“Exile”, said the magistrate, his long white robes flowing down as he sat above the courtroom, “yes, you upheld the sacred law which was given to us during the blessed times of Hyperborea, but you still took the life of a nobleman, a pure Nordic-Atlantean, and with such grisly methods. We cannot allow that to stand. Exile.”

Valarya, captain of a squad of Valkyries, remained quiet, her long fiery hair parting, displaying her blue eyes. Eyes that were filled with a divine rage against those who would transgress the law. That was her duty to not only her Empress nor to just the gods, this was her duty to the pure people of Atlantis. She had crucified in her mind not a nobleman but a rapist.

“Do you have anything to say now that the verdict has been rendered?” the brow of the magistrate was raised, although an ancient man he could see that the spirit of Hyperborea was present within her. Was this what stayed his hand? Did he think that she was right to crucify the nobleman? He was a rapist, taking his beast-men slave women and committing foul acts upon them.

“I regret nothing. That was no Nordic-Altantean that I crucified but a degenerate worm. May all who lay with beast-man suffer the same fate,” not spoken loudly yet her words rang out with truth and confidence, the gods were with her. The magistrate could see the fire in her eyes. Nodding his head, he dismissed the courtroom. Standing up, his knees popping from sitting for far too long for the day. The golden trimmed white robes swaying as he walked to his office, only to be confronted by other officials. This case was a difficult one as it had frightened the various other members of the nobility who feared a possible coup against them.

“The days are growing darker in Atlantis,” the magistrate murmured.

“You knew this would be difficult to maneuver through,” the young assistant said as the elderly man entered the office. The magistrate entered his office, a chamber thick with memory; walls lined with artifacts, ancient books, ceremonial art, and a sword older than any living man. A room for one who had not only judged history, but lived it. The Magistrate would not have a moment to reflect upon the cast of Valarya as suddenly a duke had burst into his office.

“Are you mad? Have you lost your mind in your old age? Feeling the call of youth? Why only exile?” This outburst reflected the decaying condition Atlantis found itself in.

Founded long ago, the 12 kingdoms which compose the Imperial confederation of Atlantis were created by those who followed the high Priestess from Hyperborea southward. They came upon the large island continent which is now known as Atlantis, founding the 12 kingdoms under the signs of the stars as was stated by the ancient laws given to them by their guide the Lucifer, Wuodaz, who to modern man is Wuotan. This all pure blooded Atlanteans knew deep within their subconsciousness, the sacred truth of their origin, that they came ultimately not from this world but from the stars above.

“Hard to defend a man whose wife and children would not even take the stand for him,” the magistrate shot back as he slumped into his ornate chair, his brow betraying his feelings of insult. His thoughts brought back the scene, how the crucified nobleman’s wife only shook her head in refusal when asked to speak on her late husband’s behalf. She was an elegant woman of renown, platinum blonde with ice blue eyes, a shame that she married such a black hearted man the magistrate had thought at the time.

Knowing that he had overstepped his bounds, the duke pulled back, but continuing to probe as to why the magistrate had decided on exile, “did she not kill a man in a manner that is reserved for the most heinous of criminals?”

Crucifixion was among the oldest punishments in Atlantean law. A sacred judgment—reserved for those who had transgressed not only the divine law of Wuodaz, but also the spiritual covenant with the Atlantean Volk itself. The guilty were nailed to a beam or cross, their suffering made visible for the gods to see.

Valarya had enacted that sentence. She found the nobleman in his manor, and upon discovering his vile acts, forcing himself upon apeling slave women, she crucified him with her own hands.

“I am indeed an old man,” the magistrate replied, voice heavy with warning, “but do not mistake age for weakness. I remember the sacred laws, those given to us by our Hyperborean fathers. And do not presume to question my knowledge of their commands. The Valkyrie overstepped, but in judgment, not in truth. The man she slew was a defiler. He lay with female apelings. By our law, he was to be crucified.”

“But it was not her place!” the duke snapped. “She is a Valkyrie! She swore to protect the nobility, not judge them!”

And here the Duke was right, at least by the letter of tradition. The Valkyries had been formed as an elite order, a sacred shield for the blooded aristocracy of the Twelve Kingdoms. Though they swore loyalty to the Empress, a divine figurehead of religious stature, it was the Herjann, the male war-leader and executor of law, who wielded political authority. The Valkyries were not executioners, they were guardians. Symbols of divine feminine strength, not arbiters of guilt.

