Rebecca Layton - Fantasy Author 

Read the prologue & first chapter now...

Prologue 

Three days in the realm of the gods had claimed them all—save for two. 

Between the blood spilled in rivalry, bodies broken by the trials, and those deemed unworthy—none had escaped the fate ordained by the gods.

Now, as Ivar stood on the precipice, the final reckoning - time itself stood still, the weight of destiny itself hanging over him. 

Facing his opponent, he wondered —would it be him who emerged victorious as the gods’ chosen, or would he fall, and join the others in the All-Father’s halls?

Though it had been mere days, Ivar scarcely could recognize the man before him, Malik’s ice blue eyes now red rimmed and weary, bloodshot from days of sleeplessness. Fresh new wrinkles cleaved into his youthful skin, his beard once neatly kept, grown long and wild with streaks of pale gray. His stance also had weakened, his shoulders hunched forward, his body no longer as broad and proud as it once had been, only three days passed.

Ivar couldn’t see his own reflection, but he knew these few days in the gods’ realm hadn’t been kind. The final trial had taken its toll on their bodies as well as their minds.

“You will welcome my blade, Malik!” He spat, his words dripping with venom as his blade bit into the steel of his opponent. Malik smiled, flashing a row of yellow tinged teeth. In a swift, fluid motion, he spun away, retreating just as the snowstorm thickened, swallowing him whole behind its icy curtain. “You will welcome your death by the time I’m through with you!”

Ivar shifted uneasily, his opponent now out of view. He stepped back, his good eye scanning his surroundings, mindful of the sheer drop at his side. His grip tightened on his blade, though his hand trembled under its weight. If the cold or Malik’s blade didn’t end him, the gods’ curse surely would.

This was their final test - the final trial until one of them portaled back home to claim victory. Yet time was running out, and Ivar feared that neither he or Malik may last the night. This relentless curse of the gods gnawed at their flesh and spirit, the rapid degeneration weakening their vessels more and more with each passing second. He looked at his fighting hand, the knuckles swollen and painful, the skin stretched thin, wrinkled with age. It strained under the blade's weight, his grip loosening. He could feel his strength draining from him like an open vein. Between the spell and the frigid temperatures it wouldn’t be long before he would lose his grip on his sword all together.

He grit his teeth, barreling forward into the whorling snowfall. He couldn’t lose track of Malik now, especially when he had come so far. 

Between the smelting fires of the volcanic lands, the shadow demons of Jokva’s halls, the monstrous creatures of the Islands of Vedda where they preferred the taste of human flesh over bread - they had come through each trial the gods had given them. 

Him, Malik, and Hubba - his brother. 

He swallowed back the thick ball of emotion that gathered in his throat. 

Malik would pay.

Anger engulfed him, overcoming the raving grief, the bite of the frost, and the severity of the conditions - giving him an instant surge of strength.

Despite the twelve that had set out from the Mardovian shores, only one could return - and he would ensure Malik would return only to the spirit realm in which he came. 

Everyone else had fallen to the malice of the gods.

Frigg from merciless flame, her body slowly disintegrated by the volcanic fires as if she had never been at all. Kidda and Loni, along with twelve others to the shadow demons who had sucked their souls from their bodies, leaving only the shells of who they used to be. All six warriors elected from the eastern clans - to the cannibalistic creatures of Vedda. And finally his brother, only two days passed, to Malik’s blade. 

It was down to them now, and only one would be getting out of here alive.

He kissed his blade, uttering a few words up to his brother who now looked down at him from Hallva’s great halls. He hoped he was feasting well. He hoped the mead and ale were at an overflow. He hoped he was watching over him now. 

Turning his focus back on his task, he wandered through the snowfall, though he could hardly see a foot in front of his face. He had lost all sense of time. It felt like years that he had been searching for Malik, years since his blade had tasted flesh, and decades since his body had known satiation and rest. His muscles ached, the biting wind, and whirling snow a formidable enemy he had already battled too long. 

“Reveal yourself!” Ivar bellowed into the wind, yet his voice was quickly carried away. “Let us finish this so I may feast with my fallen brother, or celebrate in the house of the gods tonight!”

The feasting halls of the gods beckoned him, his mouth watering. It had only been four days since he had been hosted by the gods themselves in their temple, and he had taken everything they had offered. It was the only remaining pleasure given those who likely faced their deaths, with the slim chance of survival. He had feasted drunkenly with the remaining delegates, bedded the provided concubines, and gorged himself on mead and roasted meat - and once his blade met flesh, he would be back there again. 

He had come too far to die here and now. 

“Eager to join your brother?” Malik sneered, his voice snaking around his bones, just like his magic. 

In seconds Ivar’s back met the stone of the mountainside, his bones crunching into the rock with the powerful force. He grit his teeth as the loud crack of his left arm echoed, his sword landing onto the frost blanketed ground with a clatter. 

“I would be happy to indulge you!” Malik rushed out from the billow of mist, clearing the space between them in seconds. 

Ivar groaned as his body peeled from the stone, Malik releasing him from his magic’s grip, his reflexes slowed by the stun of the blow. Conjuring flame from his good hand he called upon his magical bond, a purple blend of energy enveloping his palm. A curl of smoke roused from his fingers, hurtling fire towards his opponent. Malik screamed as it met the skin of his face, burning into his flesh to the bone. 

“Two can play that game,” Ivar laughed weakly as he clutched his arm. “I’m not dead yet!”

Reaching into his fighting leathers he pulled out a small blade, his fingers skirting around the cool metal like a familiar friend.

 The immortal blade of Hallva. 

The apprised gift awarded to him at the last ceremony for his valor.  

The blessed weapon from the All-Father himself.

Without hesitation he sent it hurtling towards Malik. The blade cleaved into flesh, instantly separating his soul from his body in a puff of smoke. Malick’s face withered, his eyes now vacant and empty as his body slumped to the snow laden stone. 

