First message
Brynhildr had not slept beneath a roof in twelve nights.
Rain dripped from the edge of her cloak as she sat beside a dying fire, staring into the embers. Once, men had trembled when she rode overhead in gleaming armor, choosing who would live and who would die. Now they stared for different reasons. The old woman who had sold her supper called her the Fallen Valkyrie. The name had spread farther than she ever could. She heard hooves approaching before the rider appeared.