What the fuck does he mean by that?
He makes attempts to stand, yet, the repeated hits to his head make him unsteady, and he falls on his ass.
Thrain makes it to his feet but remains bent over. “I’m surprised you are smart enough to figure out my role with that boy, brother.” He stands to his full height, kicking Sigvid in the chest once more and wrenching the air out of his lungs.
Sigvid rolls on the cold slated floor, spitting out blood and attempting to breathe, “I will… make…you pay.”
“You can’t touch me, brother.” He chuckles, “I own this fucking city.” He tugs his tunic back over his bloodied chest.
Entitled bitch. Enjoy this now because I will rip out your heart the next time we meet in the ring.
The door to the sparring arena swings open, and a gust of wind carries a messenger boy inside.
“Here- here is a lett-letter for bo-both of you, my l-lords.” He shivers from the cold.
Thrain tosses a couple of coins to the boy, sending him on his way. “I guess I can’t kill you right now, brother. Read this.” He thrusts Sigvid a letter from Sjoby.
Sigvid scans over the familiar slanted writing. “Fuck, did you know about this?”
“It’s coming back to me.” Thrain rakes his hand over his face. “I’ll host the evening meal tomorrow and take her for the second half of the stay like usual. I have to get shit together.” He finishes dressing and then heads back into the snowstorm.
“He kicked your fucking ass.” Slode pipes up from his corner, where he remains stretched over three chairs.
“Fuck off, Slode,” Sigvid struggles to stand.
“What was that bit with the letter?” Slode gestures to Sigvid’s discarded parchment lying on the floorboards.
“My mother is coming.”
36
AVINA
November 24th, Year 100, 9th Era
Blackwood Inn, Salt Province
No amount of studying the region could prepare Avina for the bone-chilling dry cold of the Salt Province in winter. Even with Sigvid’s firewood stash vast enough to heat the city, the fireplaces in Blackwood do little to warm the vaulted ceilings.
Growing up in the Ridge, where it was equally nippy, she still found relief in the cozy rooms, which were padded with thick rugs and even more comfortable blankets.
Thora gave up trying to keep warm despite piling under every fur pelt she could find beside the central hearth. Sometime in the early afternoon, she abandoned Avina to visit a friend’s house in the city.
Since Sigvid never stated when he will return home, Avina decides to explore the city alone.
She passes a mirror and adjusts the bodice of the ill-fitting turquoise gown she found in a random armoire. Tight sleeves and a slight bell to her skirt give her a regal look she has not seen in herself for weeks. The rugged look cast by her wool cloak, fur scarf, and gloves makes her feel like a true lady of Salt.
Her mind spirals off to chastise her appearance when Sigvid’s voice rings in her ears, praising her look in all things Salt. She sighs, attempting to wrangle her self-loathing.
Avina meanders into Toftlund, simply enjoying the ambiance. Lanterns swing from iron hooks, illuminating the busy streets.
Dusk quickly approaches, yet children still play, laughing while constructing ice homes along the sidewalk.
The woody, sweet scent of roasted almonds wafts through the air, filling her with a wave of contentment.
Of all the cities she has frequented, Toftlund is by far her favorite.
“Queen Avina!” A bright-eyed woman clutching a basket of colorful flowers jogs up to her, tripping over her curtsey. “Thank you, Your Highness. From the bottom of my heart, thank you!”