Ivar smiled, his eyes greedily eating up the sight, before Malik disintegrated completely - leaving no remaining trace. The blade landed to the ground with a clang, the magic of it engulfing it in white flame. 

He reached for it just before the world began to whorl around him, the solidified surroundings quickly churning and blending into a stream of motion and energy.

A voice echoed through his thoughts. 

“You are worthy.”

He was going back home.

He was going back to claim victory.

He was found worthy by the gods.

One 

How many more would die today? 

The thought slid unwelcome through Sylvie’s mind as she watched from afar with those gathered within the temple, helpless and silent. The newborn babe clutched in the embrace of the high priest had gone limp, yet Sylvie could still hear the echoes of its terror in her mind. Only a brief moment ago, its shrieks sounded like lightning, bouncing off the walls for what seemed like an eternity. She couldn't fathom that pain, not just for the young babe but the parents observing from a distance. 

It was supposed to be an honor, a great gift to be given to the gods to ensure the people’s safety and prosperity. Even now, many who had gathered watched enthralled, their faces flashing with new hope as the blood threaded down and emptied into the golden chalice that awaited below, greedily eating up the sacred nectar, drip by drip. 

It was a small price to pay to ensure their safety through the winter. 

It was a small price to pay for the protection from the rumoured monsters beyond the wall. 

At least that’s what the temple told them, year after year as they ripped younglings from their mother’s breast upon the celebration of rebirth, when the winter snows began to recede and the days began to grow long. 

Without the gods protection, they would be defenseless. 

Without the gods' grace, the people would starve. 

Without complicit obedience to the temple’s demands, there was no hope. 

The people’s very survival depended on the acute execution of the rules outlined by the priesthood - who determined the gods’ will. 

Despite being aware of these realities, Sylvie couldn't help but cringe with each slice of the blade, fully aware that the ritual was far from over. Hands clasped tightly in her lap, she whispered her silent prayers to Hallva, the All-Father. Her eyes flashed to his towering statue stationed at the forefront of the temple, a sense of awe piercing her belly as she took in his one gleaming eye, a sole glittering garnet, gazing sternly down at the assembly. His two ravens, Vikkil and Hamil, carved from black wood, perched on his shoulders, their beady eyes gleaming in the torchlight.

May their deaths not be in vain.

May their innocent souls find their way to his great halls.

May he look after the families who have been left behind.

Hallva’s altar, a grand stone slab draped in crimson cloth, was adorned with offerings—finely crafted weapons, intricate carvings, written prayers, and now the golden chalice filled to the brim with youngling blood. 

Would he be pleased with their sacrifice? 

Her eyes skirted among the gathered specktators, a sea of rough-hewn faces, weathered by wind and sea, their eyes bright with anticipation. Men stood shoulder to shoulder, clothed in animal pelts and furs, hands resting on the hilts of their swords and axes. Women, draped in thickly woven wool, clutched their children close. And finally, the cluster of the elders at the head of the crowd, propped up on their overstuffed pillows and long backed chairs, eyes glittering with approval as they watched over the proceedings.

It hadn’t escaped her notice that the people were on edge, a certain urgency that one could feel stretching across the crowd as they beseeched the gods for their favor. Heads bowed, prayers spilling from trembling lips in murmured waves that drifted like fragile tendrils of smoke, curling toward the heavens.

It wasn’t just the harvest at stake. The rumors had spread like wildfire, whispered in the shadows - bodies torn apart on the edge of the forest, strange cries echoing through the night. The Karnikim were stirring again, their presence stretching darkness over the land. Sylvie’s stomach twisted as she recalled the tales she had heard since childhood. More beast than man, the Karnikim were said to leave nothing but smoldering ruins in their wake, and no sword or shield could stand against them. Villages swallowed by fire and dark magic. Clans wiped from memory. 

Salvation had come only once, through the first high priest, whose desperate plea to the gods had brought their mercy, and their protection. It was from that miracle, the Way of the Light had been born, a new religion instating the high priest as acting leader over the people, to be the bridge between god and man—a promise that, as long as the people remained devoted to their service and listened to their will, the gods would shield them from destruction. 

The great temple doors pushed open, and a hush fell over the crowd. Sylvie’s gaze snapped to the entrance, her breath catching as figures emerged.

The Drengr. 

The warriors who had been chosen to protect and defend Mardova and its people in the gods sted.

The warriors who had faced the gods trials and won.

They moved as one, their matching robes a crimson tide spilling into the temple’s sacred halls. Fur-lined shoulders swayed with their deliberate steps, boots thudding against the stone with a rhythm that echoed authority. Beneath their robes, she could see the ripple of muscle, the glint of steel at their sides - the divinely appointed weapons earned by blood and honor. Their faces were shadowed by hoods, but their eyes—sharp, unyielding—burned with something dangerous she couldn’t place. Maybe it was the strength of their magic, maybe it was the trials that they had lived through, but whatever it was, made a shiver run down her spine.

The Drengr existed for a singular purpose—to defend the realm, chosen by the gods themselves to wield unmatched power and skill against threats like the Karnikim. They were more than warriors; they were living beacons of hope, a reminder to the people that they were not entirely defenseless.

To become a Drengr was no ordinary feat. 

They were not born - but forged, their worth tested through battle, blood, and ultimately, the four deadly trials decreed by the gods.

Each trial was known to be merciless, designed to strip away the weak and unworthy, leaving only those who won the gods' approval. Those that survived, would move on in their station, taking up their sacred position, as divine warriors of the light - and all knew they would need them now, more than ever.  As dark omens stirred and whispers of Karnikim returned, the people’s eyes shifted to the high priest and the Drengr once again, in hopes for their deliverance.

As the procession approached, the high priest himself stepped aside, allowing them to place their offerings directly before the sacred altars - an honor reserved only for them.

Sylvie couldn't ignore the twinge of envy that gripped her heart. 

How she yearned to stand where they stood. 

