Chapter 1 Hilde

Hildegard Bjornarsdottir crouched in the snow, her breath misting before her. The snow had fallen overnight, blanketing the earth in a shroud of white silence. It had slowed their progress as they’d set out that morning, but it mattered not. They’d had to wait and were waiting still. 
The cold had begun to seep between the layers of wool and leather she wore, her chainmail brynja heavy around her shoulders. On either side of her, the others knelt, refusing to make a sound, but she ignored them. She had eyes only for the forest ahead.
Hilde breathed deeply, her lungs expanding with the cold air, inhaling the scent of pine and the icy crispness that only came with winter. It wouldn’t be much longer now. Her grip tightened on her sword, her shield already strapped to her left arm. Her fingers itched to swing the sword, to bring it to bear against the Issaryan invaders, to see blood spilt upon the snow.
It was far from her first battle, but the waiting never got any easier. 
She peered through the trees, as if she could somehow see beyond the trunks to the mountain pass she knew lay beyond, and the farms that populated that most contested piece of land. Rich and fertile, it was a tempting target for the desert-dwelling Issaryans. One they couldn’t seem to resist.
Hilde’s people—the clans of the Hinterlands—and the Issaryans had been fighting over that patch of ground longer than her twenty-five winters on the earth. It traded hands often, never staying under either group’s control for very long. She had watched it pass from the Hinterlanders to the Issaryans, only for the desert kingdom to cede it back to the Hinterlands. 
She let out an impatient breath. You’d think they would have gotten the hint by now. The people of the Hinterlands were terribly stubborn—those of Clan Crow more than most. But she had to hand it to the Issaryans. They were stubborn, too.
Or maybe just greedy.
With their sophisticated ways, orderly training and coordinated assaults, they no doubt thought themselves superior to the barbarians of the north. It gave Hilde no small amount of pleasure to see the Issaryans given such trouble by mere barbarians. She smiled at the thought.
This would be a quick battle, if their reports were correct—and they were, more often than not. She was already thinking of returning to the great hall, nestled in the heart of Crow territory. To the meat roasting over the warm fires and the ale and mead that were sure to follow. She would rejoin her sister, Sigrun. They would sit by the fire and listen as the skalds told tales of battles long ago.
A raucous call rang out overhead, startling in the stillness, and Hilde’s smile faded as she glanced up at the flock of crows. 
Sometimes the birds would join them in battle. On this occasion, however, they were here only to deliver information.
Her father, Bjornar, had taught her a little of the birds’ language and how to interpret their messages, but she was no shaman. Not like him.
Still, this particular message was clear enough. She forced herself to wait for the signal she knew would come, flexing her grip on her weapons. 
A moment later, a horn rang out, the sound echoing among the trees. 
With a cry, the Crow warriors sprang up from the snow, moving as one, Hilde’s voice mingling with theirs. Boots digging into the snow, she charged forward, the wind stirring her braids.
The first trees parted and there, just as the crows had promised, waited a small group of Issaryan invaders. They startled slightly, caught off-guard by the horn and the battle cries, but they quickly recovered, falling back into the familiar formations they were so proud of.
A wolf loped at Hilde’s side, swiftly outpacing her. A howl rang out, soon joined by others. The wolves were trained companions, fierce in battle, loaned to Crow from the Wolf Clan. The clans had once warred against each other, and still did, gods knew, but in this, they were allied.
Bounding forward, the wolves reached the Issaryans first. Rather than leaping or darting within range of their spears, the wolves circled the foreign soldiers, snapping at their heels and providing an excellent distraction. No soldier wanted to turn their back on a wolf, but if they didn’t, they might find an axe buried in their skull.
The Issaryans wore a strange combination of leather armor and fur. Their usual regalia, which Hilde had seen them don during the summer months, was far too light for conditions such as this, and they moved awkwardly, unused to the extra weight. 
It was a little early for snow this far south, but in the Hinterlands, winter was never far away. Hildegard charged straight forward, her shield raised. The cold, the mountains, were in her blood. She welcomed its bitter sting. In this land, only the strong survived.
The Issaryans clung to their ranks, refusing to scatter, much to Hilde’s disappointment—and grudging admiration. She would have enjoyed chasing them down. Sometimes, it was more fun when they ran.
But the Hinterlanders did not stick to any ranks of anything resembling order, giving them the freedom to move about—and strike where they wished.
One of the Issaryans stepped forward to meet her. She could barely make out his eyes beneath his ridiculous plumed helm. He lashed out at her with the short sword that the desert kingdom so favored.
