“As you wish.” Oskar retreated, following the soldiers out of the enclosure. When the wooden gate swung shut behind them, Rakel let herself cry.
She didn’t howl or scream in her grief, even though her heart wanted to. Instead, she sank to the floor and slumped against the wall, her magic a cold comfort as a few tears slid down her face and froze to her cheeks.
No matter how many times people had tried to kill her, the realization that they wanted herdeadnever hurt any less.
I’m glad for the invaders, she thought darkly.I hate this land!
At dusk,Rakel stood on the balcony of the smallest tower in her self-constructed ice-castle. The temperature dropped with the winter sun, but she wore only a Bunad—a linen shirt, black wool skirts, and a black vest—and a black cloak that fastened at her neck and fell to her thighs. Her massive castle sat nestled against the peak of the mountain, and pine forests spread around it like a dark blanket, but she could see the gap in the treetops where Fyran stood.
She exhaled and stared at the pale, pastel sky. “Even if they say my magic is evil…I do not see it.” She watched the light from the pink horizon play in her prismatic ice towers. “It must be me, not my magic, that is dark.”
Rakel was still pondering the thought when the first scream pierced the air. She winced, for it sounded like a child. A few moments later, other shouts and yells ripped the silence of the mountain.
She clenched the ice-forged hand railing, trying to block out the noise. Screams of terror rang in her ears. She studied the wooden wall that surrounded her ice fortress like a fence, her gaze lingering on the wooden gate that, for the first time since she arrived on Ensom Peak twelve years ago, stood open.
If I do nothing, I am as despicable as they believe me to be.
Rakel abandoned her post and hurried through the maze of her castle. When she reached the outer doors, she trotted to the open gate of the fence, slowing down when she stepped through. It was no different outside than inside, but she could have sworn the air smelled fresher.
Another scream jolted Rakel, and she sprinted through the pine trees—their needles scratching at her as her skirts and cloak swirled around her like a black snowflake.
It only took a few minutes to reach Fyran—the increased volume of the screams and the smell of smoke alerting her well before her arrival. She kept to the trees, peering through pine needles to get a glimpse of the fight.
There were thirty or so Verglas soldiers, and the civilians fought side by side with them, carrying pitchforks, pikes, and bows. Armed as they were, it wasn’t enough.
The invaders moved in a professional unit—dressed in black and crimson—and greatly outnumbered them. They snatched up young girls—who kicked and screeched—and slaughtered men, women, and children. They set buildings on fire—or they tried to; everything was too saturated with snow and ice to flame up—killed animals, and coated the white snow in red.
Previously, she had only known a cold world filled with the purest hues of white and blue. The greedy orange of the all-consuming fires and the metallic scent of crimson blood were not welcome changes but a brutal assault. She had never seen Fyran up close, but she had read about villages enough in books. The ghastly sight before her was nothing like the stories.
What are they doing? This isn’t how one treats fellow humans—this is a massacre!
“Mommy!” a child screamed.
“Gerta! Gerta, no!”
Rakel watched in paralyzing horror when two invaders ripped a little girl from her mother.
“Don’t hurt my baby,” the woman sobbed. An invader bashed her face with the flat of his sword, sending her crashing to the ground. He stabbed his sword at her, but she rolled away just in time.
“Mommy!” the little girl screamed, lunging at her mother’s tormentor. The soldier holding her yanked her backwards. He swung his sword at her—the edge of the blade gleaming in the light of the fires. He was going to kill her.
The mother realized this, too, and she jumped at him, knocking him off balance so he released the little girl. “Gerta, run!”
“I won’t leave you,” the little girl sobbed.
“You must—no!” the woman screamed when the mercenary walloped her on the head. She fell in a heap, blood trickling down her temple.
“Mommy!” the little girl said, scrambling to her mother’s side.
The invader raised his sword again, and the little girl huddled against her unconscious—perhaps even deceased—mother, crying. He laughed as he chopped down at her.
“No,” Rakel said. Her eyes narrowed as she extended her hand and clenched it into a fist. A wall of ice at least a hand’s-length thick shot out of the ground, erupting between the girl and the mercenary. The sword shrieked, and the invader cursed when the weapon bounced off the surface. He dropped the blade and clutched his hand.
Rakel stepped out of the tree-line, drawing closer as she gathered her magic at her finger tips, making them glow silver and blue.I’ll have to use a mere thread of my magic, so the villagers won’t die of fright. But even a sliver would be enough.“Leave,” she ordered.
The mercenary shoved a thatch of his greasy hair back under his helm and spit. “This village is ours.”
“Not yet. Leave,” she repeated.
