“You want him at Irongate in ten days?” I repeated her wishes, slowly.
Part of me knew why she wanted him there. He would be the feast for the Black Fire, another one of my Mother’s cruel concoctions. A flame that would burn not only your body but also your soul, her favourite method of execution for those unfortunate enough to make an enemy of her.
She wanted to burn this old man, soul and all, in front of her subjects as a warning of what awaited those who stood in her way, and she wanted me to deliver him to her like I was an errand girl and not the General of an army.
“Shall I chop some firewood on my way, Mother?” I couldn’t keep the bite out of my words. “Maybe help the executioner to build the gallows while I’m at it?”
My Mother’s eyes narrowed, the fire in them seeming to flare. “Mind your tongue, Frejara. You forget your place.”
I bit down on my instinct to retort, to push back against her constant belittlement. The effort left a bitter taste in my mouth, but I held her gaze, refusing to let her see the frustration bubbling under my skin.
“Yes, my Queen,” I said, the words clipped but obedient.
Her expression softened, but not with warmth. It was the cruel satisfaction of someone who had reasserted their dominance. “Good. I expect you to depart by dawn. The Feast of the Black Fire waits for no one, least of all a child who lingers on the battlefield like a common soldier.”
Her image began to fade, the light in the Scrying Glass dimming. The last thing I saw was her smile – thin, cruel, triumphant. Then she was gone, leaving only the faint scent of brimstone and the oppressive silence of the tent.
First it was the prisoner. Then the Twin Cities. Then a war on whispers. It changed with every breath she took. And maybe that was the point – to keep us chasing shadows while she hunted something else entirely.
I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair as I turned away from the now-dormant Glass. The Acolytes were waiting outside, their faceless forms still as statues.
“What news from the Queen, child?” They demanded with authority they did not have. “What does she command?”
“Prepare the prisoner for travel,” I ordered, brushing past them. “We leave at first light.”
Chapter Four: Frejara
The air outside the tent felt cold enough to burn the sides of my lungs as I breathed it in deep. I hoped the sting of the night air would calm the raging blood in my veins, but whatever peace I hoped it would give me was quickly stolen by the lurking Acolytes, their sunken eyes and hollow faces expectantly turning to me, their feeble, bony bodies scurrying around me like cockroaches.
I hated the sight of them. Not because they were grotesque – though they were – but because they reminded me of the way my Mother held people in her grasp, twisting them until there was nothing left but empty shells.
“Quick, quick.” Said one of them. Or all of them. They all looked and sounded the same to me; I would not be able to tell them apart if my life depended on it. “We must prepare the offering.”
I reached out and grabbed one of them by its garments, yanking it closer. The bony creature shuddered in my grasp. I could smell its unwashed skin, its rancid breath, as I searched for any trace of humanity in those dark, lifeless eyes.
“The offering?” My voice was low, sharp as a blade. The creature hesitated, and for a fleeting moment, I saw something I had not expected – fear. “Speak,” I demanded, tightening my grip, “or I’ll take the choice from you.”
It screeched, the sound slicing through the night like a knife. The other Acolytes lurched forward, clawing at me, their frantic movements chaotic. “Let go, let go!” they chanted in unison, a cacophony of dry whispers. “The child must let go. There’s much to do!”
My fingers tightened around the creature’s brittle frame, the bones beneath its thin skin sharp and fragile against my palm. I was a mere breath away from snapping the wretched thing in two, and I would have if I had not heard a familiar voice over the frantic murmurs of the Acolytes.
“Ara,” the voice called, calm yet firm, cutting through the chaos like a bell through fog. “If you’re planning to kill it, at least wait until I’ve placed my bets.”
I turned my head, still gripping the Acolyte, and found Benni leaning casually against one of the wooden posts marking the camp’s edge. His arms were crossed over his chest, that familiar crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth – but his hazel eyes were steady, flicking between me and the creature in my grasp with a sharpness that cut beneath the calm.
“In whose favour?” I replied, my voice cold, though I let the Acolyte go with a shove that sent it sprawling to the ground. It scurried backward on its hands and knees, hollow eyes darting between us, then scrambled back to its kind with frantic, insect-like haste.
“I don’t know; the little rodent has some life in it.” Benni walked over to me slowly, as if taking the temperature of the situation.
I scoffed and rolled the shoulder of the arm that had been holding the creature. “They’re insufferable, Benni.” I rolled my shoulder again. There was a sharp pain – like a knife piercing skin – that had not beenthere before.
“And they know it,” he said softly, stopping a pace away from me. “That’s why they crawl around you like rats around a shipwreck.” Then, he frowned, tilted his head and pointed at my shoulder. “You alright?”
“I’m fine.”
“Of course you are. And your shoulder is hurt.”
“It’s fine.” I rolled my shoulder again, pulling my neck to the side to stretch the muscles. “It’s not my shoulder that bothers me.”
