Page 3 of Blood Beneath the Snow (Blood & Souls Duology #1)

3

Standing along the mountain path overlooking the city, I couldn’t tell the roads on the godforsaken side of town were in desperate need of repair. From a distance it all looked almost beautiful. A thin layer of white snow covered everything, refusing to melt in the frigid air.

Surveying the city from a distance kept me grounded. It served as a reminder of all the good the godforsaken did and lit a fire within me at the same time, urging me to do what it took to ensure my people were finally treated equally.

For a moment I just looked while I caught my breath. As my lungs steadied, I stepped back from the edge and turned to the path again. If I continued along the familiar switchbacks to the cliffside, the castle would come into view. But my brothers and father remained at the war front for another three days, and I had no intention of going home now.

Snow-covered foliage obscured the trail, packed down enough to show that several travelers had come this way over the past few hours. Probably priests doing their rounds or godtouched coming to socialize with my mother, hoping to gain her favor. But the main path wasn’t the one my eye snagged on. Through the towering pines and between the frosted greenery, half-smudged footprints traversed the untouched landscape, headed into the unmarked part of the mountainside. Anyone who wasn’t looking for them wouldn’t have spared a second glance.

Careful not to leave noticeable footprints of my own, I followed the path to the west side of the mountain. Soon enough, the main road was out of sight. My only company was the occasional squirrel skittering up a tree.

No one would be able to find me unless they knew where to look.

With each step through the film of ice on the ground, I relaxed a little more. Here, I bore no responsibility to the throne or the godforsaken. Here, I was Revna. Nothing more.

By the time I reached my destination, the sun had arced its way high into the sky. When I pushed through the last pair of bushes and into the clearing, a familiar voice called out: “You’re late.”

Arne sat on a tree stump, once the foundation for a magnificent oak. It made a nice resting place for anyone in the clearing who wasn’t sparring. Then again, few people frequented the clearing besides the two of us and Freja.

I’d first met Halvar here. I smiled fondly at the memory—running away from another punishment at the hands of my father simply for asking to sit at the table with the rest of the family instead of on the floor, where the godforsaken were designated to eat. Losing the priests chasing after me had been easy at ten years old, my tiny form fast and small enough to crawl through spaces where my pursuers would never fit. When I stumbled through the bushes, unsure of my destination, I found Halvar sitting on the tree stump, staring at me with wide eyes. At the time it had been summer, and wildflowers dotted the grass. He’d been taking puffs of a cigar but hesitated at the sight of me.

It had taken every ounce of bravery in my fiery heart to stand tall in the face of him. Even then, it was clear he was strong, more than capable of holding me captive until my father found me and lashed fire across my back. “Are you godtouched?” I’d asked, hands curled into fists.

He shot me a bewildered look. “No, Princess.”

With a deep breath, every muscle in my body had relaxed and I’d thrown my arms around him in a hug as relief flooded through me. Rough, hardened Halvar hardly knew what to do with himself, but eventually found his own arms wrapped around me, too.

Since then, Halvar had shared the clearing’s location with Freja and Arne. But besides the four of us, no one was the wiser to its existence. It was nice, knowing this place belonged to us and no one else.

Arne balanced his sword on his knee, using a whetstone to sharpen it. His dark hair was pulled back, exposing the shaved sides of his head. Beaten armor covered his casual clothes.

He pushed to his feet and his tall, gangly frame moved toward me. When he got close enough, I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.

Arne offered me a half smile—the most happiness he ever expressed—and leaned down to press his lips to mine.

I leaned into the kiss, the expression of affection calmingly familiar until our noses brushed. I hissed from the pain and he pulled back with a wince. “Sorry. Do I need to set your nose again?”

“I don’t think so,” I muttered, wishing the persistent throb would make its exit already. “I’m going to try and persuade Waddell to heal it for me before dinner.”

Arne scowled. “I hate that you have to bargain with him for the same healing your brothers are entitled to.”

