The man choked a bit as she pulled away, but he didn’t react as she had expected him to. “You taste like the sea,” he grumbled, wiping his mouth. “A bit defiant. But I like you. Do it again.”
She hesitated for a second, watching with bated breath for the elixir to take effect, and hoping it would be enough.
“I said, do it again.” The Frostlord’s voice deepened as he reached for the back of her head and pulled her down to him, forcing her mouth to meet his again, the warm stench of his breath making her ill. She pressed her mouth shut tightly, but he fought his way in between her lips, his anger clear in his violent movements and the force of his slimy tongue against her teeth. Her heart raced with fear, and all at once she felt glad for every man’s life she’d let the Shadows’ take. She wished more than anything to give this vile clan chief the kiss of an arrow in his chest, but for now, poison would have to do.
Suddenly, Hrothvor’s lips fell loose. The iron grip he held went limp. He muttered something weakly as she quickly pulled away, and his eyes fluttered until they shut completely. It had worked.
She watched Hrothvor’s chest rise and fall. He wasn’t dead, but merely in a sleep, his blood likely thickening and slowing within his veins.
She glanced around for something she could use to finish the job. She found a mirror near the bedside and took it as far from the door as possible, placed a blanket over it, and stomped it with the heel of her shoe to break the glass. She carefully bent over and selected the sharpest shard of the broken mirror, eyeing her own broken reflection as she held the makeshift glass weapon in her hand.
As she stared back at herself, something within her made her take pause. To reconsider, just for a breath, whether she was meant to bring judgment upon this man. Perhaps killing him in cold-blood was not the answer, no matter how easy or justified it felt. Unlike when she was in the Woods, her certainty wavered over whether she had the right to choose whether this man lived or died.
She didn’t know what had shifted within her these past few weeks. She hardly recognized herself in this moment. If a man like Hrothvor had so much as stepped a toe in the ShadowWoods, she wouldn’t have thought twice about killing him. Yet now, here, despite how horrible he was, she couldn’t fully convince herself that it was her place to stop his heart. Even if he truly was a monster, perhaps she didn’t have to let that make her into a monster, too.
She laid the glass shard down and rushed towards the door to make her escape. And found it locked.
She turned and fled upstairs to find the window she’d seen earlier. And no sooner was she striding towards it than when she heard a cry from outside. She crouched and crawled to the window to keep hidden, watching as below, outside, a young girl, fourteen at most, was being forced to move along by another elder woman, similar to Ragna but softer, and with the looming presence of a man walking with her. Decorated and wearing a similarly seductive dress as Caramyn’s, she resisted the entire time they dragged her along toward Hrothvor’s door.
It was the Gahmean girl from the docks—the one with the terrified eyes. As Caramyn took in the scene, the girl’s intended fate became horrifyingly clear. Rage flared hot in her veins as she watched them force the girl inside. Caramyn held her position, waiting for them to enter the house.
But the door was locked, and if they couldn’t get it open—if Hrothvor couldn’t answer them, it’d alert them that something was wrong. She scurried back to the main room, searching in the dim, space by only the hearth’s light. She found a key on the small wooden stool by the bed, by Hrothvor’s sleeping body, and she rushed to take it to the door where someone was now knocking.
As she thought of the Gahmean girl on the other side, any inkling of hesitation was gone. Hrothvor was exactly the type of monster that needed to be put down.
In that young girl, Caramyn saw herself, scared and trembling, fighting to run away. No one had been there to save her whenshe needed it. And her soul had become distorted and merciless for it. But she would not let this girl suffer a similar fate. She would not let her become prey to this traumatic horror and lose herself in darkness as she had. Maybe it was too late for her. But it wasn’t for this girl. And because of that, she wouldn’t leave this let this abhorrent man in the room draw another breath.
She crawled back over the balcony and retrieved the broken mirror glass, a revived need for vengeance coursing through her veins.
Another knock at the door. Caramyn held her mirror shard behind her back and opened it to see the servants and the girl as she expected.
“The Frostlord is in the middle of a massage. He told me to answer the door and said not to disturb him further.” She said with a gentle smile, as calmly as possible, not sure if they even understood her. They nodded and sent the girl forward into the room with her. She closed the door and locked it, tossing the key into the heart. It wouldn’t matter. They wouldn’t need it. And she didn’t need to be carrying evidence on her later.
Caramyn peered at the girl, whose face was stained with the tracks of tears. She bent down towards her with a finger to her lips, warning her to remain quiet. The girl nodded fearfully. Caramyn placed a hand on her shoulder to calm her, then gestured for her to turn around to face the hearth and to keep staring into the fire. The crying girl complied, and Caramyn guided the girl’s hands over her ears as she whispered her only instructions. “Don’t listen.”
When the girl was standing with her back turned and ears covered, she slowly crept away and snuck to Hrothvor’s bedside. She preferred killing from a distance, but she knew how to do this, too. She’d make it as quick and clean as possible. She looked down at his sleeping figure, then at the young girl’s silhouette in the corner. It was all she needed to reassure herthat her choice was the correct one. It had to be. She lifted the razor-sharp spire above her head, and then in one swift motion, swiped the glass across the man’s throat.
She was glad her dress was red.
42
A Fair Exchange
Caramyn
Iam not a monster. I am not a monster.
Caramyn clung to the words like the shadows clung to her as she ran through the streets under the cover of night. They’d stolen some fur cloaks, broken the window and made their escape out the back. The village was as dead as Hrothvor, everyone tucked safely away from the frigid night in their homes. And she could see why. The cold was even more numbingly bitter without the sun to fend off its bite. And she couldn’t imagine lasting long out in it.
She led the girl through unfamiliar frozen paths beyond, and crags slippery with ice, taking turns she only recognized becauseof the trek to the outpost earlier that day. But she had no idea how to get back down the mountain alive. They’d be frostbitten within hours. They couldn’t hope to navigate the mountain’s terrain on foot. And how soon would it be before Hrothgar’s death was discovered and her absence noticed? And what was she supposed to do with this young, terrified girl for which she was now responsible?
With the questions racing through her mind, the only things she was certain of were that she couldn’t allow herself to end up back in that cage again, and that she had to find a way back to Evylere.
She found something that looked like a stable, with open stalls facing away from the heavy north winds. Fingers nearly frozen, she fumbled with the metal latches and freed two sturdy mounts, horses that looked more like buffalos with their stocky bodies covered in thick shaggy layers of fur. She helped the girl up on one—a white and black spotted gelding—and then mounted her own, a slate-gray mountain pony.
At least with the animals’ warmth beneath them and their surefootedness in these mountains, they might stand the slightest chance of making it through the night. Caramyn glanced at the moon, nearly shrouded behind snowy mist and mountain clouds. No one was yet aware of the murdered Frostlord she’d left behind, but she was certain that come morning, they’d all know what happened and who did it. And they’d be looking for her.
She chided herself. If she had just left Hrothvor unconscious, she might have escaped without such drastic consequences. But instead, she had put a target on her back. She wanted to indulge in regret, but one look at the timid girl huddled on her furry pony, and she was reminded that the price was worth paying.
