Page 15 of Blood Beneath the Snow (Blood & Souls Duology #1)

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I stood on one foot, the other leg extended behind me in a straight line, wobbling and desperately trying not to fall on my face in the snow.

“What is the point of this, again?” I asked through gritted teeth.

Beside me, the Hellbringer executed the same pose in perfect stillness, utterly content to watch me struggle. “Fighting requires use of every muscle, even the ones you aren’t thinking about. If you’re going to stand a chance at defeating your brothers, you need to develop those muscles.” He paused for half a heartbeat before adding, “Though right now, we’re simply working your core.”

I bit my lip as I teetered. “Are you insulting me?”

There was a hint of humor in his voice, a sly note I’d never heard before. “You seem to think I’m insulting you no matter what I do, so I won’t be answering that question.”

I laughed unexpectedly, then lost my balance and toppled over. When I pushed up on my hands with a grumbled “Shit,” I swore I caught the end of a chuckle from him.

We’d spent the morning running through a series of exercises designed to help me prepare for training with him. Running a mile through two feet of snow was not my ideal way to begin a day, but I was determined to win the Trials and I had admitted by now that the Hellbringer was a far more experienced warrior than I. At the end of the day, we both wanted the same thing. His methods were unusual, but I would oblige—for now.

The early hours of the morning were spent in silence. The heaviness of our evening conversation weighed on me. But the run warmed more than my out-of-shape muscles, and soon enough we’d returned to our natural state of constant arguing.

Our conversation from the night before remained fresh in my mind, though.

Between losing myself in the push and pull of my muscles, attempting to contort my body into absurd poses that required far more effort than they should have, and scowling at the Hellbringer, I wondered at the implications of his comments. The insinuation of a leash being held by a higher power had kept me up half the night.

Several hours from waking, I was no closer to determining what it meant.

Now I stood sore and shivering from falling in the snow. Pushing to my feet, I attempted to brush the powder off my clothes, succeeding only in melting it slightly and growing damp. Whatever.

“Are we going to finish the sword?” I asked, unable to keep the question contained any longer. I’d been thinking of the blade all morning. When I had trouble sleeping on the rough cave floor, I’d considered searching for a whetstone so I could sharpen the metal until I grew tired. In the end, I hadn’t. It was impossible to tell if the Hellbringer was sleeping or not, and I didn’t want to wake him and risk his wrath.

“Yes.” He returned to the cave and I followed, excitement sparking like a new flame in my chest. “You’ll need to shape the hilt today. Carve it from wood, attach it to the blade, and wrap it in leather. Then we’ll be done with the hardest parts.”

The sun had risen high in the sky when the Hellbringer approached me to examine the hilt I’d carved.

“Good,” he said, and I hoped he couldn’t see the pride on my face, blossoming in my chest at his words. “Your weapon will need a name.”

I thought for a moment. “Aloisa.”

Let them cower before the soul goddess in that arena. She may have been a figment of a zealot’s imagination, made real only by the thousands who worshiped her, but she was a symbol of something real. Power.

Power was tangible. Power was a crown on my head, the snowy path to it soaked in Erik’s and Bjorn’s blood. It was my unwilling father relinquishing his hold on the godforsaken; whether he let it go willingly or at the point of my blade mattered not.

When we attached the hilt to the blade, wrapping it with leather, I held it and marveled. I had created it from nothing. Brought it to life under the Hellbringer’s watchful eye.

Aloisa. Goddess of the soul. Blade of the godforsaken princess. Symbol of the revolution.

It was perfect.

The trek back to where Mira had dropped us originally felt significantly shorter the second time around. Maybe because of the new lightness between the Hellbringer and me.

My new sword was sheathed at my waist, and even I could admit my former blade paled in comparison. It still needed a good sharpening, but the Hellbringer assured me there was a whetstone back at the prison I could use.

“Why don’t we stay at the cave?” I asked, rubbing my thumb along Aloisa’s leather hilt. “Seems nicer than the prison.”