“Correct. Which is why she could not simply be allowed to walk away freely.” The magistrate’s voice lowered, measured. “A middle path was needed, not outright punishment, but a sentence close enough to satisfy both law and custom. Exile.”

He had weighed it all during the proceedings: the sacred traditions, the legal strictures, the raw morality of it all. It had exhausted him, not just in body, but in soul. The trial had reminded him of his age and, more hauntingly, of the passion he once carried in his youth.

More than once, he had paused during the trial, not from uncertainty, but from reflection. Was that why he stayed his hand? Did he see something of himself in the Valkyrie? A younger self, righteous and uncompromising?

He had not always worn robes.

There was a time when he had sailed the storm-beaten seas of the southern reaches. A hot-blooded youth in the Atlantean navy, he had fought against the Lemurian pirates, savages from the shadowed east who plundered sacred trade routes and trafficked in forbidden relics. The battles were brutal. Glory was rare, but conviction was common. Back then, he too had believed in divine justice, not as doctrine, but as fire. He glanced up at the sword on his wall, how much blood had that sword drank?

“Bringing the apelings here was a mistake,” the magistrate said after a long pause. “They plot against the state. And worse still, some of our own men cannot help themselves, thinking it acceptable to copulate with apeling women.”

The survivors of Hyperborea had always been few. That, perhaps, had justified the initial importation of the apelings of Gondwana. An expendable workforce, slave labor. Though truthfully, much of Atlantis had already been built by the time slavery was instituted.

The magistrate had pondered this for decades. Why had they been brought here? Numbers alone did not demand it, an Atlantean, even unblooded, could outmatch any Lemurian or other savage in battle. It had never been a question of survival.

No. It had been greed. That silent plague, creeping like rot into the upper echelons of Atlantean society. It had no face, no banner, but it gnawed away at the pillars all the same.

“That is… an issue,” the Duke relented, his gaze turning aside. He shifted, his blue cloak swaying as he turned.

How many of the men he called friend had lain with apeling women? The thought settled heavy in his chest. Was the Valkyrie right, then?

A quiet, gnawing voice whispered in the back of his mind, she had done what none of them had the will to do. He could feel the shift, subtle but real. He was beginning to agree with her. Very little was truly done to enforce purity anymore. The old codes were recited, but not upheld. Now, a growing class of half-apelings stirred unease in the streets, another symptom of decline. And with them came whispers: of conspiracy, of revolution, of fire rising beneath marble.

Sighing, the Duke turned to face the magistrate once more. His eyes, now softened by understanding, carried the weight of reflection. In that moment, he seemed to age, years carved not by time, but by thought.

“You made the right choice, then... I suppose. I’ll take my leave. Good day, Magistrate.” He bowed, a gesture more solemn than formal, and exited, leaving the magistrate alone with his assistant.

The magistrate rose from his chair and stepped toward the tall window behind him. Beyond the marble arches, the night sky loomed vast and silent. On the horizon, storm clouds gathered; dark, swollen with warning.

How much longer until it finally hits? Would he live to see the storm tear through his motherland? The Atlanteans were long-lived, their divine blood preserving them well past the years of lesser men, but would even that be enough to witness what was coming? Or was this just the anxiety of an old man? Had he begun to see omens where there were only clouds?

“Master?” the young assistant spoke, finding the strength within himself to ask the question.

The magistrate turned to face the younger man, and in that moment, his composure cracked. Tears welled in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks before he could stop them. He raised a trembling hand to cover his mouth, but it was too late.

The despair had broken through.

A terrible guilt seized him, not for himself, but for the generations that would come after. The storm he saw on the horizon would not strike the old, it would drown the young.

It would devour them. Ruin them. Annihilate them.

His free hand clutched the back of his chair as his knees faltered. The young assistant rushed forward, catching his master’s arm.

“Please, sire, what has come over you?”

The magistrate steadied himself. For a moment, he was silent. Then, with a voice that trembled with the weight of ages, he finally spoke:

“Forgive me. No, forgive my generation. We have damned your own. The children of this land have been burdened with what should never have fallen upon them. I beg the gods for forgiveness... for failing to stop the rot that festers within our motherland.”

“Master, you could not have foreseen such a future in your youth! I harbor no ill will toward the elders of our people.” Such is the nature of the young, still forgiving, still loving their fathers, even when those fathers admit fault.

“Nay,” the magistrate said, his voice low. “There were moments… brief windows when we could have acted.” The curse of hindsight, known only to the wisest of the old, cut through him like a blade.