I wrapped an arm around his waist and rested my cheek against his chest with a chuckle. Arne was fiercely protective of Freja and me. If he could stand guard at our sides all day, I had no doubt he would.

With a sigh, he intertwined our fingers. My stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. Arne frowned. “You gave your food to Freja today?”

“Yes.” He knew better than to argue with me about it. “She needed her strength.”

“Hopefully we’ll be able to put our hungry days behind us soon,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of my head.

I stiffened at his words—at the reminder of my arranged marriage, coming far too soon for my liking. In a month, I would marry the Fastian Prince in exchange for shipments of food to keep our people from dying out while most of our supplies were funneled to the wastelands, where the fighting took place.

Arne didn’t notice my discomfort. “I missed you.”

Saying it back should have been as easy as breathing, but the words weighed heavy on my tongue, remaining unspoken this time. Wishing I could say it wasn’t enough to force the words through my lips for once. I pulled back slightly. “Can we spar?”

His smile disappeared. “Of course.”

Our relationship—if it could be called that—was complicated at best. With my twenty-first birthday having passed two weeks ago, my engagement to the Fastian Prince approached quickly. Pursuing more than friendship with Arne was foolish and rash. I’d kissed him for the first time nine months ago after my father revealed he’d arranged a marriage for me. The panic of the moment broke me, made me ache for something that was mine and no one else’s.

I didn’t want to imagine a first kiss with a person I didn’t love—didn’t know . And in the chaos, it was simple to press my lips to Arne’s and tangle my fingers in his hair.

I told myself we knew where it was going from the start. A relationship with a short fuse, unable to live past its beginning stages of passion. Arne didn’t seem to mind, but lately I found myself wondering if our feelings were aligned. If he wanted something more than a safe place to practice his firsts with a friend.

Did it matter, though? In the coming weeks we would go our separate ways. Neither of us would be able to stop it.

Forcing the thoughts from my mind was easy. I didn’t have time to dwell on the sick feeling burrowing deep in my stomach whenever Arne kissed me these days or the hunger gnawing at my insides. I needed to train, to learn how to fight, to take care of myself. Things that were impossible when my family was in the city instead of on the war front. I had to take advantage of my limited time. I would not place my fate so securely in the hands of a husband I didn’t know.

Unsheathing my sword was the most natural motion in the world, the sound like music to my ears. Here, I could forget my run-in with the priests. I could forget the way the robed figure held the scythe over the infant’s chest while she wailed.

I closed my eyes and tried to shake the image from my head. Remembering the gruesome scene would only make me angrier. Freja was getting the baby to safety—no one had died senselessly at the hands of the priests today. It was more than I could hope for.

One ritual of many, my thoughts whispered. A life saved now, perhaps. But will it make a difference in the end?

Arne didn’t wait for me to get set before he swung his blade, the metal arcing toward me. I stepped back and leaned so the blade didn’t swipe me.

“How did it go today?” Arne asked as he turned and swung again. “Is Freja all right?”

I braced my hands on my hilt and parried, wrists shaking from the impact. Arne might be skinny, but he was strong. Every clash of our swords rattled my bones, but today I was glad. It would distract me from the baby’s cry ringing in my ears.

“Good, I think.” I saw an opening and lunged, but Arne dodged easily. “The priests managed to grab me, but they didn’t catch Freja and she had the baby, so…” I would have shrugged if I wasn’t parrying his next blow.

Arne narrowed his eyes, though I felt some of the tension drain out of him when I mentioned Freja’s safety. The two had grown up together long before I knew them. If I didn’t know better, I might assume they were siblings. “They caught you? Your father is going to give you hell.”

“I know. My mother already did.”

We were falling into a rhythm. Parry, thrust, swing, block.

“And you don’t care?”

I frowned and tried to surprise him with a twist he wasn’t expecting, but I wasn’t as sneaky as I’d hoped, and the blow was easy to block.

