He turned to leave, and Greta stood, the words springing from her before she could stop them. ‘What about the beast in the mountains?’
The king froze. She watched his shoulders tense, his hands twitching at his sides. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything at all, but she could hear him breathing too quickly in the silence.
Slowly, almost cautiously, he turned to look at her, that spark of curiosity returning to his pale blue eyes. They lingered on hers for a beat too long. ‘Leave the mountains for now,Iversen.’
‘Very well,’ she said, on a shallow breath.
He left in a rush of cold wind. Greta slumped into her chair, feeling like she had just faced a blizzard, and only narrowly survived.
CHAPTER 9
Alarik
Taking advantage of the fleeting dry spell that followed another night of heavy snowfall, Alarik stood on the frosted lawn of Grinstad Palace, facing off with Captain Vine. They had been sparring all morning. The king’s arm was starting to ache, and he was parched, but he could still feel the dull roar of frustration in his bloodstream and was determined to drown it out. To do something useful while he waited for Elias to return from the Blackspires with his report.
Alarik raked his sweat-slicked hair back from his face and raised his sword. ‘Again,’ he said.
Vine huffed a breath, raising her own weapon. ‘We’ve been at this for three hours. How many more times do you want me to knock you on your—’
Clash!
Alarik struck, their swords meeting in a blinding strike.
Vine cursed, ceding a step. Alarik advanced, dealing three more blows in quick succession. ‘Careful, Vine. You’re flagging.’
‘You wish.’ Vine pivoted to the left, and the king’s next strike met thin air. He stumbled a beat and she twisted,bringing her sword around in an arc. He leaped backwards, drawing his own sword flush to absorb the blow.
Vine growled in frustration.
The king smirked. She really was flagging. He shoved and she tripped, her foot catching a wayward rock. He pounced, but she rolled over before he could pin her with his boot heel.
He fell back, allowing her a second to get to her feet. They were both exhausted, both growing sloppy. This wasn’t about victory. It was about training. It was about feeling useful in these interminable moments between preparation and all-out war. It was about drowning out the rush of his own panic and those terrifyingly vivid thoughts of ash clouds rising above the Blackspire Mountains, of his beloved kingdom bowing under the heel of Queen Regna.
Alarik roared as he swung, directing his frustration at a nearby hedge. He lopped off six branches in one go.
‘Way to piss off the landscapers.’ Vine sheathed her blade. ‘I think that’s enough for today.’
With a ragged sigh, Alarik lowered his sword. Vine was right. He turned to face the lake. Across the yawning sheen of ice, he watched the reflection of the Fovarr Mountains heaving in the weak sunlight. Not heaving,breathing.He jerked his head up, finding the mountains before him. He swore he heard the peaks groaning as they rose and then fell a moment later. Though Vine kept telling him he was imagining the slight movement, Alarik knew he wasn’t wrong. And he wasn’t the only one at Grinstad who sensed the strangeness in those mountains …
Which reminded him.
‘Tell me about the wrangler,’ he said, as he approached the lake.
‘She’s determined,’ said Vine,drifting after him. ‘She’s been working day and night since she arrived last week.’
‘Is she making progress?’
‘The beasts are falling into line.’ A note of admiration had crept into Vine’s voice. ‘Quicker than I expected.’
‘Good,’ muttered the king. He had suspected as much. The chorus of howls at Grinstad had already quietened substantially. He was no longer woken in the night by the roars of unsettled beasts or the strangled shouts of his own soldiers.
‘Though our soldiers seem to be keeping a wide berth of her,’ Vine added, after a beat. ‘They don’t seem to know what to make of her. Or whether she’s worthy of their respect.’
Alarik hmm’d. ‘Do you suppose it bothers her?’
Vine shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’
Alarik came to a stop at the edge of the lake, peering down at his own glassy reflection. His face was pale and drawn, and his eyes were wild. Even his teeth looked sharper than usual. He recalled with some discomfort the morning he had stalked the Iversen girl into the soldiers’ hut and demanded her subservience. How she had faced him with disconcerting ease, like he was no more than one of her beasts. A thing to be called to heel.
