Chelsea
They made it back to the manor a little later than Chelsea had planned, though that had become normal enough that she was no longer surprised by it.
The day had stretched in too many directions. Chelsea was used to being busy. She liked being busy. Still, there was something exhausting about having a Valkyr follow her around while quietly trying to solve her as if Chelsea were a jigsaw puzzle someone had left on the table.
The first thing Chelsea did when they reached the manor was go looking for their special guest.
She found the Valkyr’s goddess, Freya, beneath the shade tree behind the house.
The goddess sat with her back against the trunk, her winged helm still covering her eyes. She looked too large and too important to be sitting in the grass, but she seemed content enough. The wildflowers moved around her in the breeze, and the white of her armor stood out against the darker shade beneath the tree.
“There you are!” Chelsea said, lifting a hand in greeting. “Hey, are you able to eat?”
Freya gave a single nod.
“Great! Don't fill up before dinner. We're having something special.”
Freya did not answer, though Chelsea was starting to think that might simply be how she behaved in public. The woman seemed perfectly capable of talking when she wanted to. She just chose not to most of the time, which Chelsea found mildly rude but also impressive.
Passion remained at Chelsea’s side as they turned back toward the manor. She had been doing that all day. Watching. Listening. Chelsea could almost feel the woman taking notes in her head.
“So Passion, tell me more about yourself,” Chelsea said as they entered the kitchen.
The kitchen was already active with preparation for dinner. The three maids moved between counters and ovens, and the air was full of heat, herbs, bread, and roasting meat. None of it appealed to Chelsea, but she could still appreciate the work being done. A good meal was important, even if she would be eating something entirely different and far less acceptable at the table.
Passion followed her inside, still looking around the room with that same focused curiosity. “What do you want to know?”
“How old are you? Favorite story? Hobbies? I know so little about you.”
“Oh, I'm twenty-six. Hobbies, really it's just training. I don't really have a favorite story.”
Chelsea turned with genuine surprise. “Oh wow. You look incredible for your age. I wouldn't have pegged you for a day past twenty.”
Passion let out a laugh, and some of the tension she had been carrying eased. “I use olive oil. It helps make skin softer and strengthens hair.”
Chelsea nodded with absolute seriousness as she started pulling ingredients from storage and setting them out on the counter. “That makes sense. I might have to tell Ivy about that. Her hair is already perfection incarnate, but she likes little tips like that.”
Passion asked, though the question did not sound judgmental. “You two really are fond of each other.”
“Very much so,” Chelsea said, smiling as she measured out what she needed. “She’s wonderful. Sweet, brilliant, easily flustered, and somehow willing to put up with me.”
Passion seemed to consider that. “She watches you carefully.”
“She worries.” Chelsea mixed the ingredients in a large bowl, pausing only long enough to glance toward the hallway. “Most of them do.”
The conversation settled after that. It was easier than Chelsea expected. Passion was direct, but not cruel. She asked questions because she wanted answers, not because she was trying to win something. Chelsea explained what she was making, what parts of the meal were for everyone else, and which parts were mostly there because she liked the process of cooking even if she could not eat the result.
Passion listened closely, then started talking about training.
That, apparently, was where her excitement lived. Sparring, weapon forms, learning from mistakes, refining a movement until it stopped being clumsy, and the satisfaction of finding one tiny improvement after hours of failure. She spoke about it with more life than she had shown at any other point during the day.
Chelsea understood that more than she expected to.
Not because she loved fighting. She didn’t. She still preferred merchant ledgers, good deals, books, and making people smile. But she understood wanting to get better at something so badly that the work became part of the reward.
“There’s no way you’re eighteen,” Passion said after a while, watching Chelsea give instructions to one of the maids about what needed to rest before baking. “How do you boss around the merchant’s guild?”
Chelsea pulled out her metal guild card and tossed it over.
Passion caught it, examined the card, then looked back up at Chelsea with a very different expression.
“My goal is to take four more assessments in another four kingdoms to get my S-rank card,” Chelsea said. “I get a really nice title for it.”
Her eyes lit up as she remembered something.
“Hey, what does your Valkyr title give you? I’ve been curious. Mine says I’m the strongest but not interested in fighting. Sort of accurate.”
Passion looked down at the card again, then handed it back. “I don’t know exactly. I had it read for me, but that was years ago. I can see it, but without being able to read...”
She trailed off, and for the first time all day, she looked embarrassed.
Chelsea softened immediately.
“I will be happy to teach you,” Chelsea said.
She reached deep into the oven with her bare hand, adjusted the pan inside, and pulled back without a flinch. One of the maids gasped softly, then remembered who she was looking at and went back to work.
Passion watched Chelsea’s hand with open approval. “That really is a handy ability.”
“Right!?” Chelsea said, pleased someone had finally appreciated it properly. “I wrote it off when I first saw it, but I also don’t sweat or feel any hot temperatures. I definitely feel cold though. Freezing cold baths are not my favorite thing in the world.” She giggled. “There was a river on our way to Junstruce. I swear it had to be like negative one hundred.”
“Speaking of temperatures,” Passion said, “I am dying to try out that bath. Can I?”
“Of course you can! Please do!” Chelsea turned toward her with a bright smile. “Not saying you smell, though we both might after hanging around Arnold’s forge.”
Passion frowned slightly. “But you don’t sweat.”
“Shhh, no need to point out my flaws,” Chelsea said with a sweet smile and a wink.
Passion stared at her for a second before laughing again.
