If the whispers were from demons, then this woman surely was an angel.
Elara gasped, arms still wrapped around her waist.
Was this Heaven? Had grief finally claimed her?
Slowly, the angel’s bare feet emerged from the mist, barely hovering above the lush earth. A glowing necklace sat at the hollow of her throat, pulsing like a beating heart, making Elara’s breath hitch.
Elara swallowed, rubbing her swollen and puffy eyes, half expecting the woman to vanish.
Except she didn’t.
“Do not fear me,” the woman said, her luxurious voice comforting. “We have always been bound, Elara. You are destined for many things. The time has come for you.”
For the first time in days, the grating sound of the voices in the shadows ceased. Elara’s chest expanded, the tightness in her ribs softening with the woman’s words.
The smart thing to do would have been to run.
Nothing boded well with a floating visitor cloaked in veils. This had to be a dream.
Or worse, a nightmare.
Yet, Elara’s stubborn curiosity rooted her to the spot.
“And who are you?” she asked, her voice cracking as she twisted the flower in her hands.
The woman spread her arms, her white teeth flashing in the splintered sun. A gentleness surrounded her features, making the tension in Elara’s shoulders melt away.
“I am the one who chooses the fallen for Fólkvangr. Mistress of the Seiðr. The one who defies the treacherous.”
Each word left her more confused than the last. This angel did not speak of Heaven or Hell. She spoke foreign words about foreign places. A furrow wrinkled between Elara’s brow as the woman stepped closer.
Bowing her head, she clasped the pulsating jewel on her necklace, chanting a series of murmured words in a language Elara didn’t understand.
Leaves kicked up, swirling around them. Warmth seeped into Elara’s limbs, chasing away the ever-present cold.
“Your sorrow has made you a beacon, child. It draws what is dark, and it hides what is fated. Your brother is in Valhalla with Odin. Your mother has reached Fólkvangr, but your path lies here, among the living. One waits for you. He will be the anchor, tethering you in the storm to come.”
The V between her brows deepened as her eyes darted back and forth. The only thing bringing Elara any semblance of peace the last few days was knowing her mother surely went to Heaven.
Not this… Fólkvangr.
And what of Edmund? Of this… Valhalla.
The tips of Elara’s fingers twitched, her mind spinning as the mangled daisy floated to the ground. Saliva turned to ash in her mouth, the worry for her family fading, too focused on the first part of what the woman had said.
A beacon that draws what is dark.
The pressure building in her fingertips grew strong enough to vibrate. Elara shoved her hands in her lap, sweat sliding down the column of her throat as she swallowed.
“Demons?” Elara whispered, afraid to face the truth.
The voices had been demons crawling from Hell to collect her soul.
The woman blinked, her long lashes twinkling with flecks of gold.
“No. The lost. The forgotten. Souls who prey on the living. They envy the living. And your grief makes you vulnerable. The draugar will not stop now that they know of you. You are their only hope to cling to the lives they no longer have.”
A freezing tide swept through her veins, turning her blood to ice as the hair on her nape prickled. The truth went unsaid but burrowed into the fibers of Elara’s being. The voices had a name.