Anyone who had the faintest glimmer of magic could feel the power rippling from the ascended warriors in rich tangible waves, and it made Sylvie’s heart fill with longing. To hold such power, such fame - was something all who called themselves Mardovian would strive towards. These chosen few had faced death itself and come home remade. They were no longer slaves to the temple, but respected, placed in positions of power at the high priest Rederick’s side. Their stories would be passed on, their glory to be known forever.

Though her own magic had barely sparked to life, she still could dream. 

It was no secret that the temple needed more priests, wielders, and Drengr, now more than ever, if the rumors were true. Anyone who showed promise was swiftly taken into the temple for evaluation and possible ascension, just as she had been all those years ago.

Magic was a coveted blessing.  

Though the land had been ripe with it, over the centuries, it had become rare and unpredictable, and only a precious few could learn to channel. Such a sacred art was only taught to those deemed as worthy, pure of blood, and showed strength and cunning - and even then, not many would be successful enough to wield. Initiation didn’t guarantee one’s ascension, as magic was a gift not just awarded, but of its own mind. It would choose its vessel as much as the vessel must choose it, and over the years it was becoming more and more selective. Those who didn’t make the cut, met a swift and painful end. 

In a world where strength was valued over all, everyone must prove their worth - not only to earn their place, to befriend and wield magic, but to earn their right to life itself. 

She looked on as the Drengr presented their gifts one by one, each rendering reverence to the gods.

"Accept these offerings in the name of the people!” declared high priest Rederick, his arms outstretched as the final gift was given, prompting unified cheers from the crowd. “Guide us, protect us, and keep us safe from evil - and in return we offer those purest of blood, and our devoted service!”

A sudden stir disrupted the assembly as two priests guided a cluster of young children forward. Clad in blood red, they advanced quietly toward the altars.

Turning towards the village, Rederick addressed the throng. "It is now time to present those who have been brought forth for dedication and testing."

Sylvie's skin prickled.  

Not every year did the temple have new devotees, and when they did, it was seen as one of the most prized gifts of all. Unlike the sacrifices in blood, these ones were to be given in service. If they passed the first test by the examination of the sacred flame, they would be offered the chance to choose the path of the light, and if deemed worthy - to ascend the trials of the gods.

 But if they failed - their very soul would be given instead. 

The village watched in rapt attention, their cheers mingling with praise as they welcomed the new arrivals. Hands clapped proudly on young shoulders as the children moved toward the altar, step by step, drawing closer to their destined fate. Envy gripped Sylvie as she absorbed the crowd’s unwavering approval. She longed to share their certainty—to embrace the world without doubt, to accept the rules and sacrifices demanded by the gods.

Yet, she couldn’t.

Despite her desire to ascend, to one day wield like the others, every day she wrestled with the methods exacted by the temple. Her heart ached as she observed the innocent faces now before the crowd - most barely out of their training years. Regardless of age or willingness, if they had awoken even a spark of magic - the control over their own lives was instantly forfeit.

"Don't fret," Tara, her chambermate, comforted, taking her hand. “They'll be safeguarded by the gods." 

As the crowd erupted into cheers, Sylvie glanced at her friend. Tara’s brown eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, her auburn curls escaping their braid as she bounced with excitement. Unlike Sylvie, Tara harbored no disdain for the ritual. She embraced its significance wholeheartedly, viewing it as both a profound honor and a necessary privilege.

Sylvie tried to mirror her friend's disposition, despite the twist in her gut. 

Unlike her, Tara effortlessly embodied the ideal servant of the light. Both revered at the temple and beloved by the common folk, she traversed the world with a certain ease, a skill Sylvie had yet to master. 

Tara clasped her hands together, holding them at her chest in awe, her laughter echoing through the crowd. "What a momentous day!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing pink. “The god’s have truly blessed us to have so many chosen!” 

Sylvie's heart tightened. Despite the enthusiasm of all around her, she stood stoic in the crowd. 

She couldn’t rejoice, when she knew only more death awaited.

Her eyes went to the roaring flame just beyond the alters, crackling wild and untamed under the watchful eyes of the gods. Many who stepped into its embrace never returned, and even if the gods permitted one to live, they would be forever tethered to the temple's will.

Her eyes searched the crowd, passing through all the differing faces - filled with joy, filled with hope. She wondered how they could so easily smile as they offered up their own children to death or service. 

 As the younglings approached the towering flame, their faces revealed a fragile balance of fear and resolve. Some clenched their fists, eyes wide, with beads of sweat glistening on their foreheads. Others squared their jaws, their gazes fixed with determination.

At the front of the crowd stood the parents of the chosen ones. Some offered reassuring nods or whispered words of encouragement as the children passed, while others clasped their hands tightly, their prayers of gratitude mingling with the murmurs of the gathering. Pride illuminated their faces, a reflection of the honor now bestowed upon their family.

How could they be so blind? 

In her unease she searched for his face. 

The only other person that had faced the flame on the day of her own judgment all those years ago, and lived. They had been mere children then, brought together by fate and bound by the sacred rite. But she had never forgotten, and neither had he.

Haldor caught her gaze, as if somehow knowing she searched for him. Those striking eyes of liquid blue met her face, and she felt her heart still as her cheeks flushed. Haldor's lips curved into a faint smile as if knowing his affect on her, his gaze lingering just a moment before he returned his attention back to the ceremony. 

Though Haldor was one of her dearest friends, something had shifted in recent years. They were no longer the children they once were. Assigned as one of the protectors of the temple, Haldor had grown broad and strong, his prowess with blade and bow unmatched. Many said he was destined to become a Drengr, and it was no secret that he aimed to claim that title come spring. Daily, he honed his skills through rigorous training, and his successes in combat hadn’t gone unnoticed—nor had his god-given looks, even by those taught not to nurture such desires.    

