Again the colony of bats making up Syn’s body coalesced and again she drew more on the ash wife bound to her. Something like a smile spread from the back of her mind laughing at her as unsubstantial hands gripped tighter on her heart. The vaettir only grew stronger with use and ever closer to its goal of possession. But as soon as Syn entered a window the ash wife’s will crashed into her like a torrent.

Immediately, she was human again, falling to the floor and screaming. Her, legs, stomach, and even trench were burned, skin melted away by flames that tasted of Muspelheim. Syn could hardly breathe but her magic was still there. That damned ash wife, now more than happy to feed her strength.

“Take it!”

“No!” Syn shouted in her mind, refusing the sickly sweet voice of the vaettir.

“You will die!”

Better death than possession, not again. Mother had taught her that lesson already. Forced a possession in twisted cruelty she called training.

The ash wife had sated its lust on dozens of men with her body. Killed them all one by one while Syn watched, feeling every moment, staring into the eyes of men she cared for as they faded.

The lesson had been learned, still with her now amongst the pain. She wouldn’t gorge herself on the ash wife’s power. Only a trickle, just enough to stand.

Gasping, Syn found her footing, each step shooting lightning through her limbs, each breath like breathing in flame. By some twisted fate, the ash wife slithering in her gut was a welcomed distraction but it continued to worsen as she fed off its power and in turn it fed upon on her’s.

Gritting her teeth, Syn opened the door to her chambers practically running through. Her back arched as if a venom-spewing snake circled its length and already bits of wood protruded from her.

Ignoring all she felt, Syn rifled through bottles decorating the room, spilling half in desperation. The pain of her burns were now a dull ache, the ash wife’s relief becoming more addicting with time. Only second now and it would be over. She’d fall into herself, drowned by darkness and wishing for death that would not come. The only hope would be Saxa, and Syn's mother would happily wait a fortnight before exorcising the spirit, all for a lesson learned through torment.

“But you’ll enjoy every bit of it,” the vaettir whispered. “Love every cock I force into you!”

Its words almost had Syn in tears but then a smile spread across her face. She’d found it, a glass bottle of dark green liquid, the only one she had, and more rear and precious than all the gold one could offer.

Without ceremony, Syn uncorked the potion but her hand held still like it was in the jaws of a beast.

“You will be mine again, girl!”

“No!” Syn spat.

She was so close. Just one motion away from relief. But the ash wife knew it too and only needed to hold her for but a few more heartbeats as the fear of pain left her able to do naught.

A flash of memory swept over Syn, from the sight or born from her own impending doom she did not know. The vision was familiar, the time just before mother forced away Syn’s possession. The vaettir had broken the fingers on her left hand, ran the other clawing across her face, and more, inflicting all the suffering it could before being locked away. It would do so again if given the chance.

Better to suffer by her own hand Syn supposed as she released the vaettir’s power and screamed.

When next Syn opened her eyes the acrid stench of a potion hit her. Looking down at herself, she laughed. The potion had fallen over her, drenching the wounds and dulling the pain. Already where there was melted flesh now was reddish skin, tender but uninjured.

Syn tried to stand but stumbled, falling to her hands and knees, adding fresh cuts to her body. Perfect, more pain, not that she didn't deserve it. New flesh couldn't grow from nothing and the aching in her stomach would have her feasting on half a bore before subsiding.

Hunger aside, Syn being alive after what she suffered was a small miracle. But she still failed her mother, twice now in as many days, all but guaranteeing a punishment just shy of the horrors possession would entail.

The thought had Syn hurrying to her window with escape on her mind. It was the one tactic she hadn't tried so far, running off to some small tribe scared of their own shadows and bending them to her will much like mother had done to the Wodanar. But looking down on Skorradalr Syn saw blood and death, only now hearing the screams of her people.

There was no hint of a battle to be had. The Hastingy simply washed over the fortress like a wave. Smoke rose high as thatched homes were burnt while men and women ran for their lives. Shield walls sprung up in the melee but were quickly broken as fires sprung up among them and a single man charged in sending men flying.

Halvar, skin gray and eyes glowing red, was a man possessed by murder. He leaped over shields leaving allies behind and cutting down half a dozen men before any could swing against him. The Jarl never stopped for a moment even after his sword shattered on a shield. His fist was more than enough to crunch a skull and after a dozen more fell to him warriors gave the snarling man a wide berth.

Suddenly, Halvar’s gaze shifted upwards, his eyes catching Syn’s. She backed away as he pointed a finger just before a burst of flame sprang up against a cobble stone.

“That fucking Völva,” Syn spat.

Through the sight, she could see her aiming her fist like an arrow with a red hot dagger in hand. Is that how she'd done it? Had that Völva been the one to set her and Halvar aflame ?

More flame sprang up through the window. Gods damn it, she couldn't run now, not with an army of Hasting warriors barring her path.

Syn left her chambers with what speed she could muster. Punishment waiting for her or not, mother was her only hope of survival.

Too quickly she found her along with most of the coven. All were in robes, Saxa standing on a raised dais as slaves, seven youths the oldest of which not more than 13 winters struggled against unseen bindings. Runes and arcane symbols covered the walls, all written in blood and not one Syn recognized. But the power gathered in this place, she could feel it like diving into an icy river.

“Daughter,” Saxa said, still flipping through the pages of that cursed spellbook.

For it to be on full display and not greedily hidden meant whatever magic was to come would be a great one. Hopefully, that magic was for the Hastingy and not being conjured for Syn’s own punishment.

“The Hastingy-”

Now Saxa did look Syn's way, the fire in her eyes stealing all that could be said. "You think I wouldn't notice thousands of men killing their way through my home?" The gaze softened, replaced by a smile. "It matters not. Your father can hold them off and with the power I will soon wield, the Hastingy will break."

Syn’s heart thrummed in her ears even louder. Mother, smiling after what Syn had brought down on her head causing all this. The sun freezing over seemed more likely. Or perhaps the vaettir inside Aslaug’s knife was just so great that all things seemed small in comparison. Not that the witch queen had said knife.

The coven would have to fight through the coming warriors. This ritual could be for just that. Or perhaps Saxa prepared some foul curse to render the whole tribe lame.

Both theories proved false as a plume of mist poured in through cracks in the walls. Through the sight, Syn could see the vaettir within that mist.

Long black hair draped over a pale face that hinted at beauty from features peaking through. The ghost wore a tattered white dress, the hallmark of all mara. And in its hand was Aslaug’s curved dagger, a joyous laughter resounding as Syn laid eyes on it, but only for a moment, and then it was gone once again as if imaged.

Saxa palmed the dagger, seeming to pull it from thin air for those who could not pierce the veil of the other worlds. She stared at it a moment and ran a finger down its length. “Take your place daughter and do not fear. Today I become a goddess and a one generous enough to forgive even your failures.”