“We should have marched on the capital, the Asengrad. We should have risen while the fire was still in our veins, while we still had strength enough to strike. Had we done so… perhaps you would not now bear the burden we left behind. Perhaps you would not suffer so.”

She was marched out of the courtroom in irons. Her ceremonial Valkyrie armor and weaponry had been stripped from her before the trial began. Yet she was not dragged like a criminal. She had been treated with dignity, placed under the custody of her own sisters. No jeering crowd, no public degradation.

She had expected to be paraded in rags before the noble caste, a scapegoat for their fear. But the magistrate had wielded what weight remained to him, enough to spare her humiliation. She wondered, as she walked, if she would ever get the chance to thank him.

Slowly, she and her two escorts descended into the lower recesses of the courthouse. There, in the cold silence, her belongings were being kept. At last, she stood before Valka, the head of the Valkyries, cloaked in a dark purple robe, her face hidden beneath a deep hood. She did not speak at first.

Valarya’s irons were removed. She knelt, solemn and still. She knew what was to come. “You are to be exiled,” Valka intoned. Her voice echoed like a judgment from the gods. “Stripped of rank, cast out from this isle. You will wander the wastes of the world, alone, until Wuodaz calls you home. But as a gesture of charity…”

She opened the chest beside her. “You will be given what you earned.”

From within, Valka drew the ceremonial armor, once a brilliant weave of white, blue, and gold. But now, it was black. The mark of the exiled. The armor of the damned. Valarya gasped. Her eyes widened. And for the first time, the tears came. She had accepted exile. She had not flinched at judgment. But now, faced with the final severing, she could not hold it back. She wept, not out of fear, but grief.

Valka placed the armor to the side. She bent down, robes rustling like the wind over a funeral pyre, and embraced Valarya as a mother would cradle her suffering child.

Valarya wept, not just for herself, but for all that was slipping away. She was too much for this land to bear now: too fierce, too unbending. Yet deeper still, another part of her soul wept for the future that was coming. A future she could not yet fully see, though its shadow loomed at the edges of her sight.

The storm gathered ever closer on the horizon, insidious elements working beneath their very feet to undermine the authority of the Atlantean state. If only those in power had heeded the warnings of their forefathers, that all that is may be once again, and that the sons and daughters of man should beware. Fate and time now moved against the people of Atlantis. All could feel it, like a cold wind in the bones, yet few dared to speak it aloud.

“I am sorry, my daughter,” Valka whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of duty and love. Tears pooled beneath the shadow of her hood. “I pray that Wuodaz and Ostanna watch over you in the darkness.”

Valarya nodded at Valka’s kindness and returned the embrace. They held each other for a moment, an unspoken bond of blood and sisterhood, until finally Valarya drew back. She donned the black armor of exile, each piece heavy with judgment and destiny. Her long, fiery hair burned like a living flame against the darkened steel.

Taking a final breath, she followed Valka down the long corridor to the pegasi stables. This was where she would take flight, where she would leave Atlantis behind, and begin the journey fate had chosen for her.

Valka paused before the great doors of the stables. Beyond them lay the open ground where Valkyries had, for thousands of years, stretching back into the unknown dawn era, bonded with their chosen steeds. It was a sacred tradition, older than any living memory.

“This is where I say goodbye, child,” she said softly, her voice heavy with centuries of duty and love. She pulled Valarya into one final embrace, strong yet trembling with unspoken grief. Then she stepped aside, leaving the path clear. And so the black-armored exile stepped forward as the doors opened and then shut behind her.

Yet to Valarya’s shock, there stood ten Valkyries, each clad in black-painted armor. Her company. Her sisters. Those she had fought beside since she was a young girl, through blood and fire and tears. They would not let her face exile alone.

Moriga stepped forward, her green eyes aflame, no longer serene but burning with defiance. She thrust her spear into the air. “Captain!” she cried. “Where you go, we go! Our oath to each other stands unbroken. We will not abandon you!”

One by one, the nine others lifted their spears, voices rising like a battle-cry. They had chosen her cause over their homeland. Valarya’s eyes shone with tears, not of despair this time, but of fierce pride. She was not and would never be alone.

