Like an animal starved for days, Sigvid tears the man’s cuirass away like a scrap of parchment. He guzzles the blood from the soldier, relishing the way it strengthens his muscles and fuels his resolve to consume them all.
Suddenly, his movements slow, his eyes grow heavy, and his muscles weaken.
“I anticipated you might unleash your berserker power once you entered my castle.” A sweet voice echoes off of the stone walls.
How can such a lovely sound be so firm, so disgusted?
And why did she sound so damn familiar?
He glances around, feeling dizzy as he cannot locate the mysterywoman. Unnervingly, he can no longer hear the scrambling of the guards circling him like he is a rabid dog needing to be put down.
“My guards have been laced with Azure Blooms, Sigvid.”
The way she utters his name has his cock twitching. Because, dammit, he had heard this woman’s voice before.
“...the only tonic potent enough to stop a raging berserker in his tracks.” She continues.
Avina!
She is the only explanation.
Avina is the only person alive who can outmaneuver him. She forced Sigvid to withdraw his fighters countless times and constantly surprisedhim, the Lord Commander of the strongest army in Treland.
“Come out and play, little Queen. No need to hide anymore.” He growls as blood drips from his mouth down his chin onto his rumpled tunic.
A soft laugh answers, tensing his muscles. “Sleep with the stone, Sigvid Thordsson.”
2
SIGVID
July 27th, Year 100, 9th Era
Scarwood Citadel, Timber Province
Sigvid has lost the war.
As he awakes, he feels the familiar, uneasy side effects of the Azure Blooms leaving his system. Surrounding him is a thick haze similar to being submerged in murky water.
Did she kill me?Am I descending to the halls of the Depths?
Distant voices echo as if taunting him from the seashore. The stench of piss and unwashed man lingers like a foul cloud. His blue eyes lazily open, revealing a jail cell packed with people.
Nope, this is worse than death.
“There is no reason why a ruler, let alone a Queen, should be in the dungeons.” A gentleman's smooth voice scolds someone in the haze.
“I agree,” replies a scratchy-sounding individual. “Small confines with a dangerous prisoner is no place for a lady.”
Sigvid’s gaze grows clearer until he finds himself staring out at five people.
The obvious torturer–wearing a black apron and gloves to hiselbows–prepares steel implements on a high wooden table against one of the walls.
Near the door is a tall, slender, regal man with silver hair and a matching beard. The formal gray vest he adorns looks unsoiled, as does the pair of velvet black pants.
To his side is a much shorter figure shrouded in a Timber green cloak with thick symmetrical knots embroidered along the arms.
On the opposite wall are two Ridge guards. Both have their eyes trained on Sigvid.