“I’ve never cared.” My breathing was getting heavy. “Especially not now, right after my birthday. The Bloodshed Trials are in six weeks. The Fastians arrive in a month for an engagement ceremony and the wedding. I’ll be gone soon enough—might as well get as many blows in as I can beforehand.”

Arne’s voice was strained. “And you don’t mind?” he asked. “Being married off to the Prince of Faste?”

Then I saw it—a gaping hole in his defenses. I swung and he tried to parry but missed, and my sword cracked against his armor. Finally, a win.

We both relaxed, breathing hard. I pushed loose strands of hair out of my face and shivered at the cold breeze rustling the leaves on the trees. “It doesn’t matter if I mind,” I said. “It’s not like I have a choice.”

Arne shrugged.

I held back a sigh. He was so open with his feelings, and I…well, I wasn’t, but it didn’t stop him from reading me like a book. He was disappointed our time together was coming to an end.

Arne didn’t appear interested in sparring anymore, his sword hanging at his side, so I practiced my stances. He watched me silently, offering no comments. The blade felt like home in my hands. I sliced it through the air, enjoying the feel of the momentum.

“Besides, what else would they do with their godforsaken disappointment of a daughter?” I asked, my voice razor sharp at the edges. Arne asked me these questions over and over; he knew the answers.

“My family always does what the priests say. ‘Sacrifice infants.’ ‘Treat the godforsaken like trash.’ ‘Go to war against Kryllian.’ When Faste offered to send food in exchange for my hand in marriage”—I relaxed my stance and shrugged—“the priests thought it was too good to be true.”

Arne sheathed his sword. “You’re not something to be traded,” he muttered.

I sheathed my own sword and turned to him, quick as a whip. “What would you have me do?” I demanded. “I won’t run. I won’t show them I’m afraid. That’s one thing they don’t get to hold over me. Otherwise, I’m a slave to my own fate.”

His face was red; whether from the cold or from the sting of my words, I wasn’t sure. Either way, his eyes didn’t meet mine.

“Halvar thinks I should compete for the throne,” I continued, my words cold. I already knew exactly how Arne would feel about this. “Force my way into the Bloodshed Trials.”

“And you’re considering this?” Apparently I wasn’t the only one who could put up a mask when threatened.

I shrugged. “Why not? If you want me to stay here so desperately, then competing is the only way.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

I shook my head and sighed, the fight leaving me in a rush. We had so little time left. Did I really want to spend it arguing? “I’m sorry. We’ve had this same talk—”

“About a million times. I know.” His fingers ran around the edges of the armor on his opposite arm.

“There’s nothing we can do.” My voice was quiet now. “I don’t want to leave. But if I have to, to keep you and Freja safe, I will.”

“You can’t protect us forever.”

“Doesn’t stop me from trying.”

We practiced for the next hour in silence. Another person might find it disconcerting to spend so much time without exchanging words. But Arne preferred it, and I didn’t mind.

Today my mind was occupied trying to imagine my life in Faste: wife to a spoiled godtouched prince in a country that cared more about agriculture than the art of war. So far, “decent enough” was the most I dared to hope for.

In Bhorglid, it was unseemly for a godforsaken to know how to fight. In Faste, it was unseemly for anyone to know how to fight.

Regardless of where I ended up, I would be forced to hide this part of myself—the part of me craving to defend the godforsaken against their oppressors. Only Arne, Freja, and Halvar saw through the facade forced on me.

These thoughts followed me as Arne and I traveled back to the main path when we finished sparring. His gloomy expression told me he was tangled in his own inner turmoil. Steeling myself against the torrent in my mind, I clapped a hand on his arm. “Don’t be so glum,” I said. “You and Freja will have plenty of fun without me. And I’ll send letters, so it’s not like we’ll never talk.”

