“Queen Avina sends her regards.” The soldier bearing the Ridge Province shield smirks.
Sigvid laughs in what amounts to a bitter, gargled mess.
The whole situation is fucking amusing in the worst way possible. To subdue him, she needed to sacrifice her worst warriors to lull him into a false sense of security. Only then could her men capture him. Not only did she require her men to arrest him, but her father’s men too.
“You laugh now, but your Briny God will not save you here.”
Sigvid does not even attempt to wrangle the snort of derision that escapes him.
Those of the Ridge long abandoned the gods of the continent, instead solely embracing the goddess of wisdom, Maeve. They chase entrance to her Golden Citadel by enhancing their thoughts toward a sense of enlightenment, anoverly flowery afterlife.
Then, there is the Timber Province, which abandoned all the gods with little care.
At one time, the country of Treland collectively revered all six gods, with Maeve and the Briny God receiving the highest honor as the country's patrons.
Sigvid’s encampment had been on the edge of the Salt and TimberProvinces’ border, which meant the remainder of his wretched trip through the Great Forest took little time.
“Home.” One of the guards sighs as Scarwood Citadel towers above the pines. Breathtaking spires shoot toward the sky, dwarfing the woods below. The smooth, cream-colored stone shines like a beacon in the sparkling sunlight of the morning.
Under any other circumstance, he may have found the castle stunning—a distant reminder of the power their Sacred Stone had brought to the forested region. Instead, the sight only serves as a warning that his demise will be far from the cold grips of his Briny God.
Below the citadel is the bustling city of Scarwood. Surrounded by city walls of thick redwood are the gates stationed with sour-faced soldiers. Roaring fills the streets as men, women, and children run to the packed dirt road to gawk at Prince Sigvid, the beast whose men pillaged the landscape and decimated their rural crops and villages.
His cart bounces along the trenched lanes of the streets. Timber people increasingly crawl out of the woodwork to point at the mighty warrior stripped of his dignity. Some even toss rotted fruit and vegetables at his restrained form.
“Monster!”
“Beast!”
Their heartless chants mean nothing. Long ago, he stopped caring about what others thought, and today is no different. He snarls at each one in taunt, hating that their cheeks look warmer and fuller than those of the citizens of Salt. These people even wore shoes and less-patched garments.
His capture is allherfault.
Queen Avina.
And she has not yet known humiliation. He refuses to close his eyes to the disgrace she subjects him to. He is choosing instead to imagine what disgraceful actions he would impart to her once his hands can wrap around her throat. Every degrading act he would use to break her before his axes slice across her throat. Oh, what a great sacrifice for the Briny God.
His cock hardens, just thinking of defiling the Queen.
“How was his ride?” Someonequestions.
Sigvid glances around, suddenly aware he is inside the castle. Judging by the cathedral ceilings and stone ramps trailing up to a towering set of wooden double doors, he is in the palace's receiving dock. The crowd’s roar is a distant hum outside the stone walls.
“He may still be hungover. Scouts said he drank his weight in mead before being hit with the Azure Blooms. I am shocked the Queen’s plan worked.”
“Where does Her Royal Highness want the scum?”
Sigvid ignores the answer as he feels the chains unclipped from the cart.
Now is his chance.
The rage simmering under the surface explodes as he accesses his berserker ability. The chains heat until they singe his skin, and the power overtakes him, making the bloodlust unbearable.
He hears the shouts of his captors too little, too late for them. The chains restraining his body snap, releasing him from his prison. Swiftly, he rips the gag from his mouth. Crimson tints his gaze, and his feral roar shudders the walls, scattering the guards like fallen leaves.
Sigvid seizes the discarded chains and whips them around the nearest soldier. The iron links clatter around the guard’s body, which he flings against the wall. He collects the man’s discarded short sword and slices through the attackers.
He enters a frenzy of destruction and bloodlust that familiarly settles over him like a second skin. Nearby, a Timber guard bleeds at his side, groaning at the pulsating wound along his chest.
