Page 16 of Valkyrie Fate
"Move behind me, Tori," he orders, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through my bones.
I want to argue as the horrible images from my nightmare surge forward in an ugly parade. The Forsaken murdered him. I felt him die, our connection severed forever. But he's the warrior here. I'm useless, incapable of protecting myself, let alone him.
With a fluid movement that speaks of countless battles and centuries of war, he jumps in front of me, placing himself between me and the enemy. Prepared to die to protect me if that's what it takes.
Please, God, protect him. Keep him safe.
The air around us crackles with energy as he draws on his power like his brother did earlier. A shimmering blade of pure Light materializes in his hand, as fierce and unyielding as the Fae who called it.
He stands tall and formidable, the living embodiment of war and destruction, but he's also my defender, my protector, his loyalty as unwavering as the mountain itself. Each muscle in his body tenses like a coiled spring, ready to unleash its devastating power.
I clutch at the fabric of his shirt, my fingers digging into the soft material. My heart thumps against my ribcage, matching the rhythmic flickers of Light pulsing from his lyststål.
"I trust you," I whisper, my words carried away by the chill winds of fate.
Reaper doesn't respond, but I know he hears me.
Shouts rip through the night, violently splitting it apart. The distant sounds of fighting bounce back from the trees, echoing through the darkness.
Eitr is under attack.
"What do you want, Forsaken?" Reaper's voice rumbles like distant thunder, his body coiled, ready to strike.
The Forsaken sneers, a twisted grin spreading over his face. "I'm here for the Valkyrie. Hand her over and we may leave your little village standing."
A shiver rips through me at the thought of being captured by these soulless monsters again. Once was enough to last a lifetime.
With a feral snarl, Reaper lunges forward, his lyststål slicing through the air with deadly precision. The Forsaken counters with dark magic, black tendrils of smoke snaking toward Reaper like malevolent vines. They writhe and contort as if they're alive. And perhaps they are.
The Light bends to our will because it's benevolent. But the Dark has always had a mind of its own, twisting and corrupting everything it touches. Those who deal in evil don't control it. Darkness holds the reins. It always has. I learned that in church. Regardless of what you call God, the basics remain the same. Light is Light…and Dark is Dark.
Reaper moves with the grace and fluidity of a dancer, his lithe body effortlessly dodging and weaving. I can't take my eyes off him. His dark hair glints in the moonlight, his fierce features illuminated by the faint glow of the stars above. Even now, when death swirls around him like a promise, he's undeniably beautiful.
"You're outmatched," he taunts. "Flee now, little cockroach, or face the consequences."
But the Forsaken only laughs, a chilling sound that echoes through the clearing. He channels dark power, casting shadows that twist and writhe around Reaper.
Reaper's lyststål cuts through them like butter, his strikes relentless and fierce. Each clash of Light against Dark reverberates through the night, a symphony of battle and fury. The smell of smoke fills the air, mingling with the softer scent of flowers and frost.
The Forsaken snarls in frustration, his attacks growing more desperate and reckless. But Reaper doesn't slow or falter. He's a machine with his lyststål, implacable and sure.
With a final surge of strength, Reaper delivers a decisive blow that shatters the Forsaken's defenses. Dark energy dissipates into nothingness, leaving only silence in its wake. A moment later, Reaper's lyststål slices through the Forsaken. Smoke curls from the wound, black blood gushing.
For a monster, the Forsaken screams like a man as he ignites, catching fire quickly. Within seconds, he's a raging inferno, blazing hot. He stumbles forward and falls.
Before he even hits the ground, he's gone, his body nothing more than smoking tendrils of ash.
Breathing heavily, Reaper lowers his lyststål. He doesn't release it though, and he doesn't relax. Shouts still bounce to us through the trees, eerie and distorted. Eitr is still under attack.
"Are you all right, little Valkyrie?"
"Yes," I whisper.
"Good. We have to get to the Hall of Warriors. The others will be waiting for us there. I want you to stay close and keep your eyes peeled for anything that doesn't look right. If you see anything, you shout," he instructs, his voice low and urgent. "If we're outnumbered, you run. You don't stop until you're surrounded by Fae. Do you understand?"
"Reaper," I choke, tears welling at what he's asking of me. He wants me to leave him behind…to leave him to die. I can't do that. "I won't leave you."
"You must," he says, turning to place his hand on my cheek. "If you fall, we all fall, solsken. There will be other lives and other worlds, but only if you survive this one."