After seven long days at sea, the ship finally reached the port of Horsens, south of Aros on the Jutland Peninsula.

  Horsens was a small Danish village made up of rustic wooden houses, two stories high, much like those they had seen in Caen—though far rougher in craftsmanship. Cows and sheep wandered the muddy streets, and most of the townsfolk were farmers or fishermen. A few seafood markets were still open by the docks.

  It was late when Rodrigo and the goddesses decided to spend the night in a nearby inn before continuing their journey the next day.

  The inn stood right across from the pier, far from the town’s center. It was tiny—much smaller than any they had seen even in the Iberian Peninsula. It was clear that few travelers ever reached this corner of the world, and after years of civil war, the place seemed half-abandoned.

  No one there spoke Occitan, Galician, Anglo-Saxon, Irish, or even Epona’s so-called “Norwegian.” With hand gestures and patience, they managed to rent a single room.

  Cobwebs hung in the corners, and chickens ran freely down the corridors. The stench of horse manure lingered in the damp air, and rain leaked through the roof in several places. It was bone-chillingly cold. Most guests gathered in the front hall near the lit fireplace, but their room had no such comfort. Rodrigo shivered violently as they walked inside.

  Once there, Epona announced she would scout the enemy’s movements.

  “How will you do that, Ep?” Rodrigo asked curiously.

  The blonde goddess sat cross-legged on the bed, her expression turning blank. She rolled her eyes upward until only the whites showed and whispered, “ép amarch (Horse vision).”

  Then she went completely still.

  “What’s happening to her?” Rodrigo asked, alarmed.

  “She’s seeing through the eyes of every horse nearby,” explained Ana calmly. “If one horse looks at another, she can transfer her vision to it. She can even compel them to move if needed—she can view through dozens of horses at once. But it takes immense concentration.”

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  Hours passed. Epona remained motionless, her eyes white and unblinking.

  Tania had ordered everyone to stay awake until the equine goddess returned from her trance.

  Ana stood by the window, hoping—desperately—that Anpiel might appear out of the darkness. But there was no sign of him. It had been nearly fifteen days since he’d vanished.

  Suddenly, Epona convulsed and coughed up blood, collapsing to her knees.

  Tania rushed to her side and found her trembling violently.

  “They found me!” Epona cried. An enormous gash appeared across her abdomen, bleeding profusely.

  “Run—run! He’s here already!” she screamed, shaking as more blood poured from her mouth.

  “They must have killed her spirit-horses with overwhelming force!” Ana shouted.

  “No—I won’t run! I’ll fight!” Rodrigo yelled, grabbing a jug of water and rushing to Epona’s side to clean her wound.

  At that moment, a blinding flash erupted—followed by a thunderous explosion that tore the inn apart.

  The building was obliterated in an instant. Flames rained from the collapsing roof, scattering through a storm of debris and smoke.

  From afar, through the inferno, they saw a towering man wielding a sword of fire, holding in his left hand the severed head of a horse.

  He tossed it aside and roared,

  “Come out, you bitches! Show yourselves!”

  “Rodrigo, take care of Epona!” shouted Tania, stepping forward, her body already crackling with divine energy.

  “No! I’ll fight too!” Rodrigo protested—until he felt Ana’s hand on his shoulder.

  Her sword gleamed in the flames, and her blue eyes burned like twin stars.

  “Rui… do you trust me?” she asked softly.

  “So it’s you two,” the intruder growled, walking closer through the smoke. “The infamous Tannit and the dreadful Morrigan, standing before me at last.”

  The man was enormous—easily over two meters tall. His hair was reddish and tied into a thick ponytail; his beard was braided the same way. His only clothing was a pair of brown trousers, his muscular torso bare. His eyes were an icy blue, and on his left arm was a glowing tattoo bearing the sigil of Muspelheim.

  “Don’t call me that, bastard,” Ana spat.

  “Forgive me… Rodrigo…” Epona murmured weakly, reaching for his face.

  “It’s not your fault, Ep. Let’s trust them,” he said, holding her hand firmly.

  Outside, thunder rolled over Horsens.

  The battle of gods was about to begin.