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Amethyst eyes flashed behind Baldr's closed eyes, the defiance and humor in them the fuel that kept his ruse together. Memories of sun-warmed skin under his fingertips faded as the morning light pulled him from his dreams.

Sitting up with a groan, Baldr rested his elbows on his knees as he scrubbed the remnants of sleep from his face.

He'd dreamt of her again— the small moments in Finniskali that were all Baldr had left to hold on to until his mission was complete.

Whenever that was. He groaned again as he stood from the small cot he had built in the corner of his office.

He didn't like having to trek to the lavish rooms the King had appointed for him in the palace.

The plush bedding that swallowed him whole and the gilded surfaces only infuriated him, so rather than set the entire palace ablaze in his anger, Baldr chose to sleep in his office.

The mess of papers scattered across his desk, keeping him informed of his soldiers' progress and updates from the sergeants below his rank, darkened his already sour mood further.

He sat and began organizing the reports he had poured over late into the night.

The tea he had been drinking last night was still sitting in a carafe that had long since gone cold, but Baldr served himself some more and settled into his morning routine.

The mornings that followed dreams of her were the ones Baldr woke up in the foulest of moods.

Not that he was very chipper to begin with, but his mind plaguing him with his most precious memories when he was defenselessly asleep was his special form of torture.

It had been eight hundred and seventy-four days, twelve hours, and fifty-two minutes since Baldr had last seen her, but still, he could remember every detail of her excruciatingly beautiful face and the first time he saw it.

The first thing he learned was that his thin leather soled shoes were not appropriate for the conditions in Finniskali.

Snow was already heavy on the ground when he arrived a few days ago, his legs instantly swallowed by the freezing powder and soaking through his clothing.

It hadn't mattered at first; Baldr had burned his entire journey, and the snow had simply melted in his path, unable to stand against his rage.

But once the anger had dimmed and the hunger had set in, the cold settled in his bones and forced him to face his new reality.

Death would be the only end to his latest journey if he did not find shelter or food in the barren wasteland that was this nomad town.

But Baldr had no money and little to barter other than the clothing on his back and the small dagger he kept strapped to his arm.

He stumbled into the only two taverns looking for a reprieve from the cold but was thrown back into the snow when they discovered that he had no coin to spend.

Hopelessness quickly became his companion; the few days he had already spent in the snow were starting to wear on him, his fire dying beneath his skin.

As soon as his journey had started, it was ending.

Leaning against a small house that kept the harsh winds from battering him, Baldr tried to control the shivers that wracked his frayed nerves.

He wasn't able to feel his feet anymore but that sensation had left him hours ago already.

Now he was just exhausted; already, he had begun to feel his heart slowing in his chest as the wind picked up.

He didn't care anymore. He stared ahead of him toward the punishing snow-covered plains that lay north of his home and thought of Leif.

The shame that overwhelmed him when he thought about how he had just let those guards take him— how he should have fought harder for the only person who had really known Baldr—made him want to close his eyes and resign himself to freezing to death.

Leif was probably dead by now, and that should have terrified him, but Baldr planned on following him into the Void shortly.

The cold numbed the rest of his body as his throat tightened painfully, the heaviness of death sinking into his limbs and weakening him beyond repair.

A single tear leaked out of the corner of his eye, freezing on his cold cheek instantly.

"I'm coming, Leif," he croaked weakly as his vision started to flicker.

Then, his darkening vision filled with violet— bright and sparkling in the sun that illuminated the white snow until it blinded him to everything but her. When the woman spoke, her words were muffled, as if she were speaking underwater, but Baldr didn't care. A goddess had come to his aid.

Flames licked his limbs as Baldr came to, his body wrapped tightly in scorching blankets. For a moment, he wondered if his fire was rebelling and burning him even though his flames had never hurt him before. And yet, here he was with flames consuming him and turning him to ash.

A gentle voice that soothed his very soul spoke, easing his pain as a thick liquid was poured down his throat until he was lost to darkness again.

This time when he woke, the fires had died. His galder burned brightly in his veins again, the sparks that kept him company all his life returning with a flood of warmth that set fire to his soul. He tried to unwrap himself from the heavy blankets that lay on him as he took in his surroundings.

A small cottage with a fire roaring in the corner and herbs drying from the ceiling in neat rows were the first things Baldr noticed.

Next, the table against the back corner of the wall opposite him was ladened with glass flasks and small bottles of various herbs and liquids.

The only other bed in the small room had been neatly made.

"I would relax; you were only just on Hela's doorstep," that melodic voice said again, the slightly husky tone heating his blood further as he had finally found the source of the words.

A knock came at the door, pulling Baldr from his memories. He had been staring at the same report for gods only knew how long as he had gotten lost in her again.

"Enter," he commanded, straightening in his chair and donning his bored mask.

The door cracked open, and one of the young pages in Helvig's service entered, his scrawny stature making him silent on his skinny legs. He held out a folded missive with the King's seal on it for Baldr to grab.

"From the king," the young boy said.

Purple bruises lingered under the boy's eyes, their light green color dull and lifeless. He handed the note to Baldr and turned to leave.

"Stop," Baldr said, unable to let the boy leave just yet.

The boy turned to face him wearily. "Yes, General?"

Baldr only opened his drawer and snatched up a few honey cakes he had stashed away in wax wrapping before tossing them to the boy.

With one sharp nod, Baldr dismissed the page, who now had slightly more bounce in his step.

It wasn't unusual that His Majesty would starve his staff for not working fast enough or because he woke up with a headache that morning.

Rather than delay the inevitable, Baldr opened the summons the boy had brought him and read the King's neat scrawl informing him of the War Council taking place that afternoon.

It seemed that Helvig would waste no more time in planning his conquest over Ahland.

He shoved the summons into the fire and turned back to his reports until he had to head to the palace for the meeting, forcing her from his thoughts.

The echo of her laughter followed Baldr through the deserted halls of the palace.

He hadn't been able to separate his dreams from his waking mind that day.

Her absence was a heavy weight in his chest, dragging him down with every breath.

Smoothing out his uniform as he approached the tall, black doors whose polish was so new that its surface was a dark mirror, Baldr took in his appearance for a moment.

His dark grey eyes were empty, the shine that used to glow behind his irises long dulled.

Dark circles surrounded his eyes as well— the lack of sleep was obvious in his face, if not his posture.

Though his strength remained present in his carefully toned body, his face was thinner than it had ever been despite his comfortable lifestyle in the palace.

Gods only knew how much he resented that privilege.

Who was he to gorge himself when so many others starved?

The hollowness of his face was haunted by the memories of her more than usual as he tried to find the man she knew but came up empty.

He tried to use it to his advantage but couldn't muster the courage to use her memory as fuel for his ruse.

Pulling from his outrage instead, Baldr slipped on his mask of the cruel General once more.

Until the previously destroyed War Room had been rebuilt, the War Council meetings had been held in the King's office in his suite, its location closer to his office in the barracks.

Now that it had been rebuilt in its dark, gothic glory, Baldr had to commute to the other side of the palace to sit through the meetings where Helvig's advisors all cautioned against the immediate takeover of the Kingdom of Rivers.

Hours on hours had been spent listening to each sniveling noble argue with Helvig enough that the King grew frustrated and ended the meetings.

What Helvig didn't know, however, was that Baldr had been sowing seeds of doubt in the noblemen's minds for weeks through strategically planned "spontaneous" meetings at Logi's taverns in the noble's district.

Helvig's coffers had paid for each horn of mead while Baldr spoke with the lords about how their armies had taken a hit from when the traitor Lieutenant General had failed to train the soldiers who guarded them properly in a ploy to weaken them.