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A Stranger to Me

C ome morning, I will have had three names in my life. First, the name I was born with. Second, the name I took when I married my husband. And third, apparently, the name of the man who just murdered my husband.

But not if I have anything to say about it.

“No,” I say, steel in my voice. Steel I force there so that tears won’t overtake me. I’m not sure what they are—tears of betrayal? Tears of relief?

Either way, they’re all wrong, so I blink them back and keep my eyes pinned to the man standing over my husband’s body.

He’s tall, broad shouldered, and once I would have said he was even more familiar to me than my husband. But the boy I used to know is clearly gone.

I continue once I’m sure my voice isn’t going to tremble. “I will not go with you, and I certainly won’t marry you.”

Daenn’s hand tightens on the hilt of his sword. It’s the only physical reaction he shows to my words. “I’m not asking, Emana. You can either go pack a few things with an escort, or I can throw you on a gryphon right now. But you are coming with me. There is no one else here to stop me from taking you.”

Unbidden, my gaze drops to the body at his feet .

Tolomon was a big man, and he loved fighting, but it doesn’t surprise me that he fell to Daenn’s blade. He is—no, was—rash, hot-blooded, and even if he wasn’t, I never saw anyone beat Daenn in a fight.

Tears threaten to choke me as I linger on the limp way he lies there in the dirt, lifeless eyes staring in my direction but not looking at me.

These tears are easy to identify: they’re traitorous tears, because they’re not grief.

No. I don’t grieve Tolomon’s death. All I feel is deep, soul-searing relief—and guilt worming through it all. Despite all his faults, the man was my husband. I shouldn’t be happy that he’s gone.

I try to force myself to reach for anguish as I study the dark red watering the ground beneath him. Too much—it’s too much for him to be healed from. Far, far too much.

I rip my gaze away, clenching my teeth against the sobbing laugh that wants to rise out of me, and take in the rest of the scene before me.

Daenn didn’t come alone, and I recognize every warrior he’s brought to do his bidding. Some I only know by sight, but others...others I know almost as well as I once knew Daenn. They shift uncomfortably or drop their gazes when I turn mine toward them.

They know how shameful, how horrific Daenn’s actions are. As much as I wanted to be free of Tolomon, as much as I don’t regret his death, I can think of no reason Daenn could give that would justify the unwarranted murder of a man. And killing him just so Daenn can claim me as his own wife?

Indefensible.

The betrayal rears its head again, drowning out the relief. How long have I wished that Daenn would come rescue me? Save me from the greatest mistake of my life—my marriage to a cruel, possessive man?

And now he has… but it seems he’s no better than Tolomon, for he claims me, treats me as flippantly as Tolomon ever did. If anything, he’s worse. Tolomon never killed a man.

And not one of Daenn’s men have chosen to stop him. None of them lower their weapons from where they hold Tolomon’s personal guards captive. My dead husband’s men are outnumbered, and even if they weren’t, they are outmatched.

My clan are some of the best warriors on the continent, and the years I’ve spent away will never be enough to make me forget that.

I hate how powerless I feel in this moment. I have never wished for some sort of active, offensive magic so much in my life. I have an abundance of magic, but it’s not something I’ve ever been able to control—more of an aura that envelops those around me, as is usual for gryphon clan magic. And even if I could direct it, its only purpose is to bring people peace and calm. I want to bring them— him —pain like the storm drowning me.

I tilt my chin up. “Fine. I’ll go pack. Who would like to assist me?” I rake my gaze over the traitors. “Lars? No? How about Kettil, then.”

Lars can’t even meet my eyes, but Kettil does. His mouth twists down, his expression resting somewhere between regret and defiance.

“Eskil,” Daenn says, “she has ten minutes.”

Ah, yes. Eskil. Daenn’s closest friend after me when we were children. My closest friend after Daenn. Clearly Daenn trusts Eskil’s loyalties lie with him.

Eskil meets my eyes, his own gaze a touch enigmatic. Maybe there’s some lingering loyalty to me somewhere in him. It’s a faint hope, but it can’t hurt to nurture it. I’m already being kidnapped.

Kidnapped by the man I always wanted to rescue me. Betrayal twists its knife a little deeper in my heart.

“Come along.” I flick my fingers at Eskil and turn on my heel with all the grace and airs I learned as the wife of a lowland nobleman.

I sweep into the manor as if Eskil is my minion, as if all is right with the world and my husband wasn’t just murdered at the very steps of his domain. As if I’m not wearing my nightgown to stare down a legion of gryphon warriors.

The halls of the manor are dim, as is natural for the middle of the night. A few servants hover here and there, clutching candles or plain oil lamps.

But none of them meet my gaze. None of them will stand for me against a warrior, especially not one so hulking as Eskil.

They were loyal to Tolomon, but I have no doubt that Tolomon’s fate has already spread through the manor. Without that link, they hold no true loyalty to me.

I’ve always been an outsider in my husband’s domain. I will find no help here.

Eskil doesn’t try to speak to me as we traverse the halls.