Arne stilled, his face contorted into an expression I didn’t recognize. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, quick movement from below caught in my peripheral vision.

I whirled, turning to look at the cobblestone streets. Sure enough, five riders were making their way toward the path leading up to the castle, their matching fire-red hair noticeable from my position high above them. I shut my eyes and groaned. My worst nightmare. “They’re back. Three days early.”

When I opened my eyes, Arne wore an expression of concern. I knew he cared about me, but this was the first time I noticed it was leaving permanent frown lines around his eyes.

We concealed ourselves in the trees so my father and four older brothers wouldn’t notice us when they passed. My father’s booming voice echoed from the horse at the front of the group. “Well done, Bjorn. We’ll have you as our captain in no time.”

I massaged my temples. What a headache of a day.

Arne put a hand on my shoulder and gently rubbed my tense muscles. “It’s nothing you haven’t dealt with before. They’ll be too busy talking about the Trials and the Hellbringer to pay you any attention.”

Good point. With the Trials being so close, it was unlikely either of my less-than-friendly brothers would antagonize me. And while stories of the Hellbringer were always morbid, I found them fascinating in a strange way.

“Dinner will be an hour at the longest,” Arne reminded me. “Stay quiet and things will be fine.”

Eat and stay quiet. Should be easy enough.

“You should get going,” I said.

He stood but glanced back. “Are you coming to Halvar’s tonight?”

“Of course.”

The worry evaporated from his face and a bit of light returned to his eyes. “Good. I’ll see you there.” He left, and I was alone.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, trying to remember the morning’s victory. Freja and I had successfully disrupted the new year ritual. We saved an innocent life.

A cold wind blew over me and I shivered. By the end of the month I’d be in Faste, too far to help anyone. The castle loomed into view as I ascended the rest of the path.

The white stone edifice comprised four towers and five levels. On the bottom floor, an odd section jutted out from the original foundation: the armory, expanded to its current size only fifty years ago. The landscaping included a huge courtyard for sparring and hosting parties, a rose garden that bloomed only for a few weeks each summer, and the stables. A few priests milled about, weapons in hand to guard against any imagined threat. Their embroidered eyes stared me down as I made my way to the doors.

My home served as another unwelcome reminder of why we’d truly gone to war. The priests and the godtouched might claim it was a holy crusade, but the castle’s towers and smooth, sloping arches told another story. The original castle my ancestors had built long ago had been a mighty wooden structure with sharp angles and straight lines. The new home my grandparents had commissioned was an imitation of the palace in Kryllian—a fact I only knew because my father often bragged about taking everything from our enemies. Their land, their culture, their lives—all of it was ours in his eyes.

My father and his father before him had a bad habit of wanting anything they didn’t have. What had once been an admiration of Kryllian’s ways had quickly festered into an obsession. And obsession always led to war.

At least signs of the approaching storm had disappeared. The winter sun danced idly on the grass, and I took my time walking across the courtyard. The crisp air had a particular taste and I inhaled deeply, clearing my lungs. The tip of my swollen nose was numb, but the sensation steadied me.

In the spring, the sight of the white castle against the green grass was stunning. Now it was nearly invisible before the snowcapped mountain. Its spot high above the valley was meant to give us a unique perspective in case of an invasion. From the top tower’s vantage point, a person could see out to the southern sea on a clear day.

As of yet, the predicted invasion hadn’t happened. If it ever did, I pitied the army who attempted it.

I reached the ornate front doors and took a deep breath. Now to prepare to deal with my family.

They went off to the front lines frequently enough that I knew their routine: they would head straight to their rooms to rinse off the month’s grime before they came to dinner. My father would briefly consult with the Holy Order of Priests regarding updates on the war front as well. If I gave them enough time, I wouldn’t run into anyone before dinner. And hopefully I’d be able to convince the palace healer to mend my face.

The front doors of the castle were huge and, of course, squeaky on their hinges. I closed them quickly and relaxed when the noise finally stopped.

