Her hands ball into fists. “Father would not have killed him. He likes him better than me most days.” She mutters.
“Aura,” he digs into his tunic, removing the medallion that hangs against his chest. Dangling it in front of her, he leans to her level. “Why do you need this?”
“You wouldn't understand.”
“Try me.”
“I promised my friends that when I completed my final Trial, I would show them what a real Drengr medallion looks like.”
“Can they not see one from any of the warriors in town?”
She bites her lip and looks away. “It’s complicated. Their father was a pledge who died in the Treland War, and their mother died of drunkenness, hating all things Drengr.”
“You can show them mine.” He places it in her palm and closes her fingers around the metal.Her pride prohibits her fromasking anyone else to borrow theirs.
He acknowledges her willingness to assist a needy friend and her commitment to honoring her word, which is rare in today’s harsh environment.
She gazes at his Drengr mark in silence. The quiet hangs between them as she remains fixated, slowly uncurling her fingers to reveal his aged medal. The fingertips of her other hand trace the rune.
“Mum and Pops let me see theirs when I was little. Since Mum is an honorary Drengr, hers is a bracelet he crafted.” Her words trail off. “Yet, I have never held one in my hand before. I guess I imagined one day,” her voice fills with emotion, “thank you. Our destination is outside the walls.”
They slip into a comfortable silence as they exit the far western gate, which leads past the Guardian Mausoleum outside the city walls. The structure serves to honor past Guardians, god-chosen protectors of Treland’s Sacred Stone and its Keeper, and acts as a holy site for the current Guardian to communicate with the Briny God.
Aura relaxes with every stride, relaying stories from her youth, likeplaying hide-and-seek with Thora in the Blackwood Forest to stealing the Treland Sacred Stone from Sigvid before the annual ceremony one winter.
Like a ray of sunshine, her beautiful laugh and infectious smile touch his heart with a brightness that shatters the darkness that perpetually smothers his soul.
“Here we are.” She gestures to a shack set along a creekbed. A homestead has been crafted around the slanted building, incorporating a few goats and chickens that roam within a small fenced area.
“Wait.” She presses her hand against his chest, her firm tone raising one of his brows. “They are a tiny but proud family. Serk raised his sister after their mother passed, though they share different fathers. I have worked hard to change their opinion of my family. Please do not say anything insensitive.”
“I grew up in a shack much like this with a single father.” Even the trickling creek and the smell of the chickens unlock a buried chest of nostalgia. “He likely rolls in his grave to know I pledged eternal loyalty to the eldest son of the late King Thord Hilmirsson.”
Ironically, her father damned me in the exact manner her grandfather damned my father, Avard.
Sympathy nearly bursts from the Princess, who gapes as if she wishes to offer sentiment for a crime she did not commit. It is not her fault that his son and wife died at his hands, nor is she responsible for his mother misleading the country with the prophecy.
She searches his eyes, perhaps seeking insight into the life he works hard to keep concealed. He catches her hand twitching toward him before it settles in her curls.
Abandoning her internal debate over how to comfort Calder, she saunters along a beaten path toward the shack door. Before she can fully raise a fist to knock, it opens to reveal a young girl in dirty trousers and a tunic. Dirt smudges her cheeks, yet she has a healthy flush to her skin and appears well-fed.
The young girl stomps her little boot as she crosses her tiny arms. “You pinky promised, Aura! You never break a pinky promise!”
The Princess kneels. “I am so incredibly sorry, Eivor. Mum and Pops wouldn’t let me leave the house after the Trial.”
“Eivor!” Someone interrupts, scolding the child. “She can hardly journey to us if she is recovering.” The door swings open wider, revealing a handsome young man seated at a table.
“Serk!” Aura rushes in, and he wraps her to his side while the other arm clutches a twisted staff. “The Trial was not what I anticipated.” She settles into a spare chair at their table, clearly at home.
“Who is this?” Eivor leers up at Calder with knitted brows.
“Jarl Calder Avardsson. He’s a friend.” Aura stuffs a piece of bread in her mouth. “Mmm, is that rosemary?”
The little girl shuffles to the side so he may enter.
He nods and releases Freyja from his back. The size of the great axe is clearly taller than the little girl, who seems unable to tear herself away from it with excitement. He finds a low chair to settle in, leaning his weapon against the wall.
It’ll be a miracle if I can find a way out of this seat.
