Beloved Betrayal - 2

Freya held the lantern close to her face, its flame quivering with every breath she took. As she walked, shadows crawled upon the basalt walls, while each footstep was swallowed by darkness. Every so often, her gaze lingered on ancient carvings etched into corridor walls.

Skadi and the rest followed behind her in a single file. The narrow passage and its uneven damp stones forced them to tread carefully. Their footsteps echoed through the corridor, mingling with the temple’s ancient hum.

When at last the passage widened, the sanctum revealed itself – a huge hall where webs and shadow clung to vaulted basalt arches and the Graystone floor shimmered beneath the flicker of Lantern’s flame. Unlike the narrow dark corridor, thin shafts of sunlight slipped through cracks in temple hall, lighting it dimly.

An age-old silence brooded over the hall.

Freya slowly swept her watchful gaze across the ancient temple. An emotion quivered in her mind. Yet, she couldn’t understand what it was.

“Waah!” Skadi gasped, her voice breaking the silence. “This must be the temple father spoke of!”

Then, suddenly she wrapped her arms around Freya’s chest with an affectionate smile.

“Dear sister, why are you so lost in thought?”

Freya blinked before answering.

“Uh... it's nothing.” Her eyes drifted back to the hall. “I simply never imagined the sacred grounds of our divine bloodline would look like this.”

“Hmm?”

Skadi tilted her head, her concern melting into an innocent smile.

The sight alone was enough to ease the tightness in Freya’s chest. Wrapped in her sister’s gentle embrace, the unease that had haunted her since entering the temple quietly faded.

Since the day she was born. Freya had never feared scars. She believed scars were merely another ornament upon a warrior's body. So, she never flinched at scarring others or being scarred by them.

Since childhood, blades had carved their marks across her skin. Though her face remained untouched because of her swordsmanship skills, her arms, shoulders and back bore countless scars of battles she survived. To her, every scar was proof that she lived to fight the other day.

Yet that belief changed the day Skadi returned from her first beast hunt. At that time, she was only nine years old.

The beast’s claw had left a wound across her back. It was hardly life threatening, but it left a deep scar once the wound healed. Freya thought little of it. To her, it was nothing but a tiny scratch.

However, several nights later.

When she entered the royal bathhouse at night, she saw several thin crimson streams slipping beneath the curtain of one the bathing chambers. Her heart stopped.

“Skadi!” she murmured to herself

Throwing the curtain aside, she rushed inside. Freya found her little sister kneeling before the bath. A spirit familiar hovered beside her, carefully scraping at the scar upon her back. Blood trickled mercilessly down her pale skin.

“What are you doing!” Freya rushed forward, seizing the familiar before it could scrap all of her skin. She held its wrists with such strength that the familiar vanished, unable to withstand the damage.

For a long moment, no matter how many times Freya called out her name, Skadi said nothing and just kept her head lowered. Then, she looked up. Her eyes were empty.

“...Big sister.”

Her voice barely above a whisper. “If I become ugly and useless...”

“...will you hate me too?”

The world fell silent. Freya’s breath caught in her throat. The words that couldn’t break Freya, broke her sister.

The pity. The whispers. The disgust.

Tears blurred Freya’s vision. It was only the second time in her life she had cried. Without another word, she pulled Skadi into her chest.

“It’s okay…”

Her voice trembled. “It’s okay, Skadi.” She held her tighter, as though afraid the girl might disappear. “No matter what happens, I will always love you.”

Looking at her like that, it reminded Freya of a promise she had made long ago.

It was when she held Skadi in her arms for the first time. Her tiny hand, softer than flower petals, clasped around her fingers.

It brought her to tears. And that was the first time in her life she had shed tears. Yes, even when she was born, Freya hadn’t cried.

In that fleeting moment, she made a silent vow.

She would protect her. 

Even though she’d failed to do so once, she never allowed the same mistake to happen again.

A faint smile found its way onto Freya’s lips as memories of tiny Skadi waddling after her through the palace halls drifted across her mind like distant sunlight.