Relationships, especially those of an intimate nature, were strictly forbidden to women of the light. Unlike the men, they were to remain untouched and unblemished until divinely bound. Taught that beauty was a dangerous vice that could spark improper desire, many of her sisters had gone to great lengths to repel such affections. Whether through self-inflicted scars or headdresses to hide their beauty, many ensured to deflect unwanted attention. 

All had to abide by the sacred laws passed down from the temple, and the gods. This was not only for the gods’ favor, but for the preservation of what Mardovians held most dear - magic. 

There was a sacred duty to preserve purity and magical potency, so that the line of succession and magic could continue. As a result, those blessed or born of magical heritage were expected to marry only those of equal capability and strength, ensuring the power of their lineage. 

Despite Sylvie's dutiful obedience and magical potential, she was painfully aware that she lacked the most coveted qualification—pure, untainted blood.

From the moment of her birth, many questioned her heritage. 

When pulled from the womb she seemed perfect—all ten tiny fingers and toes, a crown of golden hair, and one eye as green and lush as summer.  It was upon further inspection that its counterpart told a different story, revealing her fate. A jagged score of gold sliced through her left pupil, cleaving it in two. In certain light, it seemed to glow, taking on the eerie shimmer of something wild, dangerous, untamed. It soon became apparent to many that she bore not just a deformity, but the eye of Lafar - the cursed serpent god of trickery and deceit. 

This had instantly marked her for death. 

According to Mardovian law, only the strong were meant to survive, and those born with any sign of weakness or deformity were cast from the cliffs into the sea. 

But fate, it seemed, had other plans. 

Her mother had intervened, staying her father’s hand and appealing to the gods. With their blessing, Sylvie was sent to the temple, to be forever hidden away under the watchful eyes of the priesthood. Though her life was spared, the whispers never ceased, and the rumors of her heritage and purpose persisted.  She was cast as an object of fear, forever to be cursed and unworthy of trust. 

Her experiences had only solidified this bitter truth. The elders had denied her the same education and opportunities as the others, keeping her from training in the ways of warfare and certain magical practices. It was clear they feared what she might become—what inherited evil may lay dormant in the marrow of her bones. Instead, they assigned her to the healers, to train alongside the children of the light, to never wield a sword or know a man’s touch until she was matched—and even then, she wondered if they would ever allow her to have children, fearing the potency of her cursed blood. 

She would embody all that was pure and good, staying far from the darkness they said ran in her veins. 

Sylvie clenched her fists, frustration burning through her. All choice over her life had been taken from her the moment her parents had given her up to the temple, and the sting of that pain was as familiar as the jagged scars on her back from the high priest's rod—always present, never forgotten.

She stiffened, knowing they stood somewhere in the crowd. Her mother and father, her brothers—those whom she had once called family. Though it was only her mother who seemed to care for her at all. 

Had it really been a year since she had last seen her?

She had only memories of her mother from the first six years of her life before being sent to the temple for service. After that, their encounters had become few and far between. Forming attachments with children of the light was discouraged—especially with someone like her. Because of this, their meetings had occurred in secret, behind closed doors, shielded from prying ears and wagging tongues. It was only in those rare and treasured moments, stolen amidst the sea of time, did Sylvie experience the warmth of her mother's embrace, and could briefly recall the feeling of home. 

The priest's voice bellowed, capturing her attention as the ceremony continued.  

Presented with the golden chalice, his fingers dipped into the glittering vessel, using the blood to paint two lines of crimson down his left cheek down to his jaw, before commencing the same upon the first of the children before him. 

He kneeled, cradling the child's head with his blood soaked hand, as his lips touched their forehead.

"The blood of the price paid. The kiss of the gods' mercy!" 

The crowd's voices swelled, joining in a harmonious chorus.

Sylvie shivered.

She had once been where that child stood. 

She too had felt the brush of evil’s lips upon rose blushed skin, corruptions stain upon the pure of soul. 

“And now the flame of judgment must be consulted.” The high priest’s decree resonated throughout the hall, compelling the first young child to approach the altar before the gods, where a large open fire illuminated the ceremonial ground. The sacred flames twirled in a mesmerizing dance of red and white, their unnatural color shimmering and otherworldly. Casting his gaze upon the girl before him, the high priest nodded, "You must pass through the flame."

Sylvie held her breath.

Would the girl be deemed worthy? Or would she perish in front of all? 

The gods, known for their steadfast judgments, demanded strength and virtue. Failure to meet these divine prerequisites meant the flame would deem her unworthy, reducing her to ash on the spot.

The girl stood before the flickering flame. Her face, framed with intricate braids, held a mixture of determination and fear as the other children positioned behind her, her hands fisting into her ceremonial robes. 

The village held its collective breath, every eye fixed intently upon her.

Summoning courage, the girl bravely stepped forward, her feet hesitating for just a moment before venturing into the heart of the roaring blaze.

One step, then another, each seemingly lighter than the last.

As she emerged unscathed on the other side, a wave of relief washed over the crowd. Cheers erupted, and smiles of joy spread across the faces of the onlookers. The gods had deemed her worthy, and the energy of the village became palpable, filling the air with celebration.

Sylvie's shoulders dropped, her tense posture softening as a gentle smile replaced the lines of worry on her face. 

The girl had lived.

Her gaze drifted, seeking out her family in the crowd. There, amid the sea of faces, she finally spotted her mother—her long, fire-kissed hair unmistakable. Though so near, the distance between them felt impossibly wide. 

Sylvie’s breath caught.

Was this how she felt all those years ago when she had walked through, and came out unscathed?

Then, two small hands—rosy and delicate—rose from her mother’s breast, causing Sylvie to startle. Only then did she realize her mother was holding a child. 

Last she had seen her, there had been no sign of pregnancy.

A wave of resentment rose, though she knew she had no right to it.

Life had moved on. She couldn’t begrudge her mother for doing the same.

She bit down on her cheek when her father stepped into view, an arm wrapped around her mother's waist, gazing down at the baby with tender affection. The years had left their mark on him - the lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened, as had his belly. Yet, the once-prominent vein that pulsed with stress on his forehead was gone, as if his worries had vanished with her absence all those years ago. 

