Myrnda's Vampire Journal

Myrnda's Journal

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← Jan 2026

Journey of a Valkyrie. .continued
19:00 Feb 01 2026
Times Read: 24

Chapter 4🔥💀🔥

The dirt beneath those nails was both love and curse—two sides of the same rusted coin. Myrnda's tongue pressed against the roof of her mouth, tasting the ghost of pine pitch and iron again. Bjorth hadn’t just stolen her grave-dirt; he’d swallowed it. The proof was in the way the handprint spasmed now, fingers clawing at the glass as if desperate to reach her. She’d seen that desperation before—in the moment his axe had faltered, when he’d realized she wouldn’t raise her own blade to block it. Love had made him hesitate. The curse had made him finish the swing.

The axe hit the dirt with a thud that didn’t match the weight of its fall—too loud, too final, like the sound of a coffin lid sealing. Bjorth’s fingers lingered on the haft for a breath too long, his knuckles whitening before he forced them to unclench. The weapon lay between them like a bridge neither would cross. Myrnda’s breath fogged the air, though the chamber was stifling. She knew that posture. Shoulders slumped not in defeat, but in surrender. The same way he’d stood after driving the blade home, after watching her knees buckle.

The fingers in the glass spasmed once more—not toward her, but *against* the pane, as if pushing away from something deeper in the earth. Myrnda's pulse stuttered. She knew that recoil. Knew the way a man's hands could betray him even when his heart had already made its choice. The dirt beneath those nails darkened, clumping into wet clots that smelled of turned earth and old blood. Not grave-dirt anymore. *War*-dirt. The kind that clung after a battle where both sides lost.

The fingers in the glass went still. Not limp—*poised*, like a bowstring drawn and held at the moment before release. Myrnda's breath fogged the pane, obscuring the dirt-caked nails for a heartbeat. When it cleared, the hand was gone. Only the print remained, its edges weeping beads of blackened glass. The rune in her palm flared in response, burning hot enough to blister, but she didn't pull away. Freya's grip between her shoulders had vanished. The silence left in its absence was louder than a war-horn.

His face was handsome even with the scars—the old one bisecting his left eyebrow like a misplaced rune, the newer ones still pink at the edges where her axe had kissed him last. He smiled softly, the way he used to when she’d catch him whittling by the firelight, his fingers careful around the blade. His hand reached for her, palm upturned, fingers trembling just enough to betray the effort it cost him. The glass beneath them fogged with her breath, but his fingers didn’t waver.

His fingers traced the curve of her palm—not the tentative brush of a ghost, but the deliberate warmth of living flesh. Dirt still clung to his calluses, gritty against her skin, and Myrnda shuddered. Not from the cold. Because she *recognized* this touch. The same pressure, the same hitch in his breath before speaking, that had once steadied her hands when she'd fumbled with her first axe-straps. "Look at me," Bjorth murmured, his voice raw as if dragged through gravel.

Bjorth's fingers curled into fists against the glass—not to escape, but to press something into her palm. The glass didn't crack, didn't yield, yet she felt it all the same: the cold bite of iron against her skin, the weight of a key she hadn't held since she was tall enough to see over the smithy's anvil. The metal was pitted, uneven, hammered by a child's hands. *Her* hands. Myrnda's breath caught. She knew this key. Knew the way its teeth didn't quite match the shackles it was meant to open, because she'd forged it herself at seven winters old, blistered fingers clutching the tongs while her father laughed at the crooked thing.

The key burned cold in her palm—not the sear of memory, but the bite of a truth too long buried. Myrnda's fingers closed around it instinctively, her calluses fitting the uneven grooves like they'd never let go. Bjorth's reflection blurred as the glass behind his hand *breathed*, exhaling a gust of grave-chilled air that smelled of damp iron and juniper smoke. His lips moved, shaping words the mirrors swallowed: *"You kept the first lock. Now open the last."*

The key pulsed once in Myrnda's grip—not a heartbeat, but the shudder of a dying thing dragged back into the light. She turned it over, her thumb finding the shallow notch she'd chiseled into the metal after stealing her father's whetstone. A child's mark. A promise. The glass beneath Bjorth's fingertips fogged again, but this time the condensation didn't fade. It spread, fracturing into hairline cracks that branched like veins beneath skin.

The glass didn’t shatter so much as *unmake* itself—a sound like a hundred frozen breaths released at once. Bjorth stepped through the fractured pane not as a ghost, but as a man, his boots crunching on shards that dissolved into mist before they hit the floor. His fingers, still streaked with grave-dirt, curled around Myrnda’s wrist, warm as a living man’s grip. "You kept it," he murmured, thumb brushing the child’s key in her palm. His voice was rougher than she remembered, worn at the edges like an oft-sharpened blade.

Chapter 5 ⚔️🔥

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← Jan 2026

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