The Hellbringer glanced back over his shoulder from where he walked a few paces ahead of me. “It is nicer. But the prison keeps us safer from the elements. Just wait until the first storm of the year really hits. You’ll be glad there’s no hole in the ceiling then.”

I sighed and kicked at the powder in front of me, knowing he was right. A week or two after the new year began was always when the first storms hit the cities in Bhorglid; out in the wilderness, it likely occurred far sooner.

“Blizzards are nothing new to me,” I remarked, “but as much as I hate Bjorn and my father, growing up around two men with powerful fire godtouches was more of a luxury than most godforsaken had. I hate not being able to see the sun every day, but you’re right—the prison will be safer.”

We walked in silence for a few more steps before he asked, a note of puzzlement in his voice, “Why do you call yourself ‘godforsaken’? And those with power ‘godtouched’? Are the terms not ‘Nilurae’ and ‘Lurae’?”

I shrugged. “So I’ve been informed. But not in Bhorglid. I’d never known there were other words until I met Volkan earlier this week.”

My steady gait faltered. Had it really been only a few days since I first met Volkan? It felt like a lifetime ago.

“Do you prefer Bhorglid’s language?” The Hellbringer sounded genuinely curious. “Words are powerful. As a Nilurae yourself, you’re intimately aware of such.”

I considered the thought as we tromped through the snow. A few flakes descended from the skies, the white spindles stark against the dark end of my braid. Halvar, Freja, and I had always focused on the bigger things, the ones we felt would make the most difference.

But the Hellbringer had a point. Words had the ability to change thoughts, change reality. I considered the way Bhorglid’s citizens talked about him: the descriptions and stories painted a horrifying tale of an irredeemable monster, something inhuman behind a carved mask. And maybe some of them— most even—were true.

He was more irritating than terrifying, though.

I’d never thought of how calling ourselves godforsaken would reinforce the literal meaning of the term. Those of us without magic weren’t cursed or forgotten by any pretend gods. We were simply different.

“Nilurae,” I said softly, testing the feel of it on my tongue. There was something right about it, and I made no effort to suppress a small smile. “Nilurae.”

“I don’t know the origin of the word, but I believe it’s older than the terms used in Bhorglid,” the Hellbringer said. His long cloak billowed behind him in a sudden gust of wind. “It wouldn’t surprise me if your priests were the ones to coin the…less pleasant terms.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t get me started on the priests.”

He hummed. “They’re the driving force behind the war. Behind everything. I’ve never interacted with them, only watched from afar, but…I often can’t help but wish…” His hand squeezed into a fist by his side.

I knew exactly what he meant. And, truthfully, I didn’t think I’d mind if he used his godtouch—his Lurae —on the priests to exterminate them either.

“You dislike the war, then?” I asked. “Don’t you want to keep your country safe?”

He waved a hand dismissively, the black glove like a stain against the perfectly unbroken picture of white surrounding us. “I care about the people of Kryllian, but it’s hard to feel like they’re my people.”

I furrowed my brows. “You’re from Kryllian, though. Aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t they be your people, then?”

We were interrupted by Mira’s arrival. She appeared out of nowhere, landing on both feet in the snow. I glanced back toward the mountains in the distance, where the forge lay. Had we really walked the entire distance in such a short amount of time?

The Hellbringer noticed me looking. “Almost like stewing about how much you hate a person makes the trip feel longer.”

I ignored him and grasped Mira’s extended wrist. Her expressions were difficult to read, especially since she never spoke more than a word or two in my presence. But her slight scowl radiated dislike. I wondered what imagined slight I’d inflicted on her.

We were back at the prison in an instant, the cold, gray walls glaring down at me. I let go of Mira and held back a sigh. I missed the sun already. At least outside, the cold was accompanied by snow. In this depressing place, it was simply frigid and dim. The fire had been put out before we left, meaning it would take ages to warm up again.

I turned to ask the Hellbringer where he kept the kindling, but he and Mira were both gone. Once again I was alone.

The wary camaraderie I felt for the Hellbringer disappeared in an instant.

You have been kidnapped by a madman and no one is coming for you.

I began to search for kindling and firewood.