Moriga, the green-eyed Valkyrie, whose sight seemed to see more than others. Athewana, wisest yet most stubborn of her sisters, her short grey hair marking her among the host. Isara, a morbid girl who found too much joy in battle, her grey eyes full of that stillness which would not waver even amidst the slaughter. Then Brynhara, tall and cold-eyed, weighing friend, foe, and fate alike with her unflinching gaze. Elgrin, dark-haired and elegant, bore a scar on her cheek, a reminder that even beauty could bleed; her laughter was quick, but her steel was quicker still. Sigrund, the quiet one, braided her blonde hair as tightly as she bound her emotions, speaking only when words mattered most. Hildra, blunt and practical, carried the strength of the training yards and the scent of the pegasi in her hair; she was the anchor who reminded them to eat and rest. Marelda, dark-eyed and intense, could read a star-chart as easily as a man’s lies, her gaze ever fixed on the sky as if seeking answers in the constellations. Avelin, quick-witted with red hair like a dying sun, moved unseen through forest or crowd, ever listening, ever watching. And Freyara, the youngest, with eyes of bright blue fire, untested in battle but loyal to Valarya beyond all doubt.

Valarya was desperately holding back her tears. She would not be forgotten; her true family had not abandoned her, and they never would. They would not leave her to the wastes of the world. Together, they would ride free, black-armored and defiant, striking against the forces that waited in the darkness beyond. Yet where would they go first? None among them had truly set foot beyond the lands held in the iron grasp of the Atlantean government. Yes, Atlantis had its colonies. such was the nature of empires, but none of them had ever walked those far shores.

“I see you’re in good spirits, then,” Athalwolf said at last, stepping from the shadows, as was the way of the Wolf Knights.

The Wolf Knights were an order within an order, warriors under the jurisdiction of the military elite. The aristocracy had long sought to consolidate the various martial orders under one hierarchy, to forge a single iron chain of command. The Herjanns of old had dreamed of such unity. The Wolf Knights, however, were born of the north, Thulisia, a land caught between icy crags and the fiery peaks of ancient volcanoes.

Valarya turned to face him, her eyes cold as steel. “Why are you here?” she demanded. “Feeling some guilt over your part in this?” Her voice betrayed the pain that still lingered from his involvement in her case.

Athalwolf had been summoned to investigate the scene of the crucifixion. He had found, without question, that Valarya had committed the act, but he had not stopped there. He had delved deeper, uncovering the nobleman’s vile crimes: the way he abused his apeling slave women, the cruelty he had inflicted in secret, and the birth of hybrid children. Athalwolf had presented this before the court, testifying that Valarya had not killed a man of honor, but a defiler. Being of the north, the bureaucracies and traditions of the southern kingdoms meant little to him. He knew she had done right, and so he had defended her with every word and every truth he could muster. But even so, exile had been her fate.

“You are wise in that,” Athalwolf said quietly. “I have cost you dearly. Forgiveness is not something the people of Thulisia would easily ask, nor is it easily given. But I am indebted to you, Valarya. I was the cause of this, and I would make it right. If you will have me, I would ride into exile with you.”

It was then that Valarya noticed his armor, blackened like her own, the mark of the exiled. She narrowed her eyes, confusion sharpening her gaze. “On what grounds are you indebted to me?”

Athalwolf’s strong, Nordic face remained calm, his eyes unwavering. “I have caused you pain, have I not? Therefore, I carry a debt. I cannot remain in Atlantis while your blood bears the weight of my actions. I have been beyond the borders before, to the colonies. I would make myself useful to you.”

Valarya considered his words. Her band of Valkyries, now exiles, would need a guide to cross the sea, in any direction.

Although reluctant to admit it, Valarya relented. “Very well then, Wolf Knight. You shall accompany us across the seas, into exile. You are to serve me until your debt has been cleared.”

Athalwolf’s face broke into a smile, solemn yet resolute. “I am yours to command.” He stepped forward, drawing a worn map from within his cloak. “We should head east, to Frisaland. I know some of the locals there, they will grant us hospitality.”

Valarya nodded, then turned to her sisters. “Mount up,” she commanded. One by one, the Valkyries climbed into their saddles, their blackened armor gleaming under the torchlight. Athalwolf swung onto his blacksteed and took his place at Valarya’s side. Together, they turned toward the gates.

Frisaland, what modern men would one day call Doggerland, awaited them. In the doom of Atlantis, the seas would swallow that land as well. But in this age, it was a green garden, its hills gentle and rivers clear, an emerald shore at the edge of the known world.

“Ride!” Valarya shouted.

The band charged forward into the oncoming storm. Valarya’s eyes blazed as the pegasi galloped, her sisters screaming their war cries. They would not go quietly into the night; they would stand against a world that would crush them.

The wings of their steeds unfurled. They took flight, thunder and lightning splitting the sky beside them.

Behind them, both the Magistrate and Valka watched in silence as the exiles soared into the storm. Each wondered if they had just sent the last hope of their motherland to its doom.