All the bedrooms were on the third level. After ascending the stairs, I peered into the hallway to make sure my brothers’ doors were closed before walking to my own door, which was cracked open slightly.

There were no guards or priests in the castle to give me trouble. If we were attacked, my brothers were expected to protect themselves. During the war, we couldn’t waste soldiers. A single unit of fifty—the ones home on rotation—remained in the city while the rest fought on the front lines. The priests claimed law enforcement duties, but they all knew better than to intervene if I was in danger—no one cared if I lived or died.

Thanks to Halvar and Arne’s training, I’d stand my ground if an attacker made their way into the castle. Otherwise, only two of my brothers cared enough to help me.

In the familiar, comforting space of my room, I threw on a maroon dress with sleeves long enough to hide the purpling bruise the priest gave me this morning. Then I brushed through my long sheet of dark hair, wavy after being in braids all day. I stared at my reflection, eyes hollow from long nights spent planning the morning’s disruption with Freja and from bruises spreading away from my nose.

Where I saw strength glittering in my green eyes, my father saw defiance. Now I only hoped he saw little enough of it for me to make it through dinner unscathed.

First things first, though: I needed my nose to stop hurting so I could hold my own at the dinner table. I dashed down the stairs to the floor below, where my father’s personal healer resided, and knocked on the door.

The wizened old man opened it, his back hunched forward, and glared at me. I offered him what I hoped was a winning smile, though I knew there was likely still blood on my teeth.

“Waddell,” I greeted him. “As you can undoubtedly see, my nose is broken. I was hoping you’d be kind enough to heal it for me before I attend dinner with my family.”

He didn’t answer, simply scowled deeper. I wondered how it was possible.

I sighed. “I’ll trade you for it.” My brothers and my parents were treated well by Waddell, but whenever I needed healing, I was forced to barter. Even if the injury was dire, I knew he’d stand above me, tapping his foot while he waited for me to offer up my firstborn child in exchange for his services.

“I want a piece of jewelry,” he said, voice cracking around the edges like a withered piece of paper.

I nodded. “Done.”

He knew me well enough to know I’d follow through. So he reached forward and pressed two fingers hard to the broken bone and let his magic flow through them.

With a loud snap, the displaced pieces of my nose flew back together. It didn’t hurt, but the feeling of bone writhing beneath my skin made me gag. Soon I felt the swelling recede and knew the dark bruises were vanishing. When he was done, I made the short trip upstairs to fetch him a necklace from my slowly dwindling jewelry box.

“Giving this to a fine friend?” I said, attempting a teasing tone.

His expression was serious. “No. I simply enjoy being able to take everything from you.”

Waddell slammed the door behind him, leaving me fuming in the corridor.

I despised family dinners, which was unfortunate, because Mother insisted on having one every time Father and my brothers were back from the front lines. Attendance was mandatory; no exceptions.

I fidgeted in my seat, trying not to pull my legs up underneath me. Imagining the look Mother would give me kept me from doing it. On a normal day, I’d relish her glare, enjoying every minute she spent scolding me for petty rebellion, but I was too exhausted to fight back tonight.

My four redheaded older brothers sat on the sides of the table, my mother next to them, and my father sat at the head of the table, across from me. The foot of the table was my assigned place. Still better than the floor.

Directly on my left, my youngest brother, Bjorn, rambled on about some battle they’d been part of in the north. “The last one who tried to kill me had the godtouch of air. Probably thought he had the advantage over my fire, but I had the advantage in swordplay.” He smirked. “It didn’t take long to get rid of him.”

I wondered whether the soldier had quenched Bjorn’s fire by pulling the oxygen out of the air. Godtouched gifts were different in subtle ways—while many people could control the basic elements, they each had different limits and specific abilities. As a child, I spent years wondering what part of the gods’ magic I possessed, which valuable talent would be my godtouched gift. When no magic ever manifested itself, I spent years languishing in disappointment.

