Hela crouched in the hush of that ashen plain, pushing aside layers of grey dust with steady hands. A faint glimmer drew her eye. She parted the soil and lifted a shard of Valyrian steel, dull in the dim light. Its wave-like patterns twitched across the surface as if made by living currents. She turned it in her hand, tilting it to catch the sun. A thin line of power ran through the metal, too weak to stir more than a mild spark beneath her fingertips, yet it bore the echo of something greater. It reminded her of that old craft in Nidavellir, where dwarven smiths hammered raw might into every weapon they forged.
The dwarves built Mjolnir, her first weapon. It harnessed a fraction of the power of the storm–of thunder and lightning. Her oaf of a brother, Thor, harnessed the rest of it as the God of the Storm.
Hela let the shard slip into a pouch and walked on. In the distance, a boiling river marked the land like a wound. The ground steamed at its banks, and the stench of sulfur swirled in the air. The bleached bones of a thousand dead lay half-buried in those banks. She stared a moment longer.
She had found a sword there, half-submerged in churning mud. She dragged it clear with a single pull. Its pommel bore two golden lions caught mid-roar, and the blade ran three feet of pure Valyrian steel. Words cut into its center revealed the sword's name. Brightroar. The ancestral blade of House Lannister, thought lost in a fool's quest. She traced the letters and listened to the faint hum of sorcery sealed within the metal. It had become clear that the steel was forged first, the enchantments laid upon it after, like a second thought. Every Valyrian artifact she had found was likely forged with the same method.
A tremor rippled the ground. She looked to the river and saw the water swell, the mud churning more violently than before. A great serpentine creature, a Fire Wyrm, broke the surface, its jaws opening wide enough to swallow a man's torso and its sinuous body hissing and steaming. Fire licked out from behind its fangs. Hela let the creature come closer. It surged right toward her, roaring as it did. She gripped Brightroar by the hilt, measuring its weight in her hand, and then brought the blade around in a single arc. The wyrm's head tumbled free and struck the ground with a wet slap, eyes still burning. Steam rose from its severed neck as its body collapsed into the banks.
Hmm… maybe she'd just kill the next one with her bare hands to make it a greater challenge.
She stepped away, indifferent to the heat radiating from the carcass. The slain wyrm's head now dangled behind her, tied in place by a length of sinew. Brightroar hung at her hip, a silent trophy. She walked on through the wasteland, the new sword shifting against her thigh. Her own Necroblades were sharper and stronger, yet she kept the Lannister blade close. It'd be a good souvenir, but would also be a good bargaining tool for negotiating with the Lannisters, who'd been searching and dreaming of recovering this sword for many decades.
She walked on in silence, ash drifting at her ankles. The land stretched out in grey rolls of dust, its every contour clinging to old death. She passed mounds of dragon bones piled high as battlements, each ridge and hollow caked in ash. Some of the bones still wore the remnants of riders strapped to their saddles, chains rusted beyond recognition. The smaller skeletons—about the size of the drakes she once saw in Alfheim—lay tangled like driftwood. But scattered among them stood giants, their jaws wide enough to swallow a galley at sea. She paused, studying the ridges of fused bone and the iron clamps that once held thick scales in place. She glanced at the largest skull and wondered if Balerion the Black Dread was comparable in size to these giants or if the mount of Aegon Targaryen would seem small.
She carried on, stepping beneath a broken archway that led into a fallen tower's remains. The walls rose on either side, carved from black stone made glassy by ancient fires. Her boots left small puffs of ash in her wake. Faint glimmers of light ran across the walls, revealing surfaces that shone like wet ink, though layers of dust dimmed their luster. A long corridor stretched ahead. Scattered along the floor were humanoid silhouettes covered in grey film. She slowed her pace and nudged one with the heel of her boot. Bits of bone and char crumbled under the touch, leaving little but a smear.
In a side chamber, her gaze settled on a broken door. She pushed it open and found a heap of gold coins and cracked gemstones, their surfaces dulled by the thick dust that blanketed everything in Valyria. Some of the coins clinked when she stepped near, but she only glanced at them and moved on. She had no real interest in material wealth–not really. Many of her fellow Ironborn did and she could not fault them for that. Her father did as well, but for different reasons. He valued wealth for the power and influence it afforded, which was why he was always investing whatever he earned into newer and better ventures. To Hela, however, the truest form of wealth was excitement.
Material wealth was just a means to an end. And that end was excitement.
The stale air whispered between the walls. Beyond the hoard, an inner hallway led to more skeletal remains, twisted in poses that hinted at some final struggle. Splinters of spears, rusted chains, and scraps of cloth clung to collapsed doorways. She passed through these ruins without pause, drifting from chamber to chamber as if searching for a sign of life or a single voice.
