The wind howled like a banshee, whipping snow into a frenzy around the crumbling stone tower. Inside, the last Valkyrie, Brynhildr, sat hunched over a crackling fire, her face etched with weariness. Her golden armor, once bright and gleaming, was now dull and tarnished, mirroring the fading embers of her spirit.
For centuries, she had stood as a sentinel, a bridge between the mortal realm and the halls of Valhalla. She had witnessed countless battles, borne the souls of fallen warriors to their final resting place, and felt the slow, inexorable decline of the gods. Now, she was the only one left.
Odin, the All father, had fallen. The rest of the Valkyries, their duty fulfilled, had followed him into the twilight of the gods. Brynhildr remained, bound by a promise to see the final battle through, a battle that would decide the fate of the world.