Despite her runaway attempt before they reached Toftlund, she prefers remaining on a leash with the Salt Prince rather than being abused by the Manchineels.
The Ridge Sacred Stone against her skin throbs as if it possesses abeating heart. Every pulse of the gem fills her chest with a heightened need to ensure its safety.
If Sigvid is her Guardian, would it not make sense to remain near him? To allow him to protect her and the stone?
“I will go and see what this Ives wants,” he growls. “Slode and I will take care of him.”
“Wait!” She drains the mead horn, stumbling in the process. “I want to join you.”
Ives’ unwanted presence is because of her. As Queen, she intends to acknowledge her displeasure. No longer can she be a passive voyeur in her life. Not when that method of existing has ruined so much already.
“Fine. But if I tell you to hide, you fucking hide, Avina.”
She walks beside him as they wind through the revelers. Through the throng, she spots King Thrain at a long, thin table on a dais, chatting away with Lord Ives. A decorative tie holds Ives’ long, thick hair at the nape of his neck. He wore no armor, only a flowing tunic and tight leather trousers.
She chuckles, attracting a side glance from Sigvid. Even Avina did not need to read a dozen books on the Salt Province to know that walking into Toftlund unarmed and undefended is monstrously stupid.
“Brother! Your Highness. Are you both not a sight for sore eyes.” The Salt King may have addressed them both, but he only has eyes for her.
As if the evening is not already uncomfortable enough.
Ives adjusts the long sleeves of his tunic. His focus falls on Avina as he greets her with a twisted smile that churns her stomach.
“Well, hello, Your Majesty.” Ives' voice is as unsettling as she remembered. “What a pleasant, reassuring surprise finding you here.”
Accounts of Ives’ terror reached Avina over the years, and she is not eager to exchange any semblance of pleasantries. Her only consolation is the beastly man at her side, who will rip him apart if he tries to take her by force.
“Lord Ives. I was unaware we are casting out lower-level lords to deliver messages.” She folds her arms over her chest, aware her shoulder rests against Sigvid’s arm. His heat offers a strange comfort to her.
Ives does not react. “Duke Samson is worried sick. After hisfiancé disappears from the Treland Arena, he sends only his most trustworthy advisors to bring her home for the wedding.”
Avina’s mouth goes dry.
Is this farce actually happening?
Sigvid recoils. “Fucking hold on. Avina, are you engaged to Samson? Duke Samson Manchineel?”
Avina pales.
He doesn’t know.
Of course, the announcement occurred while he was in the Arena!
Since Avina is the key to the Timber throne, Samson will relentlessly hunt her to ensure the crown falls to him. Remaining as a ‘guest’ of Salt after their war would only disgrace Timber and their faux arrangement.
She searches for the exits, urged by the dizziness swirling in her mind. Anxiety the likes she has never known chokes her like a serpent coiling up her body.
Sigvid wouldn’t hand me over to Timber? Would he?
“Yes.” Ives’s smile is the work of nightmares. “Duke Samson will ascend the throne as King of Timber. He and the Council are rehearsing his coronation as we speak. And you, my lady, are also heir to the Ridge. The Council is thrilled to remind our people of the unity between our two provinces.”
Avina isn’t sure what comes over her. Maybe it is too much time with Sigvid or the nagging voice in her ear urging her to flee from the longhouse, but she reacts with fervent desperation.
She wraps her fingers around one of Sigvid’s blackwood axe handles and whips the weapon from his belt, wielding it in front of her with wild eyes.
“I never agreed to marry that monster. Samson lied to entrap me. I will not return to Scarwood, Ives!”
Ives laughs. He laughs hard, clutching Thrain’s shoulder while he cackles maniacally.