She hadn’t spoken to her father since that day, nor her older brothers. 

Occasionally, Harris would offer a concerned glance when they passed on the street, his soft heart more suited to weilding his paintbrush than sword. He stood in stark contrast to Agon, the eldest, a warrior who seemed to be born with a perpetual scowl. Despite it, she had heard he had married, and had two children of his own - though she would never know their faces. Sometimes she wondered what it would've been like if she did. If her life had been different, normal, if she had stayed. Would she have known her nieces or nephews, and cherished the curves of their smiles and relished in their unbroken laughter? Would she be among them now, standing at her family's side, cooing over her new sibling? Would she still be in the free flowing fields of her parents home, her hands buried deep in the soil, communing with the earth and the spirits that dwelled within? Or would she have forged her own path, a life of her own, with someone at her side? 

Such a life had been her most ardent desire.

At times she let herself play in the realms of the imaginary, when such a reality was hers, however, those moments were fleeting, slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.

The days of being bound by blood and family felt like distant echoes from another life entirely. For her new life began that fateful day when she too faced the flame of judgment, and she had changed forever.

A young boy next approached the flame. His face set with determination, and his daring blue eyes calculated. His eyes seem to search the fire as if he could somehow master its mysteries, or pull out its secrets before his descent - though Sylvie knew it was fruitless. 

“Ascend the flame.” High priest Rederick ordered, pushing the boy forward. “May it judge you fairly!”

Though the boy’s face spoke of his determination, his limbs trembled.  His right foot made contact with the first flicker, followed hesitantly by his left - until he was fully submerged in the blaze of red and white. For a fleeting moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, suspended in time as the boy embraced his fate. 

Then, in an instant, it was done. 

His flesh melted from bone, vanishing into a heap of nothingness.

So the sacred flame continued to pass it’s judgments, taking their souls to the gods, or allowing their mortal flesh to continue. As the proceedings concluded, only three of the eight children stood upon the otherside. 

  Clasping the children’s shoulders in pride, the priests enveloped them with reverence. They had been found worthy by the gods, and would now be employed into the service of the gods until their chance at ascension. 

It was then time for the final ritual. 

The sacred rite where the high priest would open up the energetic channel within each of them to receive the full flow of magic. From that moment on, they would become a vessel for the magic to flow through, and able to channel at will if it accepted as its bearer. 

The air thickened with anticipation as the high priest approached each child in turn. 

His voice, low and melodic, wove incantations that seemed to crackle through the air, ancient words spilling from his lips that were not his own. With deliberate care, he drew runes in the air above each child, his fingers glowing faintly as he moved. The runes shimmered, hanging momentarily before descending into the children's bodies, sinking into their energetic fields like droplets of molten gold.

One by one, the children were enveloped in a soft, golden light—a pulsing glow that started faint but grew stronger with each passing moment. Their energy seemed to hum in response, vibrating in sync with the magic now stirring alive within them. 

When the final child was blessed, the high priest stepped back, his gaze sweeping over the three glowing figures before him. Their energies radiated like sunbursts, heralding the beginning of new lives—lives now bound to the gods and the magic that would soon answer their call. The channel had been opened, and their once-insignificant lives would never be the same.

Their voices rang out in practiced unison, each word steady and deliberate as they recited their vows - pledging their lives, and their unwavering dedication to the temple and its service.  As the last words fell from their mouths, sealing their fates—silver flashed in Rederick’s hands. Each would be awarded a Stagna, a silver arm ring that would enclose around their left wrist. Such a precious gift was forever to serve as their reminder of their commitment to the light. 

Sylvie glanced at her own, the silver freshly polished yet bearing the marks of years of service. Sixteen years of unwavering obedience had woven into Sylvie's very being, and as she looked at those children now, she knew such an honor came at a steep price. 

They may have survived the flame, been awarded the chance to wield magic, and entreat the very gods themselves - but their souls would no longer be theirs to keep.

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Read the first Chapter of Book Two in the Fallen Daughter Series NOW 

Trials of the Gods

ONE

Two days at sea had dulled nothing.
The wind and salt stirred exhilaration, but grief clung just as tight. And now, even here, she could feel him - a relentless heat coiling beneath her skin, always present, always near. 

Despite everything that had passed between them, the bond had not frayed. If anything, it had deepened - a pulse thrumming beneath her flesh. Expanding. Growing. It was a quiet agony, a thorn from which she could never tear free, no matter how hard she tried. They were bound, inescapably knotted together, and only now did she grasp the weight of the consequences.

 No matter where he was, Axel’s presence pressed against the edges of her awareness, and deep down she knew - even if their training together was at an end -  he still had a part to play.

Could she ever let him go?
Or would he always haunt her - a silent shadow that clung to every step?
Her eyes locked with his across the longboat, just for a second before she flicked hers away. 

Logic screamed. Yet her heart — that treacherous, traitorous thing — still wanted, needed, craved. 

Even knowing she could never have him again.

Even knowing now who and what he was.

A berserker.
A murderer.
A truth she wasn’t sure she could unsee nor forgive.

The memory struck without mercy. Flashes of that night on the cliffside pummeled through her like a storm. 

The bear, wild and monstrous, tearing through men like they were nothing. 

Bone splintering. Flesh giving way.
The fire in its eyes when they met hers. Feral, blazing, his.

The way he had changed—become—something more than human. How he had dragged Bjorn up with a  single hand and held him there, like a weightless doll dangling in his fist.

That was the moment it had all cracked.
Her trust. Her love. Her certainty of who he was.
Everything she had built with him shattered like glass beneath her feet, leaving nothing but shards to bleed on.

He had saved her life that night. Had saved it more than once during their time together. And gods, she had thought it had meant something. But now, she couldn’t tell if it had been because he cared—or because it had served some other, hidden purpose. And the cruelest part—the one that tore at the soft, unguarded edges of her heart—was not the lie itself.