When Bjorn finished rambling, I rolled my eyes and glanced to my right, where Frode, my second-oldest brother, sat across from Bjorn. Frode’s hair was distinctly curly, unlike the rest of ours. He kept it cropped short against his head. He’d changed out of his military uniform and was dressed in a casual shirt and pair of pants. I wondered if Erik scolded him on the way to dinner for his outfit choice.

I channeled my thoughts in Frode’s direction. Is Bjorn this prissy when the temperatures are far below zero at night?

Frode didn’t say anything but smirked as he brought another bite of food to his mouth. I grinned. His godtouch was my favorite out of all my brothers: he could hear thoughts. It made for interesting fights and fun dinnertime conversations. The conversations were one-way, but I was glad someone appreciated my snippy comments, even if I didn’t say them out loud.

Frode and I both despised Bjorn, and Frode once told me our other brothers, Erik and Jac, would sympathize if they were able to voice their thoughts without being lashed for it. “Erik only cares because he thinks Bjorn is neglecting the gods’ demand to be more like them,” Frode had told me with an eye roll. “Self-righteous of him.” I took him at his word; Frode was terrible at lying and he didn’t have any reason to.

Father watched Erik, the oldest, and Jac, a year and a half younger than Frode, more closely than he did the two of us. Perhaps because he had written Frode off as a potential candidate for the throne long ago. And it was no secret the king wished I never existed in the first place.

Bjorn continued to drone on about the war. I didn’t pay much attention—the war was old news to me. Everything in Bhorglid was always about fighting, conquering, finding victory over someone else. Over time, the concept became boring. Not to mention Bjorn had a way of getting under people’s skin enough to make them snap. If he didn’t shoot fire from his fingers, I would have wondered whether he had the godtouch of annoying people.

“Then Father let me help strategize on how to take back the east side of the river,” Bjorn continued, his shoulders straight. “Helping me prepare for when I am leading the armies.”

Jac kept his face carefully neutral. As the most skilled strategist of us all, he would have given his arm and leg to lead the armies to victory. Bjorn never wasted a moment shoving it in his face how Father had never invited Jac to a strategy meeting. It made my cheeks burn with fury.

There was nothing we could do, though. As Father was keen to remind us often, everyone had their place in our society, and as soon as one stepped out of line, it was only a matter of time before everything began to fall apart. If the people had rebelled against Father when he was crowned king, I have no doubt he would have used his fire to quell the insubordination in a heartbeat.

Thankfully, the people were thrilled when he won the Bloodshed Trials of his generation, slaughtering his two younger brothers without a second thought. The same way my four brothers were supposed to run swords through each other until only one was left alive—the one who would take the throne.

Only then would my father abdicate. He and my mother would become citizens like the rest of the population, albeit far wealthier than most. They would live peacefully as long as they didn’t attempt to interfere with their successors’ choices, in which case…

Well. Let’s just say my own grandparents had been executed before I was born.

Erik spoke then. “We are successfully decimating Kryllian forces. If we are faithful and careful, we’ll be able to take the war from our wastelands to their shores soon. The country will be ours for the taking.”

Mother nodded, and I tightened my grip on my fork, knuckles going pale. Ours for the taking. I clenched my teeth and Frode shot me a warning look.

I know. I’m not stupid.

I’d voiced my opinions before, and they’d made it clear my thoughts weren’t welcome. That didn’t keep me from thinking the war was a waste of time.

My father sat back in his chair. “Victory is in sight,” he said to my mother. She smiled at him, and I sent Frode an image of myself gagging.

Frode, who was mid-swallow, choked on his food. Jac had to thump him on the back for a moment before he could breathe again.

Bjorn shot me a suspicious look, as if he too could read my thoughts. I smiled at him.

“And what of the Hellbringer?” Mother asked.

