The Story of Brunhild

"Heimdall was waiting by the bridge — Bifröst — which stretched proudly across the sky, its shimmering colours reaching all the way down to the mortal realm. He welcomed us warmly and stepped aside, wishing us good fortune as we thundered past. One by one, we stormed onto Bifröst, our horses’ hooves sparking against the magic bridge, sending bursts of red, green, and blue light exploding across the heavens. The gleam of our armour and shields blanketed the sky in glowing veils, and that mystical radiance was what mortals called the Northern Lights — the aurora borealis. But the truth of that fiery spectacle? It was us — the pale-skinned, golden-armoured daughters of death. Two mighty armies stood below, clad in fur and iron, gripping weapons tight. One led by Sigtrygg, the other by Harald. As they beheld our dazzling arrival, time stopped. Life itself no longer mattered. The outcome of their battle no longer lay in their swords — it had been decided by the gods. And the gods had sent us. Yet even in our terrifying presence, they saw a promise: that the fallen heroes would rise again — not in Midgard, but in Odin’s golden hall. Valhalla was the highest reward a warrior could hope for. Every man among them now longed to die a glorious death."