Screams pierce the night, sending him bolt upright in his bed.
Shit, Argnier!
Calder leaps to the cold stone floor, grasping for a weapon. He finds his fork and knife from his evening meal and rushes down the corridor toward Argnier’s chamber. He throws open the door to find the older man thrashing in his sheets, screaming.
Calder drops the knife and fork on the bedside table and sits at the end of his bed. “Argnier.” He shakes his leg. “Wake up.”
Argnier sits upright, his fists swinging in front of him. “Calder?”
“Nightmare?”
His hands tug at his hair. It takes Argnier a moment to collect himself. “After all this fucking time,” he winces as if recalling his past trauma renders him unable to speak, “the things that bitch did to me…”
“No need to explain yourself to me.” Calder finds a flagon sitting on the dresser, still full of mead. He tosses the remnants back and pours a full cup of water from a pewter pitcher. “Here.” He places the drink in Argnier’s hands, surprisingly scarred from use for a man as artistically inclined as he.
He finishes the cold water as Calder strides out of the room to give him privacy.
“Wait.” Argnier’s weak voice halts him at the doorway. “Would you wait ‘til slumber overtakes me? I hate to disrupt your sleep, but…”
Before he can finish the flagon, Calder refills the water and sits in the empty chair beside the bed. He silently waits for his friend’s snoring to fill the chamber, finding peace in the older man’s brief calm.
Sleep, my friend. Lavinia’s tendrils cannot poison your soul tonight.
Present
September 20th, Year 21, 10th Era
Coldheart Keep, Skalor
Calder studies his reflection in the mirror above the washbasin in his bedchamber. His beard is thick and curling, streaked with white and gray in his once-mahogany hair. He examines the old battle scars on his chest and arms, which blend well with his ink. The scars on his face become more pronounced each winter, making him appear less like a middle-aged man and more like an intimidating villain.
Appropriate.
Calder and Gunni have upheld strict Jarlship duties over the last week, which allows him to distance himself further from the Princess after marking her upon his throne. He convinces himself that he has not crossed the line with Aura because he has not taken her cunt.
Who am I fooling? My indecent thoughts every time she walks into a room are grounds for Sigvid to revoke my Drengr oath.
To protect her from the likes of the slimy Lords of his Hold, Calder publicly announced to his court that she was his pleasure slave. A dark part of him yearns to tie her to his bed and make good on the town’s perception of him using her sweet pussy at his whim.
More importantly, betraying his long-held beliefs against maintaining slaves keeps Aura safe in his Keep, well away from the mislead intentions of the hold and Lavinia.
None of his misfit team believes that Harvart is the only Lord under Lavinia’s thumb.
Since announcing his plan to uncover Makt’s weapon, their motley band settled into a routine.
During the day, Edmund scours the Gothi temple and delivers a thick stack of books for Aura and Argnier to read and note any interesting information, while Thora serves as their shield.
However, today began roughly for everyone.
Chaos erupted when Edmund ate the last piece of bread at their morning meal, and Thora nearly strangled him. Argnier somehow sethimself on fire, an event he claims was an accident, but Calder watched the debacle and begs to differ.
Only Aura has remained the single light for them all in the Abyss of Coldheart Keep.
As he concentrates on his reflection, he pushes aside his thoughts to focus on cutting his hair. This weekly process has been disrupted since returning to Skalor, leaving him feeling bedraggled despite Edmund’s insistence that gale winds couldn’t shift his cropped locks.
He lifts the straight razor to his head when a little squeal scares him more than his inevitable journey to the Depths.
“Gods, Aura!” He looks into the corridor from his bedchamber to find her intently watching him.
