Chapter 1

The cold did not bite anymore. That was the first truth of my death.

The physical agony of the heavy iron chains that had bruised my wrists was gone, replaced by a weightless, chilling numbness. I looked down. My body—battered, pale, and horribly still—lay slumped against the jagged stones of the cliffside courtyard.

The monsters had come. They hadn't ignored me like Mother said they would. The Garm-brood—the terrifying, multi-eyed hounds from the gates of Helheim—had torn into me, realized I wasn't the golden prize they sought, and abandoned my broken shell to the howling winds of Niflheim.

But I was still here.

I floated a few inches above the stone, a translucent, shimmering specter. My wings, once a heavy curse of midnight feathers, were now a misty, smoke-like black that drifted elegantly in the air. As a Valkyrie, I was supposed to be a psychopomp—a shepherd meant to carry the souls of the glorious dead to the afterlife. I never imagined my first task would be watching over my own corpse.

Driven by a bitter, magnetic pull, I glided through the heavy, barred doors that had locked me out in the dark.

The grand hall of Valhalla did not just hold a feast; it breathed the ancient, terrifying weight of the Nine Realms. The air was thick with the scent of roasted boar, expensive wines, and great tales of Asgard’s brave heroes.

At the center of it all sat my twin sister, Freya. Her golden wings were tucked neatly behind her, glowing with an ethereal radiance that captivated every god and warrior in attendance.

Beside her stood our parents, their faces flushed with mead and unbridled pride.

"A toast!" my mother’s voice boomed, raising a silver horn high, silencing the rowdy hall. "To Freya! Born under the alignment of the stars of Asgard, bearing the golden plumage of prophecy! She is the shield that will break the tides of Naglfar, the ship of dead men's nails, and turn back Ragnarok!"

The crowd roared in approval. Freya beamed, her chest swelling. Beside her waist was hanging a spear. It was not an ordinary spear but was cast from divine gold, the first replica of Gungnir, Odin’s legendary spear.

Watching the spear resting on Freya’s waist always brought tears to my eyes.

It was our twelfth birthday. After almost begging my parents for months, they had allowed me to trail them to the annual fair.

My gaze landed on a small store, selling spears made of mortal wood. I was also a Valkyrie, born with the dream of battle. I requested my mother to buy me one. But she only smirked at me. “What will you do with that spear? You are never going to war, Greta. The elite army will never choose someone who brings bad omens.”

And minutes later, my parents traded half of their life’s fortune just to get that golden spear for Freya, just because it matched her wings.

I could not tolerate it. Were they ready to sacrifice their whole fortune for one daughter while the other wasn't even worth a dirt spending on?

I sobbed the entire night. “Is it all about the wings, mother? If my wings… are not dark, would you love me then?”

The next day, I painted my wings with molten gold. My wings burned as hell, but the divine power stopped it from withering. I walked into my Mom’s room and said excitedly, “Mom, look! My wings are not dark anymore. Will you please not hate me anymore?”

“Oh, My God! Greta, what have you done?” Freya, who had just walked in, screamed in terror.

My mother completely ignored me and walked to hold Freya in her arms. The next moment, I was dragged into the dungeon. My crime– scaring Freya off, leaving her traumatized.

I was left there without food and ointment, my skin still burning with molten gold and my wings… turned dark once again.

Remembering that day still aches my heart. Even changing my wings' colour could not bring my parents to love me. Can my death do it then? Will they still hate me if they find out I was already dead?