Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 47068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Valkyrie and warriors litter the ground. Others blaze like little suns, setting fire to giants. The Fae battle on, unleashing their rage upon the enemy. Valhalla is overrun with enemies. They outnumber the Fae and the Valkyrie by hundreds. But the Fae battle on.
I turn slowly, watching as the tide of the battle turns, and the Fae gain the upper hand, driven by their grief and rage and the oath that bound them. They don't falter. They don't flee. They fight, protecting this realm as they couldn't their own.
Somehow, they drive out the invaders. They bury their dead and rebuild. There are far fewer Valkyrie pictured now. Far fewer Fae, too. But still, the Fae battle on. Valkyrie after Valkyrie shows up pregnant, their bellies swollen.
Tears flow freely as the Valkyrie place their infants in baskets and leave them behind, hiding them on earth where the Forsaken won't find them. The grief etched onto their faces breaks me. I cover my mouth with my hand and sob. Those poor women. They gave up everything just to give the realms a chance, including their own children.
This is the silent burden the Fae carry. The memories they'll never forget. And there are so many more of them. So many moments of heartbreak, of devastating loss, etched into the walls of this hall so they never forget what they've lost and what they fight for even now.
The Valkyrie aren't the brightest Lights the realms have. The Fae are. They always have been.
I turn to Dax, tears pouring down my cheeks, and fling myself at hard wall of his chest. "I'm sorry," I whisper, cling to his broad shoulders. "I'm so sorry, Dax."
"Shh, Valkyrie. All is well."
It isn't though. It's not even close.
Once I stop crying, Dax leads me around the Hall. I'm not sure precisely what I was supposed to see here. But I make sure I look at everything, committing the images to memory.
"Who painted this, Dax?" I ask.
"Adriel," he murmurs.
"He's incredibly skilled.
"Ja, he is."
I draw to a stop in front of the last wall. This one shows the fall of Valhalla three hundred years ago. Unlike the others, hundreds of names are swirled into the paint, as if each stroke of color spells a piece of that Fae's story.
I reach out, gently tracing my fingers along one of the names. Druxien.
"Are these the Fae who died?"
"Ja. And the Valkyrie and warriors." His stoic expression breaks my heart. "Everyone the Fae lost during the fall of Valhalla is recorded here."
"I'm sorry, Dax."
"As am I, bittesmå ljós." He lifts my hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across my knuckles as if to soothe me even though he's the one who lost so much.
We stand in silence for a long moment before I feel compelled to speak again. "My father was an abusive alcoholic," I whisper. "Um, he'd drink a lot and get really violent. My mom tried to protect me as much as she could. When I was nine, he got really bad. She decided to take me and run."
"Rissa," Dax breathes.
"He came home while she was packing our stuff." I squeeze my eyes closed, only to pop them open wide again immediately when memories of that night flicker against the backs of my eyelids. "Um, as soon as he realized what was happening, he flew into a rage. He started screaming that we weren't leaving him, that we were never leaving him." My hands shake as I share my own painful history with the Fae who lived through so much pain. "He killed my mom. He tried to kill me. I think he would have succeeded if the neighbors hadn't heard all of the noise and called the police."
"Faen," Dax growls, his lyststål flaring with power. Rage swirls like thunderclouds in his eyes, his expression savage. "Your own father tried to kill you, elskan-ljós? Your own father?"
"Yes."
"Where is he?" The lethal menace in his voice sends a chill down my spine. I think he'd rip my father apart piece by piece and enjoy every minute of it if he could get his hands on him. He'd dance in a shower of his blood with a smile on his face and not feel a second of remorse or regret. For me, he'd forsake the Light in a quest for revenge.
I understand now why Abigail sent me here, what I had to see. I know what I need to do now. For the first time since meeting Dax, I lie to him.
"He's in prison," I say, glancing down at my hands. "He'll be there for the rest of his life." It's not true. He was released almost two years ago. He spent less time in prison for murder than some people spend for drug crimes. Our system is broken. But I can't tell Dax that now.