There’s a subtle weight to the words. I rise and join her, stopping close enough that the warmth of her body seeps through the thin silk of her robe. “What did they say?”
“They want to strike the rebel orcs at the southern border.” Her reflection in the glass looks tired. “But our army is already stretched thin with the impending war with Avalon. I don’t think it’s wise.”
“No. It isn’t.”
She turns to face me. “Even the capital itself is poorly equipped for war. We’re relying on the ancient wall King Casimir built. Völundr has a naval fleet, but not all the regions in Aelfheim are prepared for what’s coming.”
I can see the weight of it pressing down on her shoulders. The attacks from the rebel orcs are becoming more coordinated and brutal.
I move to her desk and place something small on the polished wood.
“What’s this?” She crosses to look.
The metal butterfly sits there, wings spread. Hrolf’s work. Simple but perfect.
She picks it up. The wings flutter at her touch, moved by some mechanism the dwarf built into the joints. Her smile is bright enough to make me want to burn the world that ever dimmed it.
“It’s beautiful.”
I lean down to kiss her neck, inhaling her scent. Water lily and sunlight. “What are you writing?”
There’s parchment scattered across her desk. Her neat script covers most of it.
“A note of gratitude for the kitchen staff. They’ve been working extra hours with all the refugees from the border towns.”
Of course. She’s always thinking of others.
“Svenn?” She turns to look at me, those lilac eyes seeing too much as always. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, little fawn.”
She studies my face for another moment, then sets the butterfly down carefully. “You’re planning something. Something I won’t like.”
I cup her face, running my thumb along her cheekbone. “Would you like to go see Coral?”
Her expression softens immediately. “You’re using her to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
She rises on her toes and pulls me down for a kiss. “Yes, let’s go see our girl.”
Coinneach responds to my summons immediately, rising from the darkness of my shadow. My familiar spirals upward until he forms an archway of pure darkness in the corner of our chambers. The portal ripples like black water with no glimpse of what lies beyond.
Rhianelle watches with that childlike wonder she always gets. No matter how many times we travel this way, she never loses that sense of awe.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathes.
“Take my hand.” I extend it, palm up. “Whatever you do, don’t let go. The shadow roads aren’t meant for the living.”
Her fingers interlace with mine. Warm against my eternal cold. Together, we step through.
The between-space embraces us. Coinneach wraps protectively around Rhianelle, shielding her from the worst of the void. She gasps softly as her grip tightens on mine.
Then we’re through.
Golden wheat fields stretch in every direction under the morning sun, a sea of amber bending to the wind. The Clayborne manor rises from a gentle swell of land in the distance, elegant without ostentation. Its stone warmed to honey in the light. The Claybornes are the second wealthiest noble house in Aelfheim, surpassed only by the Wiolants.
Where Völundr commands power through trade routes, the Claybornes hold something older—land and harvest. Fields that stretch beyond sight.
