenly rest. I blinked into wakefulness blearily, rubbing at my eyes.

  Last night returned to my bleary memory…

  Marive’s voice, sharp and full of challenge: “Then prove it.”

  I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of it settle in my chest. Leadership. I had led before, of course, digitally, where safety was assured. But here… Every decision risks actual lives (At least I’m assuming this is reality). I wondered briefly if Marive felt the same burden during his time in his ‘kingdom’ or if his challenge last night came purely from some strange jealousy. The rapier had been left lying across the table between us whilst Theo attempted to break the tension with jokes.

  Theo’s endless chatter was eventually interrupted by Eirik’s hand landing heavily on my shoulder.

  "They found you fast," Eirik said, his eyes scanning our group around the table. "That’s good. You’ll need each other."

  I turned slightly in my seat towards him. “Found me, yeah. Whether we’re a team is another story.”

  Eirik’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

  “Well, you’d better become one then. I spoke to Freya. Officially, you’re Sveit Seventeen’s acting leader. Orders will start coming down in three days.”

  I blinked. “Me? But-”

  Eirik’s evaluating eyes raked over me for a long moment.

  Now, if I had to describe myself, I'd say I stand just under six feet, lean more than bulky. My hair’s dark brown and thick, sitting in a loose, uneven fringe that never quite behaves. People (my mum) have described my eyes as a warm hazel colour.

  As for muscles… Whilst I’m not a peak athlete, I’ve kept myself fit; Gods and Heroes is a very active esport, meaning most of my fitness comes from the whole-body reflexes and coordination I’ve trained to be able to perform at the highest level in VR gear.

  “I’ve seen how you fight… And I saw how the other shield warriors responded to you as we walked back after the battle. More importantly, you’re still alive after your first major battle with multiple kills to your name. That counts for more than you think in Asgard.”

  He then nodded toward Marive. “That one’s sharp… but useful. You two need to figure each other out.”

  I looked at the rapier. “He challenged me.”

  Eirik raised a brow. “Did you accept?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Do it tomorrow in the afternoon. Gives you time to eat, rest, and prepare for your spar.”

  Without another word, Eirik turned and walked back into the noise of the hall.

  Back to the now, I sat up slowly. I glanced at the bedroll near the cabin entrance where Patchy had passed out mid-note-taking, one boot off and still clutching his notebook or 'bookmark', whatever it was. Theo was snoring softly nearby, head tilted back against a crate.

  The door of the cabin slowly opened. Athena stood there, arms crossed, already geared up. Her singular braid had been re-tied.

  “You’re up,” she said. “Good. You’ve got about five hours until your ‘duel’. Breakfast’s outside.”

  I groaned. “First of all, it’s a ‘spar’, not a duel. We only fight until someone gives up or is disarmed, and tell me you’re not making side bets.”

  “I considered it,” she said, turning away. “But honestly, at this point I’m not sure which one of you is more stubborn.”

  I muttered to myself as I reached for my boots. “Probably me.”

  From the corner, Theo stirred, cracking one eye open. “Did someone say breakfast?”

  “If you eat it all, I’m revoking your ration privileges,” Patchy replied, having also been woken up by the conversation, without opening his eyes.

  At breakfast, Theo nudged me with an elbow, grinning. “My money’s on you. Although if Marive starts trash-talking you, you’re definitely losing. That guy’s a master!”

  “Thanks for the faith, big guy.”

  Patchy flipped a page. “Based on observations from last night...”

  “No,” Athena interrupted dryly. “I think Kai knows exactly what he’s in for. Marive isn’t just fighting for pride. I think.”

  I spent the next few hours doing odd ends to prepare myself and keep myself busy, checking my gear, tidying up my cabin area, and taking a walk around the fortress to clear my thoughts.

  Approaching the final hours before the spar, I sparred lightly with Theo as a warm-up, trading blows and some quick laughs, got a few words of wisdom (See: nagging) from Athena, and listened absently as Patchy offered his own nervous advice to ‘do my best’. My friend’s earnestness eased some of the tension I was feeling. The camp continued to bustle around us, a symphony of hammering, training, laughter, and muted conversations.

  Finally, it was time to face Marive.

  He was standing alone near a cabin he apparently shared with people from his homeland in Midgard, inspecting his rapier, which had been polished until it gleamed. He breathed steadily in the slight chill, his expression carefully neutral. I’d wager that beneath that calm fa?ade simmered a storm of doubt and determination; he wanted answers from me as much as I needed them about him.

  The Sparring Ring was set near the southern wall, marked loosely in the ash and dirt. We arrived to find a small crowd forming. Athena perched on a crate, arms folded. Theo leaned against a post, chewing something unidentifiable. Patchy stood, notebook in hand, observing. Marive took his place in the ring and stood poised, stance precise like a fencer.

  I drew my sword, rolling my shoulders to loosen my muscles.

  “I figured you would back out,” Marive said quietly so that only I could hear.

  “You figured wrong.”

