The Veil of the Valkyrie

Black smoke curled upward, twisting into the cold, Norse sky like the plumes of a death god’s impending arrival. The sound of clashing metal rang out, drowning the aftershocks of war in echoes of glory and blood. She stood at the heart of the battlefield—a vision half divine, half devouring storm—amid the strewn corpses of slain warriors. Her figure was statuesque, wrapped in an uncompromising strength that seemed as eternal as the fjords surrounding them. Her presence demanded attention, her silhouette sharpened against the pale light of the setting sun. To look upon her was both to admire and to fear.

The woman’s face was angular and fierce, her high cheekbones dusted with pale ash, streaks of dried blood marking the curve of her jaw. Her piercing grey eyes mirrored the slate sea in the distance—cold, calculating, and unyielding. Long raven-black hair was braided tightly down her back, streaks of silver thread woven throughout as though the stars themselves had yielded their essence to her. Her skin was pale yet radiant, as though adorned by frost-born light itself. Every movement she made was an exercise in control and precision, her body rippling with lean muscle beneath the intricate, blood-streaked armor she wore.

Her outfit was a masterpiece of the era, yet imbued with colors and design elements that defied time. Her iron cuirass was a dark, burnished red—like the color of wine spilled upon cold steel—and it bore delicate engravings of Valkyrie wings and ancient Norse runes that glowed faintly, as though alive with magic. Beneath the armor, layers of deep crimson fabric flowed like waterfalls, tucking perfectly into worn leather greaves dyed to match, the color reminiscent of the last embers from a dying fire. Shadows seemed to dance within the folds of fabric, subtle tones of black and charcoal giving her the appearance of a storm personified. Draped around her shoulders was a fur-lined mantle in the same deep shades of red, the softness of the wolf pelt catching in the fragile sunlight of the winter afternoon. The edges of the fur were singed, a detail that hinted at battles fought within flames.

See also The Mirage

Her gauntlets, forged from Norse steel and traced with tantalizing threads of faint, glowing silver, gleamed as she tightened her grip on her weapon—a long, curved blade whose hilt was wrapped in leather dyed an identical hue to her robes. The sword’s pommel glimmered with a ruby the size of a thumb, reflecting the fire in her gaze. Sandals were not suited for this land; she donned boots of hardened leather, laced high up to her calves with scarlet cords. Every element of her attire was symbolic—not merely of beauty, but of her power, her endurance, and her willingness to march into the intangible depths of time.

The battlefield fell silent, and for an instant, she heard the snowflakes descending gently onto her shoulders—flakes that melted into her fur collar and dripped down the blood-streaked pleats of her crimson cloak. Then came the sound of a distant horn. Angridsvær, her home on the edge of the frozen fjords, had sounded the alarm. The enemy had breached the forest’s edge; this slaughter had only been a diversion. Without hesitation, she pulled her helmet—a crimson helm crowned with jutting shapes that mimicked raven feathers—down over her face. As she strode towards the rising shadows of the treeline, she was not simply a warrior. She was the harbinger of death and legend. Some whispered she was one of the Valkyries themselves; others said she held the grudge of gods in her heart. As snow began to fall heavier, she disappeared like a tempest wending through the winter storm.

The truth, however, lay somewhere in between. Her name was Eyra, the Iron Warden of Angridsvær, and her story was only just beginning.