Surt’s flames rolled over me. They lost their intensity. They were nothing but ghostly flickers of warm orange, as harmless as butterflies. At my feet, the heather began to bloom—white flowers spreading across the landscape, reclaiming the trampled and burned areas where Surt’s warriors had walked, soaking up the blood, covering the corpses of the fallen giants. “The battle is over,” I announced. “I consecrate this ground in the name of Frey.” The words sent a shockwave in every direction. Swords, daggers, and axes flew from the fire giants’ hands. T.J.’s rifle spun from his grasp. Even the
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