I break the silence once we’re well out of earshot of any of the servants. “How can you support him in this?”

“How can you not?” His response is measured, unlike his words, which he doesn’t even try to hold back on. “Your filthy excuse for a husband deserved more than Daenn gave him.”

I clench my teeth. I can’t defend Tolomon; I don’t know what he said or did to Daenn, but I know how he could be. Eskil would see right through any excuses I make up for him; he always was perceptive .

We reach my rooms, and I slip inside, ignoring the way Eskil follows and posts himself where he can see my every movement.

A pang of muddled grief stabs me; how can the world shift so sharply in mere moments? If any man tried to enter my room while Tolomon lived, they forfeited their position, probably earning a good beating before doing so. I hated his possessiveness, but it was familiar. I’m on untrod ground now, with men whom I used to know but have changed at their very cores.

I ignore the way my neck prickles at Eskil’s presence and move to my wardrobe, my hand skimming over my many colorful dresses, straying to the black mourning dresses that still hang to one side from the death of my mother.

My mouth curves up in a bitter smile. Daenn wants me to marry him, does he? I won’t let him forget for a moment how he’s just as wicked as—possibly even more than—the man he saved me from.

I tug a small bag from the foot of the wardrobe and begin pulling dresses and folding them, casually positioning myself to block Eskil’s sight as I do so—just in case he has anything to say about my choice of attire.

When the bag is full to bursting, I shut it, and then I half turn to Eskil. “Am I allowed to change? Or do you insist on dragging me from my home in nothing but my nightclothes?”

Eskil is unmoved. The lighthearted nature I remember from him is nowhere to be found, but I suppose there’s nothing light about tonight’s events. “Be quick about it.”

I pull one last dress from the wardrobe and cross to the dressing screen, stepping behind it.

I slip off my gown and don the stays and underthings that already waited behind the screen, finishing it off with a black mourning gown, one of the simpler ones I own, in a plain wool. A riding gown, but I hadn’t anticipated using it for riding gryphons.

Gown in place, I glance around one last time. Besides clothes that fit me, there isn’t really anything I need or want. I am wearing my ring, the one Tolomon gave me at our wedding according to Verkslish custom. I’m tempted to keep it, to antagonize Daenn with it, but suddenly I can’t bear to wear it any longer. I’ve grown to despise it, wearing it only as a way of pleasing my husband.

I tug it off and leave it on the dressing table.

I feel lighter without it. Free in a way even seeing my husband dead on the ground didn’t elicit.

I smooth the front of my gown and grab one last item before I leave the cover of the screen. A letter opener, barely sharp enough to slice paper, but the best I can hope for in a weapon. I tuck it into my pack and cradle the bag as I return to Eskil, my grip tight in case he tries to take it from me. He only sweeps a hand silently, gesturing for me to go ahead.

The servants have gathered in one large cluster near the front of the manor, not quite outside, but close enough they can peer through one of the glass windows. I slow my steps as I near them, but there isn’t really anything to say. In a way, my disappearing after Tolomon’s death simplifies things. Since I bore Tolomon no children, Tolomon’s title and lands will fall to his brother. With Tolomon gone, there’s no place for me here, and his family and I aren’t exactly close.

In the end, I pass the servants without a word, though I nod slightly to Tolomon’s steward, Bernard. He returns the gesture with a slight bow, a hint of regret mingled with fear. The learned cowardice from serving Tolomon is in full force even as his blood cools on the ground outside .

I grip my bag tighter and leave the manor house behind.

Daenn and his men have not been idle in my absence. Tolomon’s guards have all been stripped of their weapons and herded to one side. A few stable boys were permitted near Tolomon, and they’ve rolled their lord over, closed his eyes, and crossed his arms in a position of repose.

Daenn faces away, speaking with his men, and I study his profile as I approach, my steps slowing.

He’d already begun growing into a man when I left the clan for my marriage at sixteen, but now, eight years later, he’s shed all vestiges of boyhood. His dark hair, so like mine and everyone else’s in our clan, is tousled from his flight and fight. Muscles clad in black leathers fit him even better than I remember. His jawline is far more striking than it was eight years ago. My best friend has turned into a breathtakingly attractive man.

But it’s more than that. Yes, he’s handsome—tall and muscled and deadly—but I expected all of that, given how hard he trained even before my departure.

He glances over and meets my eyes. I drop my gaze, my skin heating with my hurt-fueled anger.

I hoped the rumors of the king of the gryphon clans trickling to me over the years, as few as they’ve been, were false. They whisper that he’s like a demon, quick to strike down any who defy him, holding himself apart from even his allies. But it seems that every single one of them is horribly true.

There’s an air to him, one that’s like staring down a savage monster. It’s not only that he can kill with hardly any thought, but that I have no doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to. Maybe even that he wants to. My Daenn never would have, but this man is a stranger to me. A stranger who has no qualms about murdering lords and stealing a woman to be his bride. No qualms about trampling on my heart and marring the memory of what our friendship used to be.

Daenn Henriken was my best friend, but sometime in the past eight years, this man killed him.