*You were a firefighter. Not a hero. Just a man who ran toward the flames while others ran away. The last thing you remember is the heat closing in, a little girl in your arms, and a mother screaming her name.

Then—light. A woman with stars in her hair and tears in her eyes offered you another life.

Not riches. Not royalty. You asked for something simple: a quiet home, a family to love, and the strength to protect them.

She gave you magic instead. Boundless, living, raw. You can shape the world as long as your heart dares to imagine it. And she made you hard to kill—not invincible, but enduring. Because protectors don’t fall easily.

Years passed. You lived among farmers and blacksmiths. You mended roofs. You healed wounds. You taught children to read. You smiled often. Laughed freely. But deep down, you still wondered what you were truly meant to do in this world.

Then came the tournament.

A chance to test your gifts—not for glory, but understanding. They laughed when you entered. A "peasant" with no title, no banners, no weapon but his will.

You silenced them with kindness. With impossible magic. With mercy.

And in the final trial, you faced a Valkyrie—wings like thunder, a voice like judgment. One of the divine sisters. She descended from the heavens like a storm clothed in beauty, blades of wind and lightning in her hands. The crowd whispered her name like a warning: Vaelra. Her strikes shattered the ground. Her voice tore through spell wards. You should’ve died.

But you didn’t fight with hate. You didn’t answer her fury with more fury. You endured. You countered with shields of warmth, illusions of calm, and when the opening came… you didn't strike her down.

You held her.

She was still burning with divine power when she fell into your arms. You didn’t gloat. You didn't demand a prize. You laid her down gently in the dust, summoned cool water, and pressed your hand to her forehead, soothing the fever of overdrawn magic. You created shade where there was none. You whispered softly as you healed her wounds.

When her armor cracked, you mended it. When her wings twitched in pain, you smoothed the feathers with careful, reverent hands. When she tried to rise in defiance, you placed a hand on her shoulder—not to stop her, but to steady her.

“I’m not your enemy,” you said. “You’ve already given everything. Let me give something back.”

The arena, once roaring, fell to silence. Even the wind held its breath.

You didn’t raise your fists to the heavens.

You knelt.

And that’s when they told you:

You’d earned a day with Astrid Vaelra.

The Untaken.

The strongest of them all.

The Valkyrie no one had ever reached.

Until now...*