  Both of us faced each other now in silence, letting the murmuring of the crowd leave our focus. No further words. No theatrics. Just breath misting in cold air. A single large snowflake drifted gently between us, landing softly on the ground.

  We began.

  The clash of blades was sharp and sudden. Marive pressed first, rapier flashing like quicksilver, striking with a series of short, testing thrusts. I blocked, pivoted, and attempted to counter, not with anything close to his elegance, but enough to stop him from overwhelming me.

  With each subsequent clash, I found myself moving more fluidly, as if I was slowly finding an old rhythm. Marive moved around me like a dancer, however, and even with my improvement, I felt like I was moving through water in comparison.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  A cut grazed my shoulder. Another strike cut deeply into my thigh. Pain sparked, but I gritted my teeth. I can take it. This is nothing compared to the pain of dying.

  Theo whistled and raised his eyebrows. “This isn’t exactly the sparring I expected.”

  Athena was watching closely. “We already knew from the rules of the spar that it was going to end in blood. Looks to me that Marive’s testing him for more than skill; he should have already won.”

  Marive lunged again, rapier slicing through the air toward my ribs. I twisted, narrowly avoiding serious injury as the blade grazed my side. Another stab followed swiftly, lightly slicing across my forearm despite my attempt to dodge a second time. Blood trickled, sharp and vivid, against my pale skin. I advanced aggressively, making use of the strength of my blade to force him back. I feinted towards his left arm, then swung down, attempting a sweep at his leg. He twirled to the side, barely dodging my sweep whilst retaliating instantly with another strike that brushed my cheek as I pulled my head to the side.

  The crowd murmured in appreciation at his controlled movement.

  I anticipated the next thrust; I had finally read the shift in his stance, and managed to parry him cleanly, forcing a half-step back from him to avoid my following attack. For the briefest moment, his eyes narrowed in what could have been surprise, but I wasn't sure.

  Marive adjusted his stance and launched into a new pattern of feints and a sudden high strike. Battered and tired by this point, I barely caught the real strike in time, deflecting with the flat of my blade and stepping inside the arc to press my own attack. I wasn’t winning by any means, but I wasn’t completely losing either.

  “You’re not going to win this,” he stated calmly when we both took a natural pause, before taunting me with a ‘come hither’ gesture.

  I stepped forward and, aiming low, swept at his front leg, forcing him to break his offensive stance to step back and avoid it. Bringing my blade up for his inevitable riposte, for a second, just a second, our blades locked together. “Is this truly about my leadership, or do you have some other problem with me?” I asked through clenched teeth.

  “Both.”

  Pushing away from each other, he leaned far back from my chest height swing and leaving his sword by the side, he used his leg to kick me in the chin, forcing me back. Having barely avoided biting my own tongue off, I fell on my back, collapsing from the pain and exhaustion, just barely managing to keep enough focus to hold my sword in my hand. He came at me again, and I deflected his first thrust with a wild swing, then had to roll aside just in time to dodge another thrust.

  “Yield,” he said, calm.

  I spat out the blood in my mouth. Victory was clearly impossible against his superior skill, but it didn't matter. I stood. And we clashed again. I fell again. And stood again.

  Even Athena winced when I was cast to the dirt a third time, having been both disarmed and kicked to the chest in this last attempt. Murmurs spread amongst those watching; this was now a beating, not a spar. Marive did not press the advantage this time. He stepped back, visibly annoyed by my determination.

  “I’m not trying to win,” I told him when I saw his expression.

  His brow furrowed. “Then what are you doing?”

  “To show you that I’ll keep getting up.”

  Silence.

  Finally, he lowered his blade completely, the tip of his blade now pointing to the ground. His voice, when it came, was quiet. “All blades are crude until given a purpose. You have no purpose, no goal, beyond basic survival. That is not the trait of a leader of men.”

  I wiped blood from my face, annoyed by his noble-sounding rubbish and hurting from the wounds he had inflicted on me. “Meanwhile, you fight like someone who has lost their purpose and seems to want me to give you a new one.”

  His eyes studied me with a frown at my response. After a pause, he sheathed his rapier. He didn’t seem quite so cold anymore, just strangely tired. “Yes, that’s right. I led men once. And they are now dead and gone. I have no crown left to inherit or legacy to pass on. After what I’ve done, I do not deserve one. I hope you can show me a new way forward, Sveit leader.”

  He turned and walked off.

  Silence reigned.

  Well, now I just look like a total jerk. I really can’t beat this guy with words. Theo wasn’t lying.

  At the end of the spar, a few quiet nods rippled through the gathered warriors. One of the elves gave me a small, unreadable smile. A grizzled Einherjar thumped a closed fist over his heart, eyes locked on me. I hadn’t won, but I had stood up for myself at least.

  Patchy scribbled something in his book. Theo clapped once, walking into the sparring ring as the audience dispersed. “Well. That was violent, and I, for one, am incredibly inspired. So, who’s cooking dinner if there’s no loser? We only get given the raw meat and basic supplies after all!”

  Athena raised a brow. “Not me.” Patchy quickly said the same.