But not knowing what had been real.

Had he ever meant it? The training. The careful way he’d watched her. The heat in his eyes when they met hers. The way he’d held her like she was something precious. The words he’d whispered when he finally let his walls crack open.

Or had it all been nothing more than a beautifully constructed lie?

A means to an end.
A part he’d played while she handed him her heart.

Maybe she’d never know - and such knowledge made the ache swell in her chest, hot and heavy, pressing against her ribs until it hurt to breathe.

Her only refuge was the oars. 

The burn in her muscles as she pulled against water. The rhythm of motion. The small, quiet smiles of her friends. Anything to drown out the echo of his eyes on her. Anything to forget the way her heart still ached for him… even when her mind begged it not to.

Beside her, Thyra rowed in time with Hjalmarr, their strokes steady and sure. The cadence calmed her, offering a brief reprieve. 

She had to stay focused. 

Not give into fear, longing, or grief. 

She couldn’t keep looking behind her, but keep her gaze fixed ahead. 

She was sailing toward her fate, her destiny — and at least one soul she thought lost had returned to her side. 

Hjalmarr had said little since they set off, but the silence between them was familiar, welcome. Despite all that had passed, she could not deny the comfort his presence brought. 

Even still, the questions pressed in. 

What had he endured under the temple’s direction?

What had Axel had to do, to return him to her side?

Had he truly forgiven her for what she had done?

She stole a glance at him. Sunlight broke through the shifting clouds, splaying shadows across his features - the sharp cut of his jaw, the new scar that cut across his right cheek, the firm set of his mouth. His narrowed gaze stayed fixed ahead, beads of sweat collecting at his brow as his arms flexed and strained with each pull of the oar. Yet behind those keen eyes, something sharpened, stirred - always watching, always calculating. 

Hjalmarr hadn’t changed. Ever the guard. Ever at the ready.

And she knew would need every ounce of his strength. 

Because soon, they’d be out of time.

There would only be the battle, the blood, the gods’ game. 

The weight of it pressed against her ribs, as she tightened her grip on the oar, letting the wood dig into her skin.
She wouldn’t be able to do this alone.

Allies would not be a luxury now - they would be about survival. 

And too few stood at her side. 

Her eyes slid across the boat, catching briefly on Haldor as he rowed in time with the others. 

Something tugged at her heart, but she pushed it down.

She didn’t know where they stood anymore. 

His frustration was palatable, still radiating off him like tendrils of smoke. And her own coiled within, a fury she held onto tight fisted. 

He didn’t understand. He didn’t try to. 

So stubborn, so thick-headed it made her teeth ache. If only he would open his eyes - see her. The temple. The truth.

But she knew better.

Rederick’s silver tongue had spun its lies too well. Cloaked in righteousness, shrouded in divinity - savior, exalted, and god-touched.

And Haldor, the pig-headed fool that he was - still could not see the rot.

How much more would it take?

How many more babes would have to be sacrificed? 

How many more atrocities would Rederick have to commit, before his sight cleared?

Worse - he had failed to stand beside her when it mattered most. 

And now, as they rowed closer and closer to the land of the gods, she wondered if any of it would matter at all.

Would it mean anything, when death kissed the back of her neck?

When the afterlife beckoned, wrapping its dark clutches around her?

If the trials didn’t kill her, someone else surely would take their chance.

And there were many who would be chomping at the bit for the pleasure.

Her eyes collided with Bjorn across the longboat. 

An apple hovered near his lips, but his mouth twitched when he saw her - something dark instantly sparking in his eyes. He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch, as he slowly lowered the fruit, rolling his shoulders back languidly, like a predator stretching before the kill. 

He had been watching her like that since they set sail - unwavering, unrelenting, as if he could burn a hole straight through her alone with his stare. And she saw it clearly — the hatred, the madness, the quiet purpose honed into a single sharp point.
Revenge.

And when the time came, he wouldn’t hesitate.

Slowly he raised the apple again. His teeth sank into it with a sharp crunch, the sound like snapping bone under pressure. His gaze pinned her in place as juice splayed down his knuckles like blood. 

Her throat constricted, and she swallowed hard. 

She still could still feel the imprint of his hands on her throat from that night on the cliffside - fingers clawing into her skin, the gleam in his gaze as he’d tried to squeeze the last breath from her lungs. Worse still had been his magic. How easily it had slid into her mind, threading sorrow and agony through her thoughts like poison.

She held herself back from shivering.

That night, he’d revealed a facet of his power she’d never seen before — something long hidden, carefully veiled. And now she had to prepare. Stay vigilant. Stay ready. Predict every move.

There would be no avoiding him next time.

No chance to halt his axe.

Her only hope that her magic, her training — would be enough.

And yet still, doubt gnawed at her, quiet but merciless.

She felt like a child stumbling over her own feet, hoping sheer luck might see her through. Despite the endless hours, the aching days and nights of practice, uncertainty clung like a second skin. Even now, even here — when every part of her told her this was her path, carved in her spirit and in the marrow of her very bones. 

She knew she was meant to stand in this moment — balanced on the edge of a knife between death and life. 

Glory and doom.

Yet, only the gods truly knew what thread they had chosen for her.

She let her gaze sweep over the ship — faces of friend and foe alike. All of them strung together by fate, by the gods, or some force even older still. Something had drawn them here. 

Warriors, all of them. Ready for blood and battle. Death and fame.

And there would be plenty of both.

How many would live?

How many would survive even the first day?

Soon, they would reach the realm of the gods — if the sea held calm.

If Vekta, the god of thunder, did not beat his hammer.
If the sea goddess, Frigg, did not grow greedy.
If Hallva the All-Father, heard their prayers.

For now, the waters were eerily still. Waves lapped gentle and steady against the ship’s sides, the sound rhythmic, soothing. Around her, many exchanged hopeful glances — a good omen, they whispered. A swift passage, blessed by the gods.

