Chapter 544: The Twelve Valkyries.
The Hall of Valhalla was so vast that even the sound of echoes seed lost in the heights of the golden ceiling. Imnse columns, carved in ancient runes, supported the space as if carrying not just stone, but the entire weight of the world. War banners, trophies, and relics of past battles hung on the walls. In the center, a circular table of black marble, large enough to gather the most powerful spirits of the nine realities.
And there they were.
Odin’s twelve Valkyries—daughters of war, judges of valor, executors of the All-Father’s will. No army or god would dare face the combined might of their forces.
Brynhildr stood at the head, as always. The strongest, the proudest, and also the most reluctant to bow her head to Odin. Her bearing was imposing: tall, with long, obsidian-black hair, and eyes of cold steel that seed to cut through anyone who dared to look at her. Her silver armor reflected the light of the hall, and the enormous spear leaning against her chair seed to vibrate on its own, as if it yearned for war.
To her left sat Göll, the youngest and most impetuous. Golden hair braided in two long strands, greenish eyes shining with an almost childlike enthusiasm. Göll was pure emotion, a heart that burned with every word, even if sotis she lacked prudence.
Beside her sat Reginleif, her expression serene, as if she were a priestess. Her long, silver hair fell to her waist, and her blue eyes conveyed calm wisdom. Reginleif was the most rational, always diating argunts, but also the most resigned: she accepted the burden of obedience to Odin even when she didn’t agree.
Thrud, the Valkyrie of brute strength, stood ahead. Broad shoulders, defined muscles beneath scarlet armor, short, red hair tied in a simple bun. Her golden eyes burned like battlefire. For her, any dilemma could be resolved through combat.
Mist, shrouded in a dark cloak, was almost a shadow. Her hair was as white as fresh snow, and her deep purple eyes always had that lancholic glow, as if she saw more than was ant to be seen. She spoke little, but her words were always imbued with mystery.
Geirskögul was serious, rigid as a wall. Her brown hair was always tied in military braids, and her expression never changed. She was the Valkyrie of discipline and strategy, cold as tempered steel.
Randgríðr, with her dark, wild hair, had the fierce gaze of a wolf. She was known for her ferocity, her shrill laughter in battle, and now, even seated, she pounded her fist on the table as if eager for the next fight.
Hrist, her twin sister in spirit, was a more restrained reflection: fair-haired, hard-eyed, and always with her hand close to her sword. Her seriousness contrasted with Randgríðr’s savagery, but together they ford a fearso duo.
Hlökk, the Valkyrie of the war cry, had red hair flowing like flas and eyes that shone with constant excitent. She always spoke loudly, always smiling almost insanely when it ca to battle.
Göndul, with long, straight black hair, was mysterious, always leaving her intentions unclear. She smiled rarely, but when she did, everyone was attentive.
Skuld, the most enigmatic, wore veils over her face. She held within her the gift of foresight, the burden of envisioning possible futures. Her words rarely ca directly—they were fragnts, warnings, riddles.
Alvitr, with her blond hair and gentle expression, was the closest thing to a healer among them, though she was equally lethal in combat. Her blue eyes held a rare compassion among the sisters, but her blade never wavered when needed.
Lastly, Eir, the Valkyrie of Healing, sat silently, always observing. Unlike the others, her aura was calm, but everyone knew her presence ant war and wounds were always near.
The entire hall was gripped by tension.
It was Brynhildr who broke the silence:
“Odin…” she said, her voice as steady as thunder. “You want to get involved in this damn tournant again.”
Her eyes glittered with disdain.
“But I’m not in the least bit in the mood to participate in this nonsense.”
A murmur ran through the table.
Reginleif was the first to respond, her voice calm but heavy with resignation.
“The wisest choice is simply to follow Odin’s orders.” She lowered her eyes, stirring the cup in front of her. “It doesn’t an we support him. But ignoring his order… that’s not sothing we can simply do.”
Thrud slamd his fist against the table, making the wood vibrate.
“What difference does it make?” she said, her voice roaring like a war hamr. “If there’s a tournant, everything is decided by force. The strongest wins. Period.” She crossed her arms, her eyes blazing. “Then let the tournant happen.”
Mist lifted her purple gaze and murmured, almost like a breath, “And which gods will participate this ti?”
They all looked at each other.
It was Göll who answered, her tone a little hesitant:
“There’s no list yet.” She played with the end of her braid nervously. “But many seem to be interested. After all… it’s been four hundred years since the last event like this.”
The mory fell to the table like a stone in a pond.
Geirskögul broke the silence, her voice hard and impatient:
“And why did sothing like this take so long to be done?”
Brynhildr took a deep breath, her eyes closing for a mont, as if it were painful to rember. When he spoke, his voice was grave, almost a warning.
“Because the last incident was caused by… that demonic red-haired woman.”
The words echoed through the hall.
All the Valkyries shuddered simultaneously, as if the na didn’t need to be said.
And then, in a unison whisper, they looked at each other and asked:
“Will Sapphire Agares… participate?”
The hall fell into a deathly silence. Even the flas of the torches seed to waver, as if the air itself had frozen with the mory of that na.
Sapphire Agares. The demon who had marked the last tournant with blood and chaos, who had defied even the order of the gods.
The na sounded like a curse, like a harbinger of disaster.
Brynhildr closed her eyes and pressed her fist to her mouth, thoughtful. The weight of that na hung over them, and none dared to finish the thought.
“What the hell kind of monsters are going to co out this ti?…” Brynhildr muttered…
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