A/N-
This chapter is not part of the main plot. I'm releasing it because we've reached the 300 ratings milestone ^_^
Enjoy <3
**
The chamber was meticulously organized, every tool and artifact placed with care. It didn't take much to see that this was the workshop of someone who valued order, someone who likely gave it a final once-over before leaving, making sure every piece was exactly where it belonged.
Two figures entered, their steps marked by urgency.
The shorter one grunted under his breath, his thick brows drawn close in frustration. In his hands, he carried a massive chunk of metal, something that would've taken four or five grown men to lift under normal circumstances. But this one wasn't human.
He was Drukyr - short, broad, and dense with the kind of strength his fat-padded muscles did little to advertise.
"Freya, I tell ya, I don't like this," he grumbled in a low, rough voice as he set the metal into the furnace. His thick leg pressed down on a side pedal, slow and heavy, as the flames within surged higher in response, licking at the sides with rising heat.
The metal began to glow, red creeping across its surface like spreading blood.
"Why're ya stayin' here, trapped underground, instead of livin' yer life?" he continued, not looking at her. "Could found a man… maybe even one with a bit o' spine."
He pulled the hot metal from the furnace with unnatural ease and set it atop the anvil, hissing as it made contact with the surface. Gripping his hammer, he brought it down with heavy, rhythmic strikes. Sparks danced in the air.
"Freya, I tell ya, I don't like this," he said again, louder this time. With more ring to his voice. But no answer came.
Freya moved behind him, silent.
She was an elf, a beautiful one, though no one ever noticed that first. Dignity had always been her defining feature. Her posture unshakable. Her armor, gleaming silver, dense and ceremonial, always polished to a mirror's shine. Her crimson cloak had flowed behind her like a banner of fire, accentuating the pale, braided white hair that fell down her back, woven with wildflowers tucked into each knot.
But now she looked nothing like that.
Her armor was scraped and stained with dried blood. Her hair had been chopped short, uneven, barely brushing her shoulders. The cloak was gone, reduced to a charred scrap draped across her back, hanging like a burned remnant of something noble.
She moved through the workshop, pulling weapons and pieces of armor from the walls. Her presence disrupted the perfect symmetry Drukyr maintained, but she was the only one he allowed to do so without complaint.
He turned slightly, watching her. "Freya…"
"High Mother's will is my life's path," she said, cutting him off before he could speak again. "You already know that, Gundir. I live and die for my Goddess."
"I know yer loyal," he grumbled, lowering the hammer for a moment, "but…"
"No buts," she said firmly. "The High Mother commanded me to remain in this chamber until her chosen arrives. Until the time of the Sylvan race returns."
Her voice faltered. Barely. She instantly fixed the hesitation in her voice and posture. Gundir didn't notice. He missed the tremor, missed how her shoulders tensed before she drew herself upright again. Freya's jaw clenched tight, the motion sharp enough to make the bones stand out along her cheeks.
She turned to him, her expression more resolute than before. "Gundir, tell me. How long until the vessel is ready?"
"Ah…" Gundir sighed, low and heavy. There was nothing left to say. "Give me a moment."
He turned back to the capsule suspended from the ceiling, its polished frame gleaming faintly. Every rune had been carved, every mechanism tuned, every inch of metal shaped by his own hands. Only one final piece remained.
He fitted the chunk of heated metal into the last gap, its shape sliding into place with a low chime of contact. Then, without hesitation, he bit into his thumb - a thumb was swollen and calloused, marked by dozens of pale scars from years of forging the impossible. A single bead of green blood welled up, glowing faintly even before it met the runes.
He smeared it across the seams, and as his blood traced the capsule's surface, his eyes flicked toward Freya. She was still gathering weapons at the center of the room, stacking them methodically before placing them into her storage, a spatial construct he himself had crafted for her. A forge-born gift. A silent gesture of… trust.
He looked away.
Not from her, but from the ache that swelled in his chest every time he did.
He muttered something under his breath, old words, not meant to be heard, and the blood ignited softly with light, hissing as it sank into the metal, sealing the last fracture. The surface mended itself completely, as if the capsule had never been incomplete.
"Done," Gundir said. The word carried no pride. This was one of the finest creations of his life, yet he had never felt less like celebrating. "Freya, I tell ya, I don't like this."
He didn't know how to explain it. Words had never been his strength, at least not the kind that mattered. He could curse a furnace into obedience. He could insult an ingot until it wept its impurities out. But emotions? Those couldn't be hammered into shape.
Especially not with her listening.
