Vhalla bit her lip, remembering how straight and tame her hair had been when Larel had used her heat upon it. She choked down a sob and raked her fingers through her hair with pockets of wind trapped underneath. It was clumsy and took a few minutes to be met with any success. But it dried straighter, more Western looking, taking out her normal wavy texture. It was longer this way, and Vhalla made the conscious decision not to cut short it again. She had done so once and become no one. This time she would grow into her new skin.
But Vhalla still grabbed for the dagger. Pulling her bangs in the front Vhalla made a straight horizontal cut just below her brow. For the second time in a year, Vhalla was unable to recognize the person staring back at her in the mirror. She leaned over the washbasin, muffling her mouth with her hand as she struggled to suppress tears for the woman whose memory she had decided to honor.
Keep it together. Vhalla Yarl’s friend died, Vhalla Yarl would mourn.She was not Vhalla Yarl. She looked back to the mirror, steeling her resolve. Looking at the hard eyes and foreign face she repeated to herself,she was not Vhalla Yarl.She cleaned up the bathroom quickly, changing into the other woman’s clothes—she corrected herself—herclothes.
She left the washroom and returned to where the Emperor and Aldrik waited. Both men looked her up and down. The Emperor leaned back in his chair.
“It will do,” he said, rubbing a finger against his lips.
“What is your name?” Aldrik asked her.
“Serien,” she replied without hesitation.
“Serien, what is your family name?” he questioned.
“Serien Leral,” she said and realized the moment he recognized her name.
Aldrik struggled to keep his composure. “Where are you from?” His jaw set firmly.
“A town called Qui. It’s a mining town that I hope you never have to go to,” she recited. Her story had been built for her.
“Where is Qui?” The Emperor leaned forward, folding his hands between his knees.
“It’s about halfway to Norin, if you take the old roads.”
“Your parents?” Aldrik asked.
“My father was a miner, and a drunk. My mother was a broken woman who left her home in the East because she thought it was love. They died when I was young, and I worked in the mines.” Despite her small changes to account for her eyes she wondered if the Emperor would see the source of inspiration for her story. She smiled coldly;of course he wouldn’t. Larel had meant nothing to him, she doubted he even remembered the girl his son saved from the silver mines of Qui.
“Why are you here?” The Emperor questioned her confident gaze.
“For a better life, to serve the Emperor,” she said easily.
“Well done, Miss Yarl.” The Emperor sat back in his chair.
She stared at him curiously. “Miss Leral,” she corrected.
The man simply chuckled.
“Your armor is here.” Aldrik stood to the side and allowed her to approach the table that was behind them. Basic plate and silver chainmail was displayed upon it. Vhalla was stunned a moment, one of the women would be wearing the armor Aldrik had made for her.No, she reminded herself, Aldrik had made that armor for Vhalla Yarl, andshe was not Vhalla Yarl.
She scooped up the chainmail. This was Serien’s armor, simple and unadorned. It was the kind of armor that would slip into a mass of soldiers and be undistinguishable from the next. Aldrik silently assisted in showing her how to strap on the plate. It was heavier than her scale, and the weight made her favor her uninjured leg as she pulled on the gauntlets.
He turned and presented her with a sword. Thankfully, it strapped over her left leg, her good leg, so she could draw it with her right hand. She shifted, adjusting to its weight on her hip.
“Any questions?”
There was a notable pause and their eyes met. She wondered what he saw in her then,whohe saw then.
“Serien?”
The name was strange to hear coming from him, addressed to her. But if anyone could say it and make her believe that it was her new identity, it would be Aldrik. She shook her head no.
“Good, you’ll be reporting under the Golden Guard. You are dismissed.”
She nodded. Her eyes reflected the empty distance she saw in his. Grabbing her canvas bag off the floor, she turned and gave a brief salute. Her knuckles were white from attempting to walk down the stairs wearing armor with her injured leg. She was determined, but mindful not to rip her stitches.
It was almost sunset when Serien left the hotel though a backdoor.
