He scanned the room like a man still expecting a troll's axe in the dark. The war had done that. Not just the blood or the marching or the beasts that screamed in the night—but the meetings. The war councils. The endless circle of crowned heads and princeling strategists with hands too clean and voices too high-pitched from dicks whose balls had yet to drop.
They’d drawn their maps and moved their markers like boys playing kings. And Graham? He’d been the pawn.
He and his men—the best warriors Everfrost and Fenvalen had to offer—were tossed into choke points and ravines, asked to hold ground while nobles argued over who would take credit.
Most of the time, Graham had nodded along in those councils, quiet as a shadow. Then he went out and did what needed to be done.
The monsters they faced in the dark forests didn’t care for politics. Trolls didn’t answer to thrones. But Graham knew how to kill them. So he’d made his own plans, issued his own orders, and let the kings believe their brilliance had turned the tide.
Let them keep their illusions. Graham didn’t care what princes thought. Not in Everfrost. In his realm, the male nobility were decoration. It was the queens who moved the real pieces.
Inside the tavern, he’d barely taken two steps before someone spotted him. The cheer hit him like a fist.
“Graham Huntsman! The returning conqueror!”
A roar followed, chairs skidding, men rising, laughter booming. Suddenly, he was in the center of it. Hands clapped him on the back hard enough to bruise. Ale was being shoved into his grip. Women pressed in too close with breath that smelled of cider and false promises.
He smiled because it was expected. Nodded because it was easier than speaking. Let them sing of his deeds in the Troll Wars—their verses uneven, their stories half-wrong but told with the conviction of men who hadn’t seen what he had.
They made him a legend in their cups. He let them. It was easier than telling the truth. That he'd been a coward. That he'd run.
Not from the trolls. No, those grimy beasts he'd slayed with far too much enthusiasm. He'd run from here, from his home. And before daybreak, he'd be running again.
The laughter grated. The fire was too hot. The press of bodies made his skin itch. He hadn’t been touched in years, hadn’t wanted to be. Now hands kept brushing his arms, his shoulders. A woman’s palm dragged across his thigh as she leaned in, lips close to his ear.
“You look strong enough to split mountains, Huntsman,” she purred.
He gave her a ghost of a grin, raising his tankard. “Mountains don’t scream.”
She laughed, not getting it.
Graham shifted on his stool until her hand was off his thigh and he'd given her his back. He gave all of the tavern his back and hugged his ale close to his chest. He took a long swallow of drink. It was bitter, earthy, almost sour. It did nothing to quiet the hum beneath his skin.
Every time the tavern door opened, his muscles tensed. His eyes snapped to the entrance. A boy delivering firewood. A messenger from the garrison. An old woman looking for her son.
Not her.
Of course not her.
He turned back to the hearth and pounded the bar for another draft. Then another.
Getting drunk wouldn't solve his problems. Nothing would, except to hightail it out of here at first light. Though at the rate he was drinking, he would tip over ass first within the hour.
Too bad. She loved his ass. Or had loved his ass. She probably hadn't thought of it in the last three years.
The door opened again. This time, a young couple walked in, arm in arm. They looked at each other the way poets wrote about in songs. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, his hand protective on the small of her back. They laughed at something only the two of them could hear. The warmth of their joy cut through the winter gloom of the tavern like sunlight through frost.
Graham curled his lip at the sight. He’d thought himself in love once. What a farce.
Fairy tales didn’t happen to men like him. They were written for the silk-skinned sons of noble houses and boys born tocrowns they didn’t earn. Princes won princesses. Princes had even claimed a common girl or two and lifted them from ash to ballgowns, gave them slippers and songs and kingdoms.
There were no fairy tales for men with blood under their fingernails and scars where medals should’ve been. No castles for the wolves who fought the battles, only cages or exile. No bedtime stories ever ended with the soldier getting the queen.
Graham turned back to his ale, the mug heavy in his hand, the bitter taste settling on his tongue like truth. She wouldn’t lower herself to walk through that door. Not the girl who had once kissed him in the shadows behind the castle stables, hands in his hair like she couldn’t breathe without him, only to marry another man.
For power. For a crown. For a bloody castle.
Another cheer broke out as a lieutenant staggered in, carrying a silver trumpet. “To the castle! The parade’s almost begun!”