“My apologies for disturbing such a precious moment,” the minister interjected. "I believe it's time to perform the sacred rite and call upon Lord Voldr and the Retainers of Athena.”

Freya’s gaze lingered on Skadi for another heartbeat before she gave a slight nod.

“...Very well”

Her voice carried through the ancient hall.

“Begin the sacred rite.”

Then, at Loki’s signal, the knights unfurled the storage scrolls. As one by one, from thin sheets of enchanted paper, materialized ritual vessels, crystal phials filled with mana fluid and ceremonial relics before settling upon the stone floor.

The preparation stirred with a solemn rhythm.

At the far end of the sanctum stood the obsidian statue of Lord Voldr, its arms outstretched. Though time had long since stolen the precious gems from its hollow eyes, they still seemed to glimmer beneath the pale light filtering through cracks above.

Before the statue lay the Great Summonance circle of the House of Valkya.

It consisted of a vast outer circle enclosing a smaller inner circle. While within the space between them lay ten lesser circles, arranged symmetrically around the circle, each inscribed with a unique sigil.

According to recordkeepers of Valkyria, each sigil represented one of Athena’s Ten retainers. To succeed in this trial and prove one’s worthiness to the crown, the candidate had to awaken these retainers and bind them in contract.

Yet, until now, in the recorded history of Valkyria, only one descendant of Athena has ever awakened five retainers, and of those only four were bound in a contract.

With preparation complete, Loki – the minister of magic – stepped into the Great summonance Circle. Kneeling, he uncorked a crystal phial and poured its content onto ancient carvings.

The mana fluid as if alive, flowed only along the etched carvings of the circle never spilling over. As dust and age fell away, the etched lines came alive, glowing with pale blue light, like veins carrying lifeblood across the Graystone floor.

Freya watched the marvel unfolding in silence. Only then did she notice the two smaller circles drawn at the top and bottom of the summonance circle, as each tangentially touched the greater circle. While ancient runes etched at center for both, pulsing in a shade of emerald, green.

“Minister,” she called without taking her eyes off the circle, “what are those two runic circles?”

Loki glanced over his shoulder, a faint smile appearing beneath his hood.

“Sharp as ever, young princess.” Loki replied. "Those are runes of transfer and compression. Once a retainer answers the summon and forges a contract, the rune will compress the contract’s essence into this card.” His gaze lingered on the parchment in his hand, the faintest shadow crossing his expression, too subtle for Freya to notice.

Yet somehow, Freya did know.

“I Understand," she replied quietly.

“...Then, here,” the minister stepped forward and presented her with a Kucheme dagger. “Allow your blood to awaken them, princess.”

Freya, without an inch of hesitation, accepted the dagger. For a breath of moment, their eyes met before Freya looked away again. A smile flickered across her lips as she stepped closer to the circle.

The dagger, tightly clasped in her hand, glistened as the pale light shimmered across its smooth surface. Then, extending her arm, she drew the blade across her left palm.

A sharp sting, followed by a crimson line. Soon, blood began to trickle down. Yet it never reached the floor.

Each crimson droplet hung suspended in the air, trembling as magical pressure spread throughout the sanctum. In the distance, Loki began to chant the spell, his words echoing like a priest’s liturgy in a temple.

Then, with a certainty in her eyes, Freya opened her mouth, her words carrying through the sanctum

“O’ Retainers of Athena. By decree of Voldr, I call upon thee.

By this royal blood, heed my summons.”

“Reveal thyself…”

“Thor – Wielder of storms.”

At her command, the suspended blood shot forward like scarlet arrows. Every droplet painted the sigil carved in the shape of a hammer.

Within a heartbeat, the magical pressure of the room doubled, pillar lightning like it had its will, descended from the summoning circle, splitting the air with a deafening crack. The lightning bolts then coiled and fused around itself, weaving a body from living thunder.

Before, Freya stood a towering spirit body formed from raw lightning, arcs of lightning danced across its broad shoulders.

“Answer me,” the spirit thundered. His voice carried through the sanctum like distant thunder.

“Was it you…who called upon Thor.”