Freya roared as the abominations swallowed her whole, their black, tar-like bodies writhing and constricting around her like living chains.
She gritted her teeth, refusing to succumb, and a bluish-silver aura burst from her skin, radiant, divine, and fierce, erasing a wave of darkness in every direction.
The air trembled as her sword gleamed with celestial light, but the monsters only came again, endless and hungry.
Still, Freya did not hesitate.
With trembling arms, she lifted her blade once more and charged into the darkness.
Every swing tore through flesh and shadow, yet for every one she cut down, a dozen more rose in its place.
Time became meaningless. She no longer knew if minutes or hours had passed.
Around her, the cries of gods and spirits echoed, once fierce, now fading.
When she looked up, she saw Freyr bleeding heavily, his golden hair matted with soot and ichor, yet still swinging his sword with desperate defiance.
