Or so she’d thought.
“I disagree,” Freya said. “Can I show you to your rooms? I know the castle can be overwhelming.”
“That’s vicious, Freya.”
Freya threw up her hands. “I am feeling defensive!”
Dryly, Brenn laughed. “I suppose youareself-aware. Have you given any thought to why you defend the queen so adamantly when she has entire armies at her disposal?”
“She needs my eye for defense. And you’ve told me something bad will happen to her.”
“I didn’t say that,” Brenn said. “I said she’d experience loss. She could lose anything. Her favorite armband… Anything.”
The suggestions did not convince Freya. “And I suppose the goddess cares to tell you when a queen loses her favorite armband but not when an ambassador has completely switched identities.”
“I can’t control that.”
Freya sighed. “You and I were just two humans in a warzone.Twowarzones. Protecting us was easier. Anything could be a threat to an orc queen. I have to remain vigilant.”
“Right.” Brenn shifted to face Freya. “You don’t think there’s any other reason? Have you ever felt the need to guard anyone else so closely?”
Comprehension dawned on Freya. She stood abruptly, scuffing her boots. “You think I care too deeply for her.”
“She’s unavailable.” Brenn stood and faced Freya. She was taller, looking down, and Freya had the sense of being imposed upon. Not priestess magic, exactly, but a persuasive habit Brenn had picked up—leverage. “She’s closed off from romantic opportunities, or else she’d have taken any number of lovers. And you can’t be with someone who needs to care for an entire country. She won’t have space for you. And…your life will end sooner.”
That went without saying. It had taken a long time to become accustomed to the way orcs lived out their much longer lives, and Freya had maybe fifty years left if the stress of her lifestyle didn’t age her heart sooner.
“I’m not in love with the queen,” Freya protested.
“I didn’t say you were,” Brenn said. “You came to that assumption.”
Freya remembered when she touched Astrid’s hand. How she needed outlets for her frustration when they spent too much time together. Freya knew what that meant. She also knew what was possible and what wasn’t.
But what about Astrid? She’d asked about Freya’s hair. She was wrong that Freya had done anything different to it. When she’d asked, Freya’s body had been charged like the moment before lightning strikes.
Too often, being close to Astrid made her feel like that.
Brenn took Freya’s gloved hands in her own. Unblemished, perfect cuticles against golden skin. Hands unused to engaging directly in war, though Brenn had been complicit in some things.
Nothing as bad as Freya had done.
“You will get hurt,” Brenn whispered, like it was one of her prophecies.
“Do you say this as my friend? Or did you see it in a vision?”
Brenn hesitated before answering, giving Freya the confirmation she needed.
Through the gloves, Brenn’s fingers squeezed Freya’s. Her dearest friend. No matter how many times they fought, Brenn was quick to forgive first. They’d forged their friendship in the darkest of circumstances—they knew each other better than they knew anyone else.
And Brenn knew, both within herself and with deific confirmation, that Freya would be hurt by her connection to Astrid.
Presented like this, the inevitability was undeniable. Freya’s mouth was dry, unpleasant. She thought of lacing up Astrid’s dress. The discomfort. The want.
“Fuck,” she said.
“It’s not too late to step back,” Brenn assured her.
“Brenn, I have stepped back. I lost myself in my work. And I’m still…”
