I keep to my rooms for the remainder of the day. I don’t want to chance running into Boreas after… well. I’m still processing it.
I skip dinner, though Orla is kind enough to bring me something from the kitchen. I’m in the middle of reading by the fire when she enters, setting a tray on the table beside me. As she turns to leave, I say, “Will you tell me why you were sentenced to Neumovos?”
The specter woman pauses, one hand reaching for the door handle. I desire to know, but not enough to push. If she isn’t comfortable opening up to me, she is free to walk.
Orla pivots to face me. Her expression folds inward, the skin of her face wobbling around her jowls. “The choice I made… I am not proud of it. But if I were to do it all over again, I would not do anything differently.” She swallows. “I killed my husband. Struck him in the chest with a butcher knife.”
I maintain a neutral facade, no evidence of my distress as I wonder what, exactly, would drive sweet Orla to violence. “Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters.” Then I understand. “He never asked you why you did it, did he? The king?” Because the North Wind doesn’t care about people’s motivations. In his mind, a choice is a choice. The reasons behind it are irrelevant.
Orla’s chest rises and falls. She clenches her hands, relaxes them. “My husband abused me, my lady. Left bruises in places where people couldn’t see. Twice, he raped me.”
Rage rises in my throat. Orla is the gentlest of people. Only a monster would seek to harm her. “I am so sorry, Orla.” It is a reality shared by many women. Some I knew. Some were my friends, once.
She shrugs sadly. “You are treated so poorly for so long you start to believe the actions toward you are justified.”
“No,” I growl. “Abuse is never justified. Never. And it wasn’t your fault.”
“I know that now.” A brief, meek nod. “No one in my village knew it was I who killed him. Everyone thought he’d crossed the wrong man. He was not yet thirty. I was only eighteen.” She unfolds the napkin on my tray, removing the silver ring. “I never remarried, but I lived a long life. Longer than I would have had my husband survived.”
Setting my book aside, I ask, “Do you know where your husband was sent when he died?”
“I do not know, my lady. I’ve never asked.” Orla clears her throat. “It’s not so bad serving the lord. I am free in ways I never was in life. The people here are my friends.” She falls quiet. “If that’s all, I must return to the dining room.” Turning, she heads for the door.
“Thank you,” I whisper to her retreating back, “for trusting me with your story.”
I hear the tentative smile in her voice as she responds. “Thank you for asking.”
When the sky is wine-dark, I finally climb into bed. The intention is to sleep, of course—the day was long. Yet my skin feels particularly sensitive when brushing against the blankets. The curve of my neck prickles, as though in memory of Boreas’ mouth.
Kicking off the blankets, I rummage through my dresser where I’ve hidden my flask and take a long pull. My head hangs, hands trembling. One last sip. No—two. Two sips, and then I stuff it back among the fabric and return to bed. All night, I toss and turn, and then it is morning, dawn perched on the cusp of the world.
My limbs vibrate with untapped energy; I need to do something. I’ve exhausted my interest in exploring the doors, but thereisthe practice court.
The citadel still sleeps as I slip out the door dressed in fitted trousers and a long-sleeved tunic, my warm coat fending off the worst of thecold. Bow in hand, quiver thumping against my back, I cross the courtyard to the walled area where the targets await. Nock, draw, release, I fall into the rhythm of the hunt.
A layer of sweat sheens my skin when the sound of footsteps draws my attention to the training yard entrance. It is there the Frost King stands, halted by my presence, spear in hand.
Lowering my bow, I tip my head in acknowledgment. “Good morning.” Composed, though my stomach twists nervously, and I find my gaze flicking to his mouth.
He crosses into the walled area. “Good morning.” Equally composed. He observes the targets and their protruding arrows. “I wasn’t aware you used this court.”
“I haven’t, until now.” A quick assessment is all I allow myself. It gives me pause. “What’s wrong?” Bruises darken the skin beneath his eyes, which have dulled.
He rubs a hand across his jaw in a rare show of frustration. “There is another tear in the Shade.”
“Again?” I rest my bow against the ground.
“It’s contained for now, but I might need your assistance if it worsens. The darkwalkers are multiplying at a concerning rate.”
“Is that all you know how to do? Spill blood?” It’s a low blow. I’m unsatisfied by his flinch.
“I am a god,” he says. “War is our native language.”
Perhaps he has grown so desensitized he has forgotten that violence is a choice. “Maybe if you helped people,” I say, “they would not infiltrate the Deadlands. They would not attempt to kill you. If you lifted your influence from the Gray, let the land warm itself—”
