“Charles, we have only just returned from Bavria,” I protest. “The children cannot be uprooted again—and to the North? Not under such conditions.”
“I have spared you the front for too long,” he says, his voice rising, urgency threading through every word. “After what happened in Bavria, I cannot bear to have you away from me. These past weeks have been torment. I could not think, could not rest. I cannot rule while fearing for your safety.”
There is something in his tone now—desperation, raw and unfamiliar. I remember the last time he returned from the North: hollow-cheeked, eyes shadowed and distant.
Is it the weight of war that haunts him?
Or the ring?
Is its magic drawing him toward me, tightening its hold?
“I understand, but are we truly safer by riding into the middle of a war?” I ask cautiously.
“You are safe when you are close to me. No one will dare touch you under my watch,” Charles spits. I want to tell himthat I was attacked in his own forest and no one has been found guilty. But I hold my breath instead.
“It is interesting, the Saxons always seem to know when I’ll be far enough away to react,” he murmurs to himself.
I walk over and smooth a hand over his taut shoulders.
“Let us not decide this tonight,” I say gently. “Spend these next days with the children. When we are all rested, we will speak of it again.”
He nods, distracted.
But I know his mind is already made.
And I will have to send a letter to my father and warn him—he has to leave Saxony at once.
* * *
I told the children last night that we would be leaving for the North within the week.
The joy on their faces vanished before I could gather an explanation. I spoke quickly then—of adventure, of carriage rides through snow-draped fields, of building caves from ice and exploring their father’s newest palace, a fortress he had conquered not long ago. In his letters, Charles assured me we would be well cared for.
I have known the North since childhood. I traveled there often with my father—visiting family, striking bargains, learning to be wary of places where the land stretches further than the eye can bear. Winters here are unforgiving. The winds cut sharper, the plains lie wide and empty, miles upon miles without a single soul in sight.
It is that vastness I remember most.
Staring now through the carriage window, the old dreadsettles deep in my bones. The openness presses in on me, illogical as it sounds. The further I can see, the smaller I feel—crushed beneath the loneliness of the land, beneath the knowledge that nothing stands between us and the sky.
“Mama, are we there yet?”
Ella’s voice trembles. Her nose has been running since we left Acheron.
“Not yet, my darling,” I murmur. “The coachman says only a few more hours until we arrive at Verden.”
I open my arms, and she climbs onto my lap, curling against my chest. I pull the blanket tighter around her small body. Within minutes, she is asleep.
I remember when she was born—dark curls, long lashes, so fragile I scarcely dared to breathe while she slept against me. More than once, I watched her chest rise and fall, fearing she might not be drawing enough air.
Now I look down at her and wonder how she grew so quickly. How does one ever let their children go in a world where the only certainty is the harm men will one day bring upon them?
I turn back to the window.
That is when I see it.
Just off the road stands a wooden figure—a tree trunk smoothed and carved, its surface etched with unfamiliar symbols. Animals twist through the grain of the wood, shapes and patterns woven together in a beautiful design. At its base lies a wreath of evergreen, vivid against the frost-whitened ground. Nearby, a small fire burns. Two men stand beside it, warming their hands.
They wear heavy furs and thick woolen caps. Their beards are wild, their faces weathered by wind and cold.