Chelsea went back to mixing the next bowl, feeling oddly content. Passion was a sweet girl once she stopped trying to drag Chelsea into a destiny-shaped box. She was intense, confused, and had far too many opinions about duty and training, but Chelsea could work with that.
For now, easy conversation in the kitchen felt like progress.
Passion
Havoc had Passion gather all ten of the other Valkyr, Freya, and Chelsea’s family.
That alone felt strange.
Not the gathering. Valkyr gathered all the time for meals, planning, ceremonies, and the occasional punishment.
No, the strange part was that Havoc asked for it like she was inviting everyone to something pleasant. No commands or ceremony. She didn’t attempt to make the moment feel important. She simply moved through the manor, smiling at people and telling them dinner was ready.
Talking to Freya was always terrifying, but the goddess complied.
Passion still did not understand that.
Freya, patron goddess of the Valkyr, creator of Valhalla, answered to the little demon Havoc.
Once everyone had gathered, Havoc stood near the table with her hands clasped in front of her. The room smelled of warm bread, melted cheese, cooked meats, sharp herbs, and several things Passion did not recognize. Large round dishes had been placed across the table, each one cut into triangles and covered with different toppings.
“Tonight, I made a dish from my hometown. It's called pizza. I highly suggest no one touches mine. You will not like it. The other ones are pepperoni, margherita, apple cinnamon, plain cheese, meat lovers, and supreme. Supreme has lots of vegetables like onions, mushrooms, and green bell peppers. They are cut into triangles, and you eat it with your hands by holding the outside edge.”
Passion had watched Havoc make the dishes throughout the afternoon and remained skeptical.
The food smelled good. She could admit that much. It looked strange, but most new foods did. Still, Havoc had handled the entire process with too much confidence for someone who could not eat any of it.
Everyone else began reaching for pieces. Out of the corner of her eye, Passion noticed movement.
Freya had taken one of the pepperoni slices.
She held it correctly too. No hesitation. No confusion. She gripped the outside edge, lifted the triangle, and took a bite.
Watching Freya chew was… strange.
Then she placed the remainder of the piece carefully onto the plate in front of her. She gave Havoc a single nod, stood from the table, and left the room.
Passion looked around, but none of the other Valkyr seemed to have noticed. They were busy choosing slices, questioning the apple cinnamon one, or watching Dewey take three pieces at once. Havoc noticed, though.
Of course she did.
The demon excused herself quietly and followed Freya out.
Passion should have stayed at the table. She knew that. This was none of her business.
Whatever had happened between Havoc and Freya was not for her. A Valkyr did not sneak after her patron goddess. She didn’t eavesdrop on what was going on, and she certainly did not remove her boots so she could move silently through a manor.
Silently she left the boots under her chair in the dining room.
Havoc was still in sight as she moved through the hall and up the stairs. She was walking quickly now, no longer drifting through the house with that easy hostess energy. Passion kept back, placing each foot carefully so the floorboards would not give her away.
About five stairs from the top, she saw Havoc enter a room without closing the door.
Passion stopped.
The door remained open.
What was she doing to Freya?
Passion climbed the remaining steps and moved to the side of the doorway. She told herself she would only listen long enough to know everything was all right.
Then she heard Chelsea speaking.
“Shhh, hey, I’m so sorry. I was just trying to give you a little piece of home.”
Her voice had changed.
It was still Havoc’s voice, but softer. The same tone she had used with the children.
Someone was crying inside the room hard enough that Passion’s heard the sobs.
It could not be Freya. Who was it? Freya was the goddess of battle. It couldn’t be her. Maybe Havoc’s little elf girlfriend? But wasn't she down in the dining room still?
“Havoc, when we spoke last night, you were talking about presidents. I didn’t remember any of those people’s names.”
Passion went still. The voice called her Havoc. That wasn’t any of the other Valkyr’s voices. And visit her last night!? Passion's heart began racing.
“Eight hundred years,” Freya said. Her voice caught on the words. “Eight hundred fucking years. I have forgotten my family. My friends. The pizza.”
The next sound was a sob.
“The pizza made me remember my dad and little sister’s faces.”
Passion pressed one hand lightly against the wall.
She shouldn’t look. But she had to know. She looked only for a heartbeat.
Freya sat on the edge of a bed, her long black hair fallen loose around her face. Her helm rested beside her, the winged visor turned toward the wall. Havoc sat beside her with one arm around the goddess, letting Freya cry into her shoulder.
Freya was not merely upset. She was crying with no restraint.
Havoc held her and said nothing for a moment. She didn’t look uncomfortable and she wasn’t proud of herself for affecting a goddess. She only looked sad that Freya was hurting.
“It’s OK,” Havoc soothed.
Passion pulled back from the doorway.
The elf had been right. The whole fucking day she had been right.
Passion moved away from the room as quietly as she could and returned to the stairs. Her bare feet touched the steps one at a time, but she barely noticed the cold wood beneath them.
Her patron goddess, Freya, creator of the Valkyrs and Valhalla, had cried because Havoc had given her a special food.
It was just food.
Passion reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped in the hall. Voices drifted from the dining room. The other Valkyr were still eating. Havoc’s uncle was laughing at something.
Passion stood there for a moment, unable to move. She had completely underestimated Chelsea Wixx. They all had.
But obvious things Passion hadn’t missed. Chelsea was not powerful because of her titles or being rich, or a demon, or a even the Valkyr of Havoc.
Those things mattered, sure. But they were not the thing Passion had missed.
Chelsea walked into people’s lives, saw things they had stopped expecting anyone to notice, and acted on them. Passion had spent four years waiting for her Havoc.
Now she had found her. The thought sent a chill up her spine.