Page 47 of The Last Valkyrie

“You died fighting and defending,” Gudleif said in a lower voice meant for the gods and not us, “and will be welcomed in Valhalla. I will see you again there, my love.”

The torch went out a second later, snuffed out by Gudleif’s incredible powers over the runes. She left the knoll, showing her back to us, with her tall body deflated and hunched.

“Family” . . . “My love.”

Gudleif’s words lingered long after she was gone. The contingent of students watching and waiting for the next eulogy remained quiet and thoughtful.

It was doubly hard to take Thorvi’s loss learning these new things about her, coming from the mouth of Gudleif Selken herself. Undoubtedly the rest of the cadets thought the same, as Gudleif essentially told us she and Thorvi had been lovers, partners, and possibly even wives.

I fought back a sob, trying to stay strong. A hand grasped mine against my side—the hand of Arne Gornhodr, whose own face looked waxy with tears. He gave me a sad smile and nod, which I returned before resting my head on his shoulder.

Grim and Sven were stoic on either side of me and Arne, trying to keep their faces stern and emotionless while they comically mirrored each other with their arms folded over their chests. Yet I could see the sadness in their eyes too, the twitches of concern on their chins, the wrinkles in their foreheads. They didn’t possess the implacable poker faces my “emotionless” mate Magnus carried with aplomb.

For every student that followed in Gudleif’s footsteps, gaining the knoll and speaking of their lost loved ones and friends, the weight across the audience grew heavier. Hundredsof cadets, soldiers, initiates, acolytes, trainers, and trainees, all mashed together to listen to the final words of lost souls.

At one point, as Edda Torfen took to the knoll, I gripped Sven’s hand hard in mine. He had been ready to walk away, but I forced him to stay and listen to Edda—the eldest Torfen at the academy—speak about their lost sibling, Olaf.

By all accounts, from what I’d heard floating through campus over the last few days, Olaf had died in Sven’s arms. Sven had tried to rescue him from a draug swarm, ultimately failing.

I didn’t know the gruesome details of Olaf’s death. I didn’t need to. The hurt on Sven’s face was enough—that was all that mattered to me.

“I’m so sorry, my love,” I whispered to him. “We will make it through this. I promise.”

He swallowed slowly, his throat bobbing, and nodded. The poor wolf probably didn’t trust his words enough to speak, and as Edda ended her eulogy, it was another student who took her place.

Randi spoke about a deceased acolyte-in-training from Eir Wing, a promising medic who was torn apart by draug while trying to set the wounds of fallen comrades.

Dagny talked about someone from Mimir Tomes, where she was doing her acolyte training to become a librarian under the tutelage of Tomekeeper Dahlia. Though I hated Dahlia, I loved Dagny like a sister, and to hear her lament on a dead friend brought more tears shining in my eyes.

Arne went up and spoke about Rolf Blisdan from his home village—the large young man he had personally brought here on theGray Wraith, along with me and Ulf Torfen and others. Recalling the few interactions I’d had with Rolf, I had been fond of the man.

Rolf had beaten Randi’s butt when we first started our training under Axel Osfen, as initiates. He had tossed her aroundlike a ragdoll, but hadn’t been overtly violent or mean. That incident instigated Randi to learn how to fight better from me and Grim, and she had gotten her revenge later on during our midterm capture-the-flag game, facing off and holding her own against the bigger, stronger Rolf.

Gods, that midterm seems a lifetime ago. A simpler time. Back when Astrid Dahlmyrr was alive and hated me. Before Randi and Ulf became an item.

Most everyone here had seen Rolf courageously—foolishly—take on that giant bull-like monster head-on, trying to distract it while we worked to bring it down. His actions led to a violent, savage death, impaled by that monster’s horn.

But his death was largely indicative of the entire ceremony: It was a brutal affair. There was no getting around that. In all, we had lost nearly a hundred souls to the wayward battle, which accounted for almost a quarter of our forces at Vikingrune.

We were a small, tight-knit school, I was coming to realize. Our numbers were miniscule in the grand scheme.So what in Hel are we doing battling each other so often, getting into fights and brawls, when we should be closer to a family dynamic?

We were the “special” ones of this realm. There weren’t many academies that taught magical people how to hone their crafts.

Others outside these walls, in the civilizations across the world, are scared of us, if they know we exist at all. We’re seen as freaks, dangers to society, and enemies. We should not be treatingour own peersas enemies also!

If nothing else than filling me with sadness, lamenting over the senseless deaths, the ceremony reinvigorated me to complete my task of building a unified, strong alliance. Not just among us and the elves, but among our own people, too.

I didn’t see it as a vision or naïve hope. I saw it as a necessity now. We’d never survive this conflict if we didn’t come together and learn to trust each other.

I needed to see if my brothers were of the same opinion. Before leaving the knoll, as students began to disperse to sleep or drown their sorrows, I went into the lion’s den, approaching Eirik, Damon, and their friends, with Arne, Grim, and Sven behind me.

My mates kept hands close to their weapons, straying only five feet back. To my surprise, Edda and Ulf slowly inched our way to stand behind my mates, with Randi and Dagny close as well.

There in the grass, a line was drawn. Me and my allies, facing Damon and Eirik as they stepped forward from Gryphon, Ayla, and Talmont.

I clenched my jaw, inclining my chin to them. “Brothers,” I said in a rough voice. “I’m sorry about Tyrus,” I told Eirik. His full-time comrade and polyamorous lover with Gryphon and Ayla did not return from the battle. To Damon, I said, “And about Gertrude Lanfen. I know she meant a lot to you.”

“You don’t know shit about us, Ravinica,” Damon spat, flaring his nostrils. “You’ve never taken the time to care enough. To learn.”

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