The man who had asked his timid question stood slowly. “A false king sits on a false throne.”
“You disgrace sorcerers,” another loyalist spat. “You’ll follow a liar and a Commons.”
“Strength channels its own magic,” the man said in reply, looking directly at Vhalla.
“Who else will stand with us?” Vhalla demanded.
Two more stood.
“Why take pity on them?” a Western soldier finally spoke. “They fight against your Empire. Put them to death.”
“Because a wise woman taught me that no soul is beyond saving,” Aldrik replied easily.
Vhalla’s chest tightened, instantly thinking of Larel.
“Those who stand with us, live; those who do not, die. Make your choice. Dawn comes and it will wait for no man.” Aldrik turned back to Victor’s sorcerers.
Two more stood, five in total. That was all who were spared. Vhalla bore a silent witness to the other sorcerers who died for Victor’s ideal. Men and women who had become so tainted with his lies that they valued his dogma more than their lives.
Vhalla counted every man and woman put to death. Twenty-three in total. She shifted in her saddle and felt the sword pulling heavy on her shoulder. The next time she saw Victor she would stab him herself, Vhalla resolved, twenty-three times.
VHALLA RODE BACK to the government building in silence. She visually checked Aldrik over several times. He had countless bruises and a gash by his shoulder, and she was prepared to scold him for not seeking treatment sooner, but he was okay, overall. A sickly feeling had bubbled in her stomach, but it was quelled at the sight.
How many more times would she have to watch the people she loved ride off to war?
She stayed a quiet shadow at Aldrik’s side until a cleric demanded his attention, and then she slipped away. Vhalla drifted through the halls, suddenly exhausted. She’d put everything she could think to the test, to be the Empress the people needed, and she wasn’t sure if she had even come close.
Her feet moved with the intention of seeking out Fritz, but she paused just before a different friend’s door, the sliver of light stretching across the floor from Jax’s current accommodations.
“. . . worried about me?” She could barely hear Jax’s quiet words.
“I had other things to focus on.” Elecia, Vhalla realized. She took a step toward the open door, relieved to hear the woman was well enough to have the usual sarcastic bite to her voice.
“Aww, you were,” Jax teased.
“Are you all right or not?” Elecia sighed heavily.
“I am.” There was a long pause. “‘Cia, truly, I’m fine.”
“You better not be playing hero again,” the woman murmured.
“If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here now.”
Vhalla stilled. Jax had said he sustained his wound while saving a damsel in distress. Elecia wasn’t much of a damsel.
“Thank you.” Elecia’s gratitude was forced and awkward, but it was as sincere as anything else Vhalla had ever heard the woman say. Elecia was often times abrasive, certainly sarcastic, but she was usually sincere in what she said—good and bad.
“Think nothing of it, Lady Ci’Dan.”
“That’s not going to be possible. You know this changes things—”
“I said, think nothing of it.” A nerve was struck.
“Fine, Jax, I won’t.” Elecia’s footsteps neared their door, and Vhalla knocked softly on Fritz’s, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping.
“You know, you’re one of the few,” Jax’s words stopped both women, “who doesn’t still call me lord.”
“Your title was stripped.”