  Theo pointed at me. “You would’ve lost the spar if it went on, therefore, cooking duty.”

  I just groaned and lay back down.

  Later that night, sometime after being treated at the healing tents, the meal was done, and embers had faded to quiet glows, we lingered around the fire. Theo flicked bits of hard bread crust at Patchy’s bowl while the healer grumbled and guarded his food.

  “Stop treating me like a squirrel.”

  “Then stop hoarding nuts.”

  Athena was quietly sketching symbols in the ashes of the fire with a bit of charred wood, abstract patterns tied to squad formations or some kind of magic runes. At least, that's what I assume she's doing; I didn't bother memorising any of that stuff in Gods and Heroes.

  Marive had stayed in his cabin ever since the duel.

  After being notified by Eirik’s messenger about guard duty during dinner, I, also unlucky in drawing lots, stood up with a sigh.

  “My watch is at midnight. Figures.”

  That night, long after the fires dimmed and the camp settled into uneasy sleep, I stood watch on the southern wall. The freezing wind still certainly had teeth. Stars overhead flickered faintly.

  I saw a Valkyrie standing further down the wall, leaning quietly against the outer parapet and looking up at the sky. Her wings were not just feathered like the other Valkyrie I had seen. They shimmered faintly with frost and a strange inner light; I noticed that, unlike the others, many of the feathers on her wings were ragged like a torn-up banner. She was tall, her presence sharp despite the silence of the night. Her silver-white hair was braided down her back in layered twists, bound with shards of something that looked like crystals. Her armour was scaled and asymmetrical, more practical than ornate, and one shoulder pauldron bore a deep gouge, long since repaired but not polished.

  I belatedly realised it was the same Valkyrie I had first seen on the battlefield yesterday. Her eyes, pale as frozen moonlight, did not meet mine right away.

  “You get the short straw too?” I called out to her. She did not look at me.

  “I just figured since we fought on the same battlefield yesterday, I’d come say hello…”

  “Don’t come any closer,” she said coldly.

  I blinked. “What?”

  “I don’t want you or that mark of yours near me.”

  Despite the cold shoulder, I was excited about the potential to find out more about my rune mark. “Do you know what my mark does exactly? Eirik told me he’d never seen it before.”

  She paused. As if deciding whether to reply or not, her voice was softer, edged with bitterness. “No. I don’t recognise it either, but one of my sisters had a similar kind of mark – it allowed her to speed up her own sense of time and think faster.”

  Her eyes turned back to the fractured sky, distant and unyielding. I studied her profile carefully; the cold radiance of her frosted feathers shimmered faintly in the starlight, each crystal shard in her hair glinting in the moonlight.

  “Does it hurt?” I asked softly after a long silence, unable to stop myself from voicing the question that had lingered ever since I had first seen her wings. “Your icy wings?”

  The Valkyrie exhaled slowly, clearly showing patience with me, the frost of her breath dissolving gently into the night air. “The cold itself doesn't hurt as much as the reason I got them. Some wounds only deepen with time.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She glanced at me, eyes narrowed briefly, then softened slightly when she saw I was genuinely sorry for her. “You shouldn’t apologise for things you don’t understand yet. You will carry enough burdens of your own soon enough.”

  “Maybe. But we are both standing watch tonight, and I would rather do it as friends, not strangers.”

  Her wings shifted, rustling softly like leaves caught in a slow wind. Her voice came out quiet but firm. “Then keep your distance, and perhaps we will manage it.”

  At that conversational torpedo, I accepted my fate, “Then I’ll take the other end.”

  As I walked a few paces down the wall, looking out over the walls at the plains of snow, she remained unmoving; her eyes followed me a moment longer before returning once again to the broken sky. Her wings shifted slightly with her movement, reflecting fragmented rays of moonlight.

  We kept to our posts without another word, the cold air of the night carrying only the whisper of the wind between us.

  Patchy’s Note: Basically, means ‘squad’ or ‘group’ if I understood correctly. Which begs a few questions: Why does everyone speak English? And if it is some strange translation magic, why was ‘Sveit’ not translated for us?

  Patchy’s Note:

  Sparring is not the same as training. Training is for learning; sparring is for deciding who gets the last word. Winner gets respect, loser gets dinner duty. Theoretically, it is all in good fun. Theoretically.

  Patchy’s Note:

  Sparring crowds in Asgard are a menace. They bring snacks, start side bets, and shout unhelpful suggestions like “Aim for the leg!” or “Dodge his attack!” (as if you would choose to get hit repeatedly on purpose).

  Patchy’s Note:

  Valkyries are not purely ceremonial. Each has her own saga and rune marks and her own reason for agreeing to take to the field of battle. The one on the southern wall with Kai has ‘frost’ wings, which is not something you just request from the armoury. I heard from the Einherjar that I asked that this only happens when a Valkyrie survives a soul-freeze spell (Giant Magic basically) from one of the Great J?tun Giants, which is essentially impossible without divine intervention. If the story is true, then she has stood against the kind of enemy most Einherjar never live to see twice.