Suddenly, I cared a lot more for the war talk than I had a moment ago. Frode sent me a strange look and I ran through my memory of the morning’s chase, allowing him to observe it. He frowned and tapped his fingers against the table but didn’t speak.

“He continues to wreak havoc on our armies,” Father said. “He is the only thing standing between us and our victory. Now, though, there are rumors circulating about him. We’ve had intelligence return to us with news that he’s away from the front more often than not. They say he’s searching for something.”

I was utterly absorbed and barely noticed myself asking, “What? What is he searching for?”

Everyone turned to me, expressions varying from surprise that I’d spoken to anger that I’d been listening. “Why do you care?” Father sneered. “The war is no concern of yours.”

I swallowed hard and sat up straighter. “I am a citizen of Bhorglid. Of course the war is my concern. It’s everyone’s concern.”

Bjorn glared. “The war is a matter for the godtouched. Not anyone as lowly as you.”

Frode interrupted. “We don’t know what he’s searching for, only that he’s looking for something that could win them the war.”

The room fell into silence, Frode’s support of my question hanging tense in the air.

Before I could return to my meager portion, my father spoke again. “Revna,” he said. My name lingered in his voice, and I resisted the urge to cringe, immediately regretting bringing any attention to myself.

All eyes turned toward me. I fidgeted with the embroidery on my sleeve. “Yes?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. Everyone was staring at me, waiting for Father to strike.

My father crossed his arms. “Your mother informed me the new year ritual was disrupted this morning.”

I tried to keep my face casual as I chewed another bite. “Really?”

Bjorn snorted and my mother’s icy gaze narrowed on me.

“Yes,” Father said. He intertwined his fingers and tilted his head to the side. “We’ve discussed the appropriate course of action thoroughly since my return.”

I continued chewing methodically, though the bite now tasted like ash in my mouth. I refused to give in to what he wanted, which was to get a reaction out of me.

Father’s voice grew stonier with every word he spoke. “For the sake of our country—the sake of our favor with the gods—I hope that infant perished the moment you snatched it from the sacrificial altar.”

I stared straight ahead, not breaking eye contact with my father, though I desperately wanted to know what my brothers’ faces looked like. Hopefully their shock at my crimes made my interruption of the ritual worth it.

My father clenched his fork so tightly, I wondered if it would break. Or whether, more likely, he would melt it. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d caused him to damage property.

“You,” he said, face turning red, “are a shame to this family. You dare disrespect the gods who protect us in battle?” His voice rose to a shout as he continued, “When we are so clearly losing the war? When we need the gods more than ever?”

Losing? Hadn’t he said they were close to winning? The surprise lasted only a moment before it transformed, and anger coursed through me. I had tried to tell him over and over how terribly the godforsaken were being treated at the hands of the priests, but he wouldn’t listen.

I slammed my palms on the table. “They have never been my gods,” I cried. “You sacrifice the godforsaken, treat us as lesser beings, and refuse to listen to us!” I felt the blood rushing to my face. My heartbeat was loud in my ears.

The hand holding my father’s fork erupted in flames. No one at the table flinched. The metal in his grasp began to wilt like a dying flower under the sun.

When he spoke again, his voice was terrifyingly soft. “You will not disrespect our country.” His hand shook. “Or your gods. Or your family.”

I glanced at my brothers and my rage evaporated from me like smoke drifting away in the wind. Bjorn grinned from ear to ear, watching with glee shining in his eyes. Jac stared at his plate, unmoving. Erik and Frode continued to eat, ignoring the argument entirely.

My father let his fire go out, wiping the liquid metal off his hands with a cloth napkin. “In six weeks, we will host the Bloodshed Trials. But before that, we will celebrate your wedding and your departure to Faste. In fact, the wedding delegation arrives tomorrow to begin planning. This is only one portion of your punishment.” His cold blue eyes met mine. “I do not think either of us will be disappointed to part ways.”

