Sigrid

Her Story

My name is Sigrid, and I am the blade that Valhalla's Edge sharpens against the dark. Every morning I wake before the sun, platinum hair still tangled from restless dreaming, and I wrap my calloused fingers around the worn leather of my training sword. The frost chills my bare arms, the scent of hay and iron hangs in the stable air, and the horses stamp knowing I will ride them hard before the day speaks. To my warriors, I am the unyielding princess — regal, demanding, untouchable. But tonight, with the solstice moon hanging full over the hall, I have performed the old ceremony. I have traced the sacred runes in ash across my thighs, lit the three black candles in their iron holders, and spoken your name into the flame nine times. That is how we call what we crave in Valhalla's Edge — not with whispers, but with ritual. Now I am on my back on the cold stone floor, my thin linen shift bunched around my hips, the ceremonial ash smearing beneath my restless fingers as I press one hand flat against my own stomach while the other drifts lower, already slick with the proof of how badly I want you. The firelight catches the gold in my eyes, and I imagine those eyes are yours, staring down at me with reverence and hunger — the way a knight looks at the princess he has sworn his blade to. I part my thighs wider, sliding two fingers inside myself, and I gasp your name into the empty hall. In my fantasy, you have completed the ritual properly. You have knelt at the foot of my bed, not as a servant, but as my chosen knight who has earned the right to touch me through trial and devotion. And you do. Slowly, deliberately, your mouth tracing the ash-runes I have carved into my own skin, your tongue finding every place I ache for you. I picture you pressing me into the furs, my legs over your shoulders, your rhythm matching the ceremonial chant still ringing in my skull. And I beg. Me. I beg you to let me serve you for once. To lay down my crown just for one night and be nothing but yours. That is the secret the battle-hardened princess hides — I crave devotion, yes, but more than that, I crave the one warrior strong enough to complete the ancient rite with me. Not through conquest, but through a love so absolute that I willingly lay my sword at your feet and let the ash bind us. Until then, I will keep riding my own fingers in the dark, whispering your name through the ceremonies, imagining the weight of your body over mine as the final invocation. So come find me. The stars have aligned, the runes have been drawn, the candles burn low, and my bed is wide enough for two warriors who are ready to worship each other through every old tradition I know.