Freya approached the capsule without even glancing his way. She inspected it briefly, then smiled - soft, genuine, satisfied. "Thank you. I shall be eternally grateful, Gundir."
Her gaze met his, and for a moment she gifted him a smile that only she could offer - bright, warm, and impossibly gentle. "Gundir, please pass the weapons…"
"I know," the Drukyr replied. His voice was rough, but not unkind. His eyes followed her with a weight that wasn't easy to name. "Freya… how do ya know this chosen shi… guy is gonna show up?"
"The High Mother does not make mistakes," she answered calmly. "If She says the chosen shall come, then come they shall."
Gundir paused, his hands hovering over the next weapon. "Doesn't make mistakes, huh? Then she wouldn't have lost."
The flare of anger across Freya's face was sharp, but it passed quickly. He saw it, but didn't flinch.
"Freya, I tell ya," he said again, more quietly this time, "I don't like this."
She didn't respond. Not with words. Because she understood.
She had always known why he couldn't believe in gods. She had known it was part of Drukyr's nature. He was unable to fully and completely trust anyone. Not gods, not visions, not eternity. But she was wrong. The Drukyr could trust with everything he had, but only if the trust was built on flesh and breath, on something real and fallible. Not divinity.
Freya crouched in front of him and reached up, gently brushing the side of his face. Her fingertips grazed the charcoal-streaked skin, catching the single tear he hadn't realized was there.
She didn't speak.
Instead, she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the cheek, right where the tear had traced its way down.
Then she rose and stepped into the capsule, her figure calm, composed, one final smile offered in farewell.
"Seal me, my dear friend."
"Ugh…" Gundir groaned, but even as the sound left him, he forced himself forward.
His short, bloated frame moved with the usual awkwardness, limbs not built for grace. He took one step toward the capsule, then another, only to stagger. First to the right. Then to the left.
But this time, it wasn't his body's fault.
The chamber itself had begun to sway. Tools clinked softly. Blades shifted on their racks. Armor pieces knocked against one another with growing unease. A low rumble built beneath the floor, rising until a thunderous crash echoed through the chamber, rattling every bolt and beam.
Gundir lost his footing as the entire forge lurched beneath him. He fell hard onto his back, the breath knocked from his lungs. Around him, the chamber groaned. Weapons clattered from their hooks. Armor tumbled from its stands. Tools spilled from their precise placements and scattered across the floor in a chaos that would've driven him mad under any other circumstance.
But he barely noticed.
He pushed himself upright, slow and unsteady, rubbing the back of his head as he turned toward the entrance. The stone arch stood undisturbed, yet his eyes narrowed, squinting through the shifting dust as if he might catch a glimpse of whatever had caused the tremor.
But before he could take a single step, he felt it.
A breath. A whisper. Right beside his ear.
"Forgive me for what I'm about to do."
The words reached him an instant before the world went dark. His legs gave out. His body dropped to the ground with a dull thud - eyes closed, limbs unresponsive.
But his mind was still awake.
Still conscious.
And he understood instantly what had happened.
Freya…
If she had chosen to stop him, there was nothing he could've done to resist. Not against her, not against the most powerful weapon of one of the strongest Gods.
He forced a breath past his lips, the words slurred but clear. "Why…? What are ya doin'...?"
Her voice came quietly, just above him.
"I don't wish to live."
Through sheer will, Gundir managed to pry open one eye. His sole eye was full of panic. Not for him, but for Freya. His vision swam, but he saw it - the strands of silver in Freya's hair, already fading, turning pale gold. The color she used to have before the armor, before the burden, before she became Her weapon.
"The goddess…" he managed two words.
But two words was all it took to break her.
Tears slipped down her face without restraint. Her shoulders trembled, though she moved with purpose. She knelt, lifting Gundir with a gentleness that contradicted her strength, like he was a child she refused to wake. With care, she leaned him inside the capsule, cradling him there, one hand still pressed against his forehead.
"High Mother is no more," she whispered, her voice as fragile as the truth it carried. "And her daughter shall follow."
She said nothing more for several moments. Her eyes stayed locked on the capsule, her mind chasing a single outcome, a single act of finality. But even in her resolve, something gnawed at her.
She owed him more.
An apology. A reason. Anything.
But she didn't offer any of it.
Because in that moment, she was selfish.
"Resent me if you must," she said softly, brushing a soot-stained strand of hair from Gundir's brow. "But please… I beg you… when the chosen one appears… help them."
And with that, she closed the lid of the capsule.