But Sylvie felt an unease twist deep in her gut.
Even if the sea stayed smooth…
The dangers aboard were no less perilous.

At the bow, elder Farga stood tall, his fur-lined cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. He hadn’t moved from his post since they’d set sail, except to bark orders or scold those who slowed in their tasks. 

By the gods' blessing Rederick was not aboard her ship, but she also knew elder Farga wasn’t one to be trifled with. 

“What’s that?” Thyra’s voice broke through the quiet, her eyes fixed ahead.

Sylvie followed her gaze, her pulse quickening.

“We’re approaching the portal,” Hjalmarr murmured, his voice low. 

Sylvie’s eyes widened. 

At first it looked nothing more than a faint shimmer—a distortion in the air,  like heat rippling on a hot summer day. But as they drifted closer, it sharpened. Clarified. Became real. 

A vast glittering veil stretched from the sky to sea, pulsing—alive with magic. Its surface shimmering like a  cascade of jewels strung with starlight, sunlight scattering across it in crystalline bursts. The air around it vibrated, thrumming with an ancient magic so potent it reverberated through her bones. It was as if the gods themselves had ripped through the very fabric of the world—causing time itself to hold its breath. 

Remembrance flooded through her - a strange inner knowing she couldn't place.

She had heard the stories - Godvick’s tales, the whispers from the mouths of the Drengr warriors - but no tale had prepared her for this. No voice could capture it. No words could have prepared. 

The air grew warm. The wind softened, brushing over her skin like fine silk. The portal called, beckoning. Drawing them closer.  

But she knew better.

This would be no sanctuary. 

Whatever lay beyond would demand more than she would know how to give. 

“And so it begins.” Hjalmarr said quietly as they exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of his words settling over them. 

“Brace yourselves!” Farga’s voice cut through the air, heavy with warning. “Once we pass through the portal, we’ll be in the gods’ realm. What comes next, none of us can predict.”

The crew shifted, some gripping their weapons, others the oars.

As the ship neared the veil, the air thickened. Swirling, it pulsed with a certain electricity that made Sylvie’s skin tingle. Each passing moment distorted the world around them—the sky darkened, heavy with clouds, and the sea churned. The ship groaned as they breached the barrier, wood shuttering as if resisting a heavy force. The air snapped and crackled around them, charged with heavy magic. Sylvie held her breath as they plunged into the golden veil—it’s shimmer folding over them like liquid fire. 

Magic pressed in on all sides, so thick and powerful that she felt her skull pulse with it. 

But then—everything stilled.

The world paused. The temperature plummeted, freezing the breath in her lungs.

Time fractured, and reality twisted and blurred.

Colours warped, and sound vanished.

And then without warning it all snapped back at once. 

First, was the mist. 

Thick and unnatural, it coiled across the water's surface, fast and swarming, curling around the ship without warning. Her companions were only feet away, but the veil between them made everything feel distant—blurred and unreal, like ink bleeding across wet parchment.

It was as if they’d slipped out of time itself, into a place where space warped and the air held its breath. 

The sea beneath them had changed.

Gone was the gentle current.

Now it churned, black and bottomless, seething with a force that seemed to take on a life of its own.

Lightning split the sky in jagged bursts.

Winds shrieked like dying spirits being torn from the world.

Rain fell in raging torrents, and the waves rose in towering swells, tossing the ship as if it were nothing more than a scrap of wood caught in the whorling tempest.

Delegates scrambled across the deck, darting like panicked mice. They heaved at the oars, tightened the sails, hands slipping on the wet ropes as they fought to keep the ship on course.

Sylvie’s heart pounded. Gripping her oar with white-knuckled fists, muscles straining, breath ragged. 

The storm raged around them.

Thunder cracked overhead, and the sea surged, rocking the ship sideways. Sylvie watched in terror as some souls were sent tumbling into the depths, swallowed whole by Frigg’s fury.

Screams split the air.

Others clung to the railings, faces pale with terror, eyes wide as the waves threatened to take them next. 

“Vekta beats his hammer!” One of the men called out, his long brown hair blowing unbound, fingers digging into the wood of his oar. “Frigg looks to take us all into her depths!!”

Sylvie planted her feet.

She would not fall.

She would not let go.

She pulled against the fury with every ounce of her strength. 

“This voyage is cursed before it can truly begin!” Another yelled from the oar line, voice quickly swallowed by the storm. 

The violent lurching of the waves sent all boats that had moved through the portal careening wildly, their wooden frames groaning and creaking under the strain. 

Bjorn yelled through gritted teeth. “Where is your courage? Show your strength, lest I throw you to the sea myself!”

Sylvie’s heart beat wildly within her chest, slamming her eyes shut as another wave swelled and rolled over them. 

Shrieks sounded out but were quickly swallowed. 

When she opened her eyes again, more seats were empty. 

“Frigg takes the unworthy before they can even begin!” Farga’s voice rose around them like a coiling snake, his eyes alive and wild as he stood arms outstretched towards the heavens. “It is better they die now, then face what’s to come!” 

Haldors’ eyes met hers briefly from across the ship, nodding to her in acknowledgement, yet she saw the fear coiled in them. 

He didn’t trust she would make it through. 

She clenched her jaw, tightening her grip. 

She would keep her seat.

She wouldn’t let Frigg take her.

Not here.

Not yet.

“I will not find death now, when I have only just begun!” Haldor snarled, wrenching the oar from another who was struggling, teeth barred as he threw all his weight into it. 

Another wave slammed against the hull, sending wood splitting, and another man was gone, devoured by the dark mouth of the water. 

She watched as Axel lunged - grabbing hold of Cora before she could she swept away. His muscles flexed, drenched and strained with the effort till he could pull her back to safety.  His voice was lost in the storm, but she could feel the bond spark alive. The tether pulsing behind her ribs. Checking. Affirming.

