“Yes?” His tone made her pulse race.

“At the Crossroads, I have some ... business I will attend to with Elecia.”

Vhalla was more worried at how delicate he was being with the subject than the words themselves. What had him looking so uncomfortable? “What is it?”

“You do not need to worry about it.” His eyes were guarded.

“Aldrik, you promised me—”

“Vhalla,” he hissed. She brought a hand to her mouth glancing around quickly to see if anyone noticed her slip in forgetting his title. “I will tell you, I promise. But only when the time is right.”

“When will the time be right?” she pressed.

“When it is over and sorted.” His tone told her she’d get no more information on the matter. Vhalla sighed softly. “It should only be two days, three at most. I will find you after and tell you everything.”

“All right.” Vhalla nodded and put on a brave face for the rest of the day. But his words rattled in her brain with every step, echoing into the night.

THE DAY WAS sticky, and her hair clung to her face and neck with sweat as she pulled off the helm. She looked up at the dense trees overhead, gnarled and thick with brush and vines. Her mind lamented over the last time she had seen the unbroken sky. A bird darted between the foliage before breaking through to the heavens above. She found herself wishing she could do the same.

The smell of ash and fire filled her nose, an all too familiar scent that she barely noticed anymore. Her gaze returned to the earth, and back over the destruction that had been wrought. The last of the survivors were being put to the sword. Blood was splattered over her own armor, the crimson turning dark against the black of the scale and plate.

Vhalla vaguely recognized something being distinctly off. The edge of awareness of something amiss crept upon her.

She walked back to her tent. No, not hers; or was it? Trying to think was too difficult, like she was fighting the obvious.

Inside was the same familiar area on the floor with pillows and a small table, though this time it was near the bed. A large rectangular table and chairs dominated the other space. It was messy with papers that spilled onto the floor, and she pulled off her large gauntlets, dropping them haphazardly.

Her breath became ragged and she turned. With a sweep of her arms she pushed all the papers and documents onto the floor with a grunt. She slammed her hands down on the table and felt her shoulders shake.

This town had not been part of the militia. Perhaps a few had joined the resistance, but all had been put to flame and steel. Her nails dug into the wood of the table as she muffled a frustrated cry. No one could hear her pain. She couldn’t let the soldiers catch wind of her turmoil. She never could.

The eyes of the dead lingered with her, their pleading, fearful eyes as she rounded them up in flames and burned them alive. It never got easier with time. The memories were never lighter to bear.

Regaining control, she began to pull off her armor. She really needed someone’s help for the larger plate but she couldn’t be bothered as she burned through the leather clasps hidden beneath it. She’d fix it later.

If her sins were as easy to remove as her armor, she may be able to sleep at night. She rubbed her eyes tiredly. With a sigh she began to rummage through a bag hidden by her bed, fishing for the only thing that could wash away her pain and drown their cries. A call halted her actions.

“My prince.” The voice was familiar, one of Baldair’s men.

“Enter.” Her voice was deep. A man with dark hair and eyes entered the tent, and she assessed him viciously, uninterested in entertaining company and fully hoping he would realize this. “How may I be of assistance?” she asked briskly.

“Today,” he took a step forward, his movements jerky; she wondered if he had beaten her to the bottle. “Today you led the assault, did you not?” He was still in his armor, covered to his elbows in blood and ash.

“I did.” She was already annoyed with this discussion. Despite what the soldiers thought of her, the last thing that she wanted to do was re-hash her murders. “If there is nothing else ...” She turned her back on the man, pretending to be interested in picking up the scattered papers. Just the limited words he said had brought the horrified faces back to her mind.

“H-he would’ve been twenty-two,” the man rambled. “He had dark hair, like us; he was of the West.”

She picked up a paper, continuing to ignore him; the man didn’t seem to get the hint.

“He married when he was young, a Northern bride.” Something twisted in his voice.

“I am afraid I do not know who you are talking about,” she said, returning a handful of papers to the table.

“My son.” The man gave a twisted cry and lunged for her. The dagger dug into her side, just above her hip.

There was a man’s cry that was one of the most horrifying awful sounds Vhalla had ever been forced to hear, and she screamed with him. She began to fight against the mental prison which confined her. She didn’t want to see anymore.

She felt the poison, a sickening dizzying feeling washed over her almost immediately. She looked at the man in shock as he took a step back. Her hand reached out for his face and soon he was aflame, his features twisting before they burned away.

Her feet began to stumble and give out. She placed her hand on the dagger. Removing it would prompt blood loss, keeping it in continued to inject more of the searing poison into her veins. She cried out, leaning against the table. With a shaky hand, she grabbed for the dagger, making her decision as she pulled out the wavy blade. It bit into the flesh again as she ripped it from her side.

Her hand was pressed against the gaping wound. A soldier rushed in. “About time,” she wanted to say, but her jaw was clenched taut, blood soaking through the thin shirt she wore and oozing between her fingers. Her vision began to blur and she shifted her power inward, feeling the fire burn through her veins as she tried to purge the poison.

Vhalla woke with a cry, her hand on her hip. She tossed aside the blankets, looking at her body. Vhalla lifted her tunic, seeing only smooth unmarred skin where she expected blood. She raised her hand to her forehead and wiped away cold sweat.

She felt sick. Her brain eased itself back into place as she struggled to find her breath. Vhalla tried to tell herself that it was just a dream, that it had only been a dream. But she had felt every minute of it. She had heard Aldrik’s voice.

Suddenly a memory of a night long ago returned to her. She wondered how she could have forgotten. It had simply vanished from her mind into the chaos that her life had unraveled into.

Echoing through her mind were the Northerner’s words during the Night of Fire and Wind.

“Of course, we also hoped that if the poison failed to kill you, the shame of one of your dear sweet brother’s men stabbing you in the back would be enough.”

It hadn’t made sense. It didn’t make sense, she reminded herself. Her mind had dredged up an explanation for that confusing moment and played it for her. Vhalla wrapped her arms around herself. The alternative explanation was too impossible. Like the last fractured dream, she wanted to go to him. Every heartbeat made her struggle with the distance between them.

“Vhalla, what is it?” Larel rubbed sleep from her eyes.

“Nothing,” she panted.

“Are the dreams returning?” The Western woman sat also.

“No.” Vhalla shook her head. “It was a dream, but not that dream. Just a random nightmare.” She began pulling on her armor, hasty to get the day started and shake off the remnants of the vision.