Outside, the land opened again to the ash-choked horizon. A sulfuric river cut a path through the blackened earth, churning with sluggish currents. Dark shapes moved in the shallows, flickers of red showing beneath the surface. Fire Wyrms, rare and watchful, swayed in the water. She watched them for a moment. One had challenged her before, lunging from the boiling froth. Now they only lingered, tails flicking slow arcs in the brine, the glow from their scales pulsing like embers in a dying flame.
She turned away from the shoreline and followed a path that led deeper into the desolation.
Later, she found another ruin. This one was a castle of sorts. She pressed on through the charred rubble, dragging the Fire Wyrm's severed head behind her. The blackened walls of the ruin slanted inward, half-collapsed, as though clinging to some last vestige of shape. No door stood to greet her. She spied a fractured window set high in the stone and climbed through, heaving the wyrm's head up and over with a dull thud that raised a swirl of dust. Inside, the corridor stretched into darkness, its floor spiked with debris. The stones were slick with a dampness that felt alive under her fingertips. An odor hovered in the air, sharp and foul, different from the usual ash and rot that haunted these ruins.
Something else lurked here. There was a stench in the air, Hela noted–the stench of sorcery. She'd spent enough time with Odin to know what it felt like to be around elemental power. This one was faint, fleeting, barely even there; a weak Asgardian child had a hundred times more power in their body than whatever this was.
And yet, it drew her attention.
She followed the stench along a narrow passage. Each wall bore scars of ancient flames, black and oily in places, the residue of the forgotten magics used by the Valyrians. Her eyes flicked to each corner as she moved, until she reached a heavy door frame that had splintered from its hinges. A chamber waited beyond, filled with a stale gloom. The smell grew stronger, acrid like old blood and charred flesh, but also earthy. She pulled the wyrm's head in behind her and let it slump against the wall.
A flicker of motion caught her gaze at the center of the room. Chain links snaked across the floor, coiled around a form that scarcely looked alive. She stepped closer. The figure stood upright, yet supported by its bindings. It was small, no taller than a child, with skin the color of storm clouds. Its hair shone with the dull luster of midnight. The stumps of its limbs were dark and sealed, blackened edges hinting at heated iron or sorcery's flame. A single crimson eye turned toward her. A faint glow flickered in its chest, golden as an ember taken from a dying fire.
A Child of the Forest–or, as the Essosi referred to them, an Ifequevron.
She stood there a moment, head tilted. Bits of dust drifted between them. The figure breathed in shallow rasps, each exhalation stirring the chains wrapped around its body. Runes scored the metal links in tangled shapes that pulsed, faint and rhythmic, with that same golden hue. She pressed a hand against one chain and felt a mild vibration skitter up her arm. The creature's eye never left her, its gaze unblinking in the half-light. The air around them weighed thick with sorcery, and the old stones seemed to sigh with each breath the chained being took.
"You're not human," The child said. "I can smell powerful magic inside you. But you're neither Giant nor Other, and you're certainly not any kin of mine; what are you?"
Hela stepped forward and stopped a foot away from the creature. And then, she considered the question for a moment. She wasn't human–not really. She was too strong, too fast, and too powerful to be a mere human. And yet, she was nowhere near as strong as an average Asgardian, which meant she did not still possess the honor of retaining her title as an Asgardian. What was she now? Hela found that she had no real answer. "I don't know what I am anymore, but I'm not human."
The Child nodded and closed its lone eye. Its breath was ragged and pained, but it spoke still. "It pleases me to know that there are other magical races out there in the world that have survived the rise of men. But what brought you into this desolate place?"
Hela's gaze swept around the chamber. The walls bore marks of sorcerous fire, black stone warped by power older than men. She listened to the rustle of chains and let her eyes settle on the Child once more.
"I simply wished to explore the ruins of Valyria." Hela said. "In truth, I did not know what I would find. But I certainly was not expecting to meet one of your kind here."
A strangled chuckle escaped the Child's throat. Dark blood trickled across its lips and down its chest. It lifted its head a fraction, eye reflecting a hint of the golden light still pulsing in its torso. "Then you're not after treasure. You'd have taken your fill from the vaults and left me to my fate. Perhaps you came for power. But surviving in these lands is a feat beyond most who practice sorcery. Even an Other would turn away, lest the fiery magics that consumed this land consume them as well."
A distant rumble sounded from beyond the broken arches, the hush of the ash-choked world bearing witness to the things that once lived and the things that refused to die. Hela's lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. Her gaze returned to the Child, who watched her with that lone, unyielding eye. The soft clink of chains and the wet drip of blood punctuated the silence. And then, the Child smiled and shook its head. "Mere curiosity, then?"
Hela nodded. "I suppose so. Do you have a name, Child?"
"In the human tongue with which we speak, I am called Twig–or, at least, that is the name I have been bestowed." The child answered. "But, my name in the True Tongue is-"
AN: Chapter 19 is out on (Pat)reon!