It had to be done.
Bandits had stormed through the village far too many times, robbing the dwellers of this unknown countryside yard free from their grains, meat and wine.
The river that ran from the mountains up north had all been polluted with poison, thanks to the demons that lurk around the field.
They were all dying and they could only pray.
Their religious efforts were rewarded with a declaration of war from the council of Southern Artolia.
Young men were soon forced to the front lines, live stocks for the Battle Maiden to reap in glee. Their grave yards were filling up far too fast and no one could identify the bodies when Langrey's army had came marching in, swords drawn.
The moon was a reminiscence of a smile, mocking the mortals from her throne high up in the silvery blue heavens.
And so, with a heavy heart, did the convent made a choice.
That choice.
Everyone in the village knew, and it was the very nightmares of all the virgin, young maidens who dwelled within the once lush country side.
Someone was going to die.
It could be one of them.
A virgin maiden would be left outside by herself by the stream behind the temple, naked so that the priestesses could scrub her down and purify her supposedly. The villagers would drop by and contribute a sweet or a meal of some sort and there would be a grand feast for the unwilling bride.
Then, they would dress her in a gown of white before being chained atop the altar by sunset.
And oh! The promises they all made, promising her a better future, promising her that the process of transiting from this life to the next would not hurt at all and a large sum of gold for the bride's family.
It was a grand slave trade – for the executioner of the Gods.
The knife plunged down into the throat of the maiden and the young woman began to convulse violently but the bloodied sacred ropes held her down.
They made no attempts to kill her quickly because they knew that the fearful black valkyrie love it when her bride convulsed uncontrollably.
A lone traveler with platinum hair sat at the back of the temple, watching quietly. The hood of her velvet blue travelling cloak hid most of her silvery grey hair and fine Asgardian clothes from prying eyes.
Watchful eyes, the shade of Helheim's skies, looked at the convulsing maiden on the altar.
She could imagine her fellow valkyrie gleefully straddling on top of the maiden, filling her broken body with her own seeds as the mortal continued to convulse underneath her.
She knew that it excited the executioner.
And she knew that they would all be killed, buried lovingly in the dark maiden's rose bush after she was done with them for that night.
There was no happy ending.
But it was a good lie for a young maiden, another doomed corpse bride of Hrist Valkyrie.