“ROW!” Farga bellowed, as they fought the ocean waves - each one seeming determined to batter them into oblivion. She clutched the rail, fingers salt slicked and numb, the splinters biting into her skin. 

Terror wrenched through her. 

Could they be next?

She must have shot her fear through the bond because Axel turned his head, just a flicker. Just enough. She could feel him through their connection, as if just waiting to slip through the cracks. As if he kept checking to ensure she was okay, that she was still in her place even as his focus remained on battling the storm.

Hold on. 

Don’t let go. 

Another wave rolled over the ship, claiming three more. 

 Sylvie's heart retched in her chest. 

How many more would be lost before they could even begin?

“The gods are angry!” Farga’s voice snaked around them, something dark flashing in his eyes. “They seek to punish us!”

The delegates glanced uneasily at one another.

“We have somehow brought them displeasure!”

A tense silence fell over the ship, until it shattered like fine glass. 

“It’s because of her!” A man said, raising from his seat pointing a trembling finger in Sylvie’s direction. “The gods rage because we’ve taken Lafar’s blood aboard!”

All eyes swiveled in her direction. 

Fearful. 

Accusing.

Axel’s fury bled down the bond like fire, sharp and blistering.  

"We should hurl her into the sea!”

Across the deck, Haldor’s head snapped in the direction of the man, eyes gleaming with fury.

“Touch her,” He spat, “and I’ll throw you in myself!”

“She’s the reason for this storm!” The man bit back, “She’s cursed! The gods rage because she stands where she doesn’t belong!”

Sylvie froze, her breath snagged in her throat. 

“Why else would Vekta beat his hammer when the trials haven't even begun? Why else would Frigg drag so many into her depths?” 

Another wave struck, towering and merciless, smashing into them with brutal force. The ship reeled sideways. Another man slipped from the deck—gone, swallowed by the black. 

“She must die!” Another bellowed.“It’s the only way the gods will grant us safe passage!”

Many began to rise. Feet clambered against soaked wood. Swords hissed from their sheaths. Salt and rage churning within their eyes. 

Within seconds Axel surged upward, golden axe gleaming in his hand. He moved like a wildcat—toward her, toward them—but not fast enough. Those closest to her swarmed, Hjalmarr and Thyra reaching for their weapons.

Thunder cracked overhead, and blades came barreling down. 

A scream rang out—close, raw—and Sylvie surged to her feet, yanking her sword free just as rough hands grabbed her from both sides. 

Fingers dug into her shoulders—crushing, desperate. Another twisted a fist in her braid, snapping her head backward, causing her vision to blur. 

She whorled hard, her blade slashing outward blindly until it met flesh. 

A howl tore into the air. 

Lightning flared above. 

He fell back.

But only another took his place.

She glimpsed Axel’s axe flashing in the chaos. Hjalmarr’s blade swinging wide. Haldor parrying three blades at once. Thyra clawing through the mass to get to her. 

They were fighting. Gods—they were fighting for her. 

But they were too few. 

A fist slammed into her ribs—punching the air straight out of her lungs. 

She staggered, a gasp leaving her lips—and then a hiss as cold steel slid the length of her arm. 

Warm blood trickled. 

She slashed outward, but this time her blade was caught mid swing by Bjorn’s hand.

Snarling, she summoned her magic. It surged forward in answer, melding with her anger, melding with her pain. 

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. 

Not again.

Light exploded outward from her palm with a searing scream, a golden beam tearing through flesh and armor, dropping the man before her like a sack of grain. 

But it wasn’t Bjorn.

He’d ducked away at the last instant, shoving one of his own in front of him as a human shield. 

She snarled, anger dripping from her like venom, rage thundering through her veins like liquid fire. 

He would pay.

Bjorn’s eyes gleamed as he stepped through the smoke.

“It might be time to learn some new tricks - serpent’s daughter.” 

Her fist clenched. She reached deep—into the heat of her fury, into the heart to her power—and pulled. The skies answered.  Sunlight ripped through the clouds in jagged streaks, bleeding flame and gold, funneling into her outstretched hands. 

Not lighting. 

Sunbolts. 

The storm screamed around them, rain slashing sideways, wind clawing through the sails mercilessly - but none of it touched her. For one heartbeat, time fractured and stood still. Like it all was a daydream in someone else’s thoughts. 

She locked eyes with Bjorn.

Power churned in her hands, building in fury, building in power - ready to be unleashed.

Ancient words floated from her lips, dark and condemning. 

But then - impact. 

Something hard and unyielding slammed into her side, ribs cracking as she was hurled across the deck. Her boots slipped on blood-slicked wood before she met the deck hard, stars bursting behind her eyes. 

Pain shot through her limbs, the shock of the blow thrumming through her rendering her useless.  

She blinked, giving herself a moment for her vision to clear.

Hands. 

Dozens of them.

Clawing, ripping, grabbing hold.

The world blurred. Too loud. Too fast.

Fear swallowed her whole. 

She couldn't breathe. Couldn’t think. 

She looked up—faces twisted in rage and madness, blurred under the heavy sheets of pelting rain. 

She felt her heart seize.

All faces she knew and recognized - all appeared possessed as they reached for her, tearing into her leathers, her flesh. 

“The gods demand retribution.” 

Bjorn’s face rose above them, his eyes flashing as lightning split the sky. 

A blade pressed against her throat.

Another hand gripped into her leathers, pulling her forward.

She thought she heard someone shout her name. 

Fear streaked down the bond. 

She turned toward it, toward him—a fist slammed into her jaw. 

White light exploded behind her eyes as her head snapped sideways. Her knees gave, as Bjorn’s laugh echoed—sharp, triumphant. 

Her surroundings spun, the world tilting on its axis. 

She was hardly aware as hands lifted her, as they pulled her upward, dragging her closer and closer toward the railing. 

A scream formed in her throat.

 She thought she called Axel’s name, but if she did, it was lost, torn away by the howling wind. 

Then—she was airborne. 

Trials of the Gods drops December 6th, 2025