“Can you handle a Salt ballad, Timber Queen?” Sigvid asks while they bow to one another.
“My governess taught me all forms of dance in the kingdom. Ibelieve you need to brush up on your skills, Sigvid.” She rests the back of her hand against his.
The strings resonate within his blood, pumping his pulse with the song's rhythm. They step in sync as if they rehearsed the dance for days. He catches her smiling with pure joy on her lips, which only fuels his rare happiness.
He spins her body around, twirling the skirt of her dress until he’s not sure how everyone in the room is not watching her with awe. Like the matter with the Ulv, he has never worked more flawlessly with another person.
He watches her move in tandem with his steps and feels at home with her. Watching her expression, calm and blissful like she is a spirit of the Briny God, is a moment he never wishes to end.
As the final notes of the ballad end, Sigvid holds her in his arms. Their gaze is unblinking in the silence, save the crackling of the fire. He leans toward her luscious lips, which part for him, already sensing what he wants of her.
As he moves in to kiss her, he hears a cough and looks up to find the entire party, including the servants, band, and other guests, watching them intently.
They each take a step away from the other at the same time.
A crash sounds from the wine casks in the corner with Slode. Wine floods the floor, pushing the servants to mop up the mess and forcing the company’s attention to the loss of good drink.
Slode winks at Sigvid, allowing him time to grab Avina, pull her back to his chest, and savor the sweetness of her tongue before the party resumes.
41
SIGVID
November 29th, Year 100, 9th Era
Outside Toftlund City, Salt Province
After the gathering concludes, Thrain expresses his discontent with keeping the soon-to-be king of another province in their dungeons.
Sigvid and Slode begrudgingly relocate Duke Samson Manchineel from the Toftlund jail to a crumbling house outside the city walls. Dealing with Samson in the cold evening is a welcome excuse to leave Avina. He is dangerously close to unfurling his weakness for that damned woman.
It is early morning the next day, and she trudges alongside him, wrapped in a thick wool cloak with the hood up to conceal her features. The deja vu from his time in her Scarwood dungeons grows.
“Are you sure you want to witness this?” Sigvid respects her need to question Samson.
Before he emerged from bed earlier this morning, she was already padding back and forth across the floorboards. The notion that Samson held any threat over his woman gnaws under the surface of his inner beast, which desires to crush the Duke into a pile of dust.
“Yes,” she breathes without tearing her focus from the decrepit structure on a frozen field.
The disintegrated door creaks on its rusty hinges, revealing the dusty interior with broken, rotting furniture shoved to the opposite wall. A single table on a broken leg sits to the side, and straight ahead is a roaring fire in a crumbling stone fireplace. The flames dance, casting sinister shadows along the man of the moment.
Duke Samson Manchineel is suspended naked from the center rafter, his feet barely scraping the dirty floor. A pile of his clothes and jewelry sits on the table.
“How is he faring?” Sigvid observes the pool of blood and piss under the Timber lord’s bare feet. Grim has been awake torturing him since Slode and Sigvid deposited him in the late moonlight.
Sigvid has long suspected his friend possesses the Sacred Stone ability of persuasion. However, Grim has resorted to pain rather than words with the Duke.
Understandably.
Grim is having the time of his life.
“I’m pleased to say he has survived all I have put him through, which means he will die slowly later.” His smile is slightly manic, and his movements are giddy.
Grim plucks a twisted iron pole off the uneven table and swings it into Samson’s leg. A loud crack resounds in the cabin, leaving Samson screaming and his leg dangling at an odd angle.
Sigvid leans down to Avina, savoring her floral bouquet, a welcome change from the metallic and foul stench lingering from their captive. “This will be brutal, my little one,” he whispers in her ear. “Are you sure you wish to stay?”
She twists a loose curl, watching Grim uncharacteristically scream a question at Samson. When their prisoner shakes his head, he uses the Duke’s stomach as a punching bag.