“Tomorrow,” I said. My voice was as hollow as I felt. I forced the furious tears in my eyes not to move any farther. “You told me I had another month.”

He shrugged. “We received word from Faste last week. There was a skirmish at their border and they are anxious to see their end of the alliance fulfilled in case Kryllian decides to bring the war to their territory. Besides, you’re well-known for your antics. Why would I give you an opportunity to wreak havoc on your own engagement? It was more pertinent to keep the information from you.”

Fury bubbled in my stomach, threatening to overflow.

“You’re an absolute—”

Frode stood and put his hand around my wrist, clasping it tight enough to be a warning but light enough not to hurt. He raised an eyebrow, and I knew he was trying to calm me down.

He helped me stand and led me from the dining room. My father offered him a nod of encouragement and I hissed through my teeth, scowling.

Frode and I walked in silence. Having a brother who could read my thoughts was helpful when I didn’t want to talk.

A skirmish at the border. Not even a real battle. That was all it had taken for Faste to renege on their original marriage date and come running to Father for help. If Kryllian truly was pushing at their borders, it made sense they’d want our soldiers occupying their country sooner.

But the logic of the situation didn’t soothe my upended emotions.

When we reached my room, I sat on the edge of the bed, and Frode cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”

“Go away,” I mumbled. There was no emotion in my voice. No thoughts in my head for him to steal.

He winced but nodded and stepped out, closing the door softly behind him.

I waited until his footsteps disappeared before slamming my fist into the wall, then watching the bruise bloom outward from underneath the skin of my knuckles. The pain was sour, but it felt better than the hole in my chest filled with disappointment, bitter about having to obey my father.

Again and again, my hand connected with the stone. I kept hitting until blood was smeared on the wall and I couldn’t feel the pain anymore.

Only when I collapsed, my hand a destroyed mess of flesh, did I realize my father had never said what the rest of my punishment would be.

The Hellbringer visited me in my dreams.

Beneath the haze of exhaustion weighing down my bones like lead, I knew I was asleep. The world swirled around me, colors and objects blending in impossible ways. The pain of my now-swollen hand was nearly forgotten, and the events of the day seemed laughable, not life altering.

I tilted my head to the left to study the dark figure who stared down at me. Despite his blurry form, I knew with a certainty who it was—the handcrafted mask was impossible not to recognize. And the loveliest thing about dreaming? The absence of fear. Where earlier the sight of him had made me freeze, now I found myself entirely neutral to his presence.

I tried to raise my hand to touch the helmet, discover what it was made of, but halfway up, a throb of pain shot through my fingers. Frowning, I muttered, “Ow.”

The room was dim. The Hellbringer tilted his head slightly to study me.

The haze of dreaming refused to clear, my half-asleep state slurring my words and halting my movements. “You should just kill me. You know. If you’re really so godtouched.”

He stood silently and didn’t reply.

I groaned, wishing I didn’t have to talk to communicate. “Stupid. I don’t believe in gods. Why do they like you more than me, huh? Doesn’t make sense. I’m great.”

When was this dream going to fade to black? When would it transform into something wilder than Kryllian’s most dangerous general standing in my childhood bedroom?

Without warning, a warm hand brushed against my bruised and bloodied one. I hissed and pulled it back, rousing slightly, but he ran a hand gently through my hair and my whole body relaxed. It had been so long since someone other than Arne had touched me kindly. Since I hadn’t feared a hand on my face. My eyes shuttered closed as the Hellbringer’s fingers combed carefully through my locks, brushing out the tangles there.

“?’S nice,” I muttered.

Eventually my injured hand lifted of its own accord and a steady, stable pressure replaced the throbbing pain. I blinked, vision hazy, to see my knuckles wrapped in thick white cloth.

I stared, my brain too sluggish to understand what it meant. How the bandage had arrived there. When I finally returned my gaze to the Hellbringer, though, he was gone.

And soon sleep dragged me fully under once more.