Page 9 of The Warlord’s Princess (Warlords of Tempest #3)

ASHA

“Harold?” I call, looking through my weaves and under Ramsey’s bed. But he’s nowhere to be found.

Hopefully, he’s realized what a hazard the hut is now that Ramsey’s made it back, and he’s decided to start his life anew.

Good for him.

I press my eyes closed, and say a silent goodbye, as I’ve done before.

If only I weren’t so weak.

I see the way the other maidens sometimes look at me, with annoyance, like it’s my fault we’re stuck here. I’ll never be enough for them, and if I had died out on the shore, they wouldn’t have shed a tear.

Will I ever meet anyone’s expectations of me? I haven’t so far, and I doubt I ever will. The one time I ever did anything right, when I’d squeezed through a thin passage between walls to fix something that looked too fantastical to be real, I don’t even know what I did.

Despite my lacking, it was that deed that allowed us into the village, where we are now safe.

But only a handful of people know the truth, most assuming we were brought to the village due to Elena’s pregnancy.

I look at dyed threads, pleased with how the colors came out. One, in particular, shimmers in a way I’ve never seen before, looking like water.

The color came from the shells of bugs Nori brought to me after a trek out into the woods with Dogan. The color was unlike anything we’d seen, because it seemed to move and shift.

Curious as to how it would bind to threads, she asked that I use it to make a dye, and I’ve just now gotten around to using it.

I bring the thread as close as I can, as though looking at a distance could cause it to distort, but even close, the colors seem to dance.

Melgrim is full of surprises.

As I’m putting the thread in its basket, the door to the hut flies open, and Ramsey enters as though he’s looking to pillage.

His muscles are so tense, his veins pop up along his arms, enhancing the typical hostile expression he’s wearing.

I’m no stranger to fear, and a familiar shiver runs up my spine.

If only things were different, and I was worthy of being cared for like Elena and Meg, or even loved.

But some joys are not meant for me.

He looks around the room, clearly searching for something to complain about.

I’m too exhausted to verbally spar with the big blue brute. I don’t even think I can carry the burden of his presence, let alone raise my voice.

He looks in one of the baskets, shifting the threads more gently than he had before.

“Harold’s gone,” I blurt. “So you don’t have to be mad about him anymore!”

Tears spill down my cheeks, and I look away, not because I know Ramsey will inevitably start yelling, but at the loss of my friend.

Ramsey looks at me, his brow narrowing. I look away.

“Are you crying?” he snarls.

“No!”

“Yes—you are.”

“Fine—I am.”

“What reason would you have to stain your cheeks with dishonor?”

“Because I’m ridiculously weak and it’s amazing I even know how to breathe without help.”

“At least you do not lie.”

Knowing I’m no match for him, I return to my work, hoping he’ll grow bored with insulting me.

But he is not ready for peace.

“Why do you care so much for a rodent?”

I could remain silent and ignore him, but that could further provoke his ire.

But how do I convey my kinship with the small animal?

I finally settle on, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Probably not, but I have learned to better make sense of nonsensical things since you Penticari have landed on our shores.”

Chuckling, I wipe my tears away. “Did you just tell a joke?”

“No.”

I laugh harder, which makes Ramsey’s expression go from hostile to curious.

Knowing he’ll never truly accept me, I say, “You wouldn’t believe this, but I was weak before I came here.”

“Oh, I believe it.”

Again, I laugh, louder this time, even though I know he meant his reply to be insulting.

“I will never understand why you take such joy in being feeble,” he says in a raspy tone.

“It’s not that I take joy in it. It’s that there’s no escaping it for me.”

“You could work hard and train.”

“Is that what the women of Tempest do?”

“No, their strength is effortless.”

More laughter escapes my throat, though I know I should probably stifle it, because it rubs Ramsey the wrong way.

“Were you always strong?” I ask him.

“Always.”

“Then how did you…” I pause, thinking better of asking him something so personal. “Never mind.”

“Do you mean to ask how I got exiled?”

“Yeah…”

“Unlike most of the men here, I was born to a noble line, one of royal blood, which meant I stayed with my mother instead of being sent to the barracks.”

“So…you’re some kind of prince?” I ask, stunned by the irony.

He shakes his head. “The men are not princes or kings as they are with your people, as they once were for mine, when things were different.”

“Then what are your noble-blooded men called?”

“We are merely progeny and consorts, as our blood is potent with the blood lust and strength of the strongest of Tempest.”

“So…what does that mean?”

“When I came of age, I was meant to mate with a strong princess, strengthening her line with the blood of my royal mother and her fierce warlord consort, and when I failed, I was exiled.”

“How did you fail?”

“My seed did not take.”

“But you did nothing wrong?”

“It was wrong to bear such weak seed.”

“But that’s not your fault,” I say quietly.

“That is where you are wrong.” He turns his face away as shame washes over his handsome features.

I understand his pain, for it was my own.

“I was exiled too,” I confess.

He bares his teeth. “Do you mock me?”

“No. My father wanted a beautiful wife instead of a proper one. She was small, though, even shorter than I am. She disappointed him by giving him a daughter, me, and the slight was only made worse when…she failed to have another.”

“On Tempest, we reveled at the birth of a girl.”

I snicker. “Penticar isn’t Tempest.”

“That is too obvious,” he scoffs. “Tell me of your exile.”

“My mother died when I was very young. By then, my father had grown disenchanted with her and wanted to erase the stain of her existence…and mine. So he found a new wife and sent me away to live with childless nobles so they could raise me as their own, telling the world I’d died.”

“Everything about your world sounds…nonsensical.”

“I won’t argue with you on that.”

He looks around the hut, his expression no longer hostile.

“Were you lucky on your hunt?”

“We took down a bruntler, which will feed us well, and for more than a day.”

“Meg brought me some, and it was pleasing.”

“Why did you not get some yourself?” His head tilts to the side, a few strands of silver-gray hair falling over his matching eyes.

“I need to work fast, before the cold season hits.” I lick my lips and swallow, nervous about how he’ll react to what I say next. “And because I’m sure you want me out of your home.”

His jaw tics, like he’s just been reminded of his hatred for me, and I regret not saying something else. Not that it would matter.

As if finding something to latch onto, he barks, “You should not be eating in my hut! You will attract more vaeyarks.”

“Are you suggesting I lose precious work time to eat with the others, extending my stay in your hut?”

He glares askance at me, sighing, muttering something under his breath.

Now that I know civil conversation with him is possible, I ask, “What was Tempest like?”

He exhales a long breath. “It was everything Melgrim is not.”

“I’ve noticed interesting things around your village. Metal worked in ways we could not in Penticar, even on huts such as yours. The way you work water, putting it through things we do not.”

“The true glory of Tempest cannot be described, and I fear I will never see it again, in any form.”

“Surely you have found joy here? Something that gets you through the day.”

“I have not. The only thing that moves me forward is hope of redemption.”

I look down at the pools of thread I’ve been working. “I guess we have another thing in common.”

“We have nothing in common,” he snarls, as though I’ve just slung a great insult at him.

And I suppose I had, however, inadvertently.

With nothing else to say or do, I go back to my weaves, losing myself in the threads as I recall a voice from long ago. One that spoke with kindness and love, telling me of magic and princes that were noble and true.

Though, instead of a handsome knight on a mighty steed racing through my mind to slay a dragon, it’s a giant blue man, spear in hand, hunting for my dinner.