August 4th, Year 100, 9th Era
Scarwood Citadel, Timber Province
Avina wraps the cloak tighter around her chest as the sound of Sigvid’s fury raises every hair along her body. Once she reaches the guard station of the Scarwood Dungeon, she begins kicking and punching the stone wall as furious tears brim in her eyes.
All I had to do was heal him. Ready him for another round of torture.
She screams as her knuckles split open against the grimy stone.
Ladies did not take what they wanted, especially when the man in question is a savage criminal. The taste of his seed still lingers in her mouth, mocking her rare, bold actions. How darehe put her in that position to desire him like some common whore! Not that her figure would stir any genuine desire in the hulking warrior.
But she had to know if he was the same stranger whose touch ignited an inferno deep within her soul all those years ago.
At her engagement party to Rendel, of all places, a mysterious Salt warrior found her in a mess. That man was the only person whose desire for her was pure and unshakeable.
How could it be that the man who haunts her dreams after three winters is Sigvid Thordsson?
He was the prayer she whispered in the darkest corners of the night—a silent plea to the Goddess Maeve to rescue her from her miserable existence under Rendel. Her eyes burn as the sheer farce of this situation makes her sick.
Sigvid pillaged Timber farms.
Sigvid destroyed families.
Sigvid was the stranger who made her feel seen…
As she rounds a corner, realization grips her chest, stifling her breath. Numbness spreads from her heart as cold understanding seeps into her being. All those frantic prayers she had sent to her Goddess to rid Treland of that despicable Rendel did lead to his demise… at the hands of Sigvid.
When the guards released her from Rendel’s prison, she discovered that Sigvid had inadvertently saved her life. His blade allowed her to escape death at the Timber King's hand even if all it accomplished was exchanging her executioners–Rendel for Sigvid.
Regardless of her fate, her chest swells with rare pride in her abilities. After only a year, she brought her enemy to heel. Rendel had not even forced Lord Commander Sigvid to rethink his plans, let alone capture and subdue him.
But why did she insist on being the one to heal him tonight?
Truthfully, she allowed herself to be overwrought with guilt upon watching his torture session with the excruciating fire extract. After they left him bloody and broken, she begged Lenzo to be the one to heal his wounds.
And then to indulge him sexually and expose my appearance to him! What fresh horror can he inflict on me now? Oh, Goddess, what have I done?
“You see what you have done to me.”
His once seductive words now taunt her steps. Every sweet word has been a game, further confirming no one could ever desire Avina. She was born alone, and she would die alone.
She removes the thick cloak once she reaches the castle's Great Hall, far from the judgmental eyes plaguing her in the dungeons. Silence—awelcome old friend to the lonely girl–greets her as she winds her way up through the vast hallways of Scarwood Citadel.
Moonlight filters through the soaring windows, illuminating the detailed mosaics along the castle walls. On the left is a floor-to-ceiling depiction of the Timber Sacred Stone.
She traces the tiled petrified wood illustration, which emits a green glow into the artistic rendering of the forest canopy. The stone must have been gorgeous before its rumored destruction.
The following tiled image is of that very tragedy. A necromancer, the Queen herself, had imprisoned her Consort and their children. She allegedly shattered the sacred Timber stone, fearing someone else would remove her power. The act obliterated the original Scarwood Citadel and the Queen herself.
Timber never recovered. Royal men still look distastefully at women, especially those who hold titles alone.
But a broken stone does not mean the gods forgo their bestowment on a worthy individual.
She drags herself away from the past and walks directly into Duke Samson Manchineel. His deep-set brown eyes narrow at being disturbed.
“Watch where you are walking… oh, Your Majesty?” His tone shifts quickly from outrage to faux concern. “What in the blazes are you doing up this late?” He massages his temples with his right hand, and the gaudy ring he wears is on full display.
“I can not sleep.” She grits through her teeth.