Hilde caught the blade on her shield, deflecting the blow easily. Pressing her advantage, she wielded her shield like a weapon, slamming it up against the Issaryan, pressing in close. By now, she knew all too well the weak points in Issaryan armor. Below the leather skirt they wore, there was sometimes no armor at all, leaving their legs vulnerable. And under the fur cloak, she knew she could dart the point of her sword beneath his arm.
She chose the latter. The Issaryan let out a cry as her sword stabbed into the gap in his armor, sinking into his chest. Something warm spurted upward, splashing Hilde in the face. 
By the end, she would be covered in more red than blue, her war paint all but hidden.
Ripping her sword free, Hilde spun to face the next Issaryan. Most of them carried shields, which made for an irritating kind of dance, but one that she was used to. She was a shieldmaiden of Crow; she had been trained in the art of the shield from the moment she was old enough to lift one.
Her sword was short enough to be maneuverable, like the ones the Issaryans carried, but hers was slightly longer, giving her more reach.
She let out a growl as her sword collided with the Issaryan’s shield. The impact jarred her arm, but her grip held firm. She should have brought her axe for this. At least she could hook the head around the edge of their shields and pull them away, providing an opening.
She pulled back slightly, wanting to create a little distance between herself and the Issaryan as she considered her next move. Hilde froze, turning, as she glimpsed movement out of the corner of her eye. 
A second Issaryan was running headlong at her, his sword raised.
Hilde bared her teeth at him, raising her shield to deflect another blow from the first. She widened her stance, preparing to block the blow from the second man with her sword.
But it never came.
Another body stepped between her and the approaching Issaryan—tall, broad, and one she recognized. Wearing no chainmail of his own, dressed only in leather and fur, Einar Helvarson swung his shield, deflecting the Issaryan’s attack with such force that the enemy soldier was sent stumbling. Before he could recover, Einar brought his axe down.
Hilde didn’t see the blow land, but she heard it and knew the Issaryan wouldn’t be getting back up again. The man before her took a step back, glancing from her to Einar. It was difficult to tell beneath the helm, but Hilde thought she saw a glimmer of uncertainty flicker across his face.
She grinned, baring her wolfish smile, and jabbed the tip of her sword through the opening in his helm. Panting, she turned to acknowledge Einar. He nodded to her and then vanished, darting back into the fray.
The last time they had fought together, Hilde had dispatched an Issaryan creeping up on his flank. He’d always left his right flank wide open. She worried that one day she wouldn’t be able to reach him in time and an Issaryan blade would strike true. He was lucky she was there to keep an eye out for him, but today, at least, she was the lucky one.
Suddenly, silence fell once more over the forest, the sudden absence of battle leaving Hilde’s ears ringing. No longer did the trees echo with the clashing of steel, the meeting of shields, or the shouting of voices.
She turned slowly, taking in the scene before her. In the end, the few remaining Issaryans had broken ranks and fled, pursued into the trees by the wolves, who would make short work of them.
The rest of the invaders lay in the snow. Blood spattered its pristine white surface, blooming like macabre flowers. Hilde sheathed her sword and bent low, searching the Issaryan soldiers for valuables. Their weapons, along with anything else of interest, would be taken back with them.
A flash of fire snared Hilde’s attention and she turned the dead man’s hand over, eyeing the ring on his finger. Its stone had caught the light, flashing purple. She slipped it free from his finger, letting out a small breath of relief when it came willingly. Looting the dead was an inglorious task at the best of times. She’d had to break fingers on more than one occasion in order to free jewelry—and she knew of others who had to cut the digit off entirely.
She straightened, peering at the ring, wondering at its significance. Clearly, it had meant something to this man, for him to wear it into battle. She wondered who had given it to him. A sweetheart, perhaps? Was she waiting for him, back in Issarya?
No. Such lines of thinking were rarely helpful.
“Find anything?”
Hilde looked up to see Einar trudging toward her. A gash on his forehead bled freely. It would need stitching and likely leave a scar—adding to the one already slicing across the bridge of his nose.
It would suit him, Hilde thought, just like the other scar. It made him look like the warrior he was.
His hair was blond, like hers, but golden rather than a cool ash. It was long, kept tied back in a braid and out of his face. Unlike most northern men, he kept his beard quite short, though she’d never asked him why.
“Just this,” she replied, holding out the ring so he could see.
Einar glanced at it and grunted. “A pretty thing.”
Hilde frowned down at it. It was a bit flashy for her taste.
“Sigrun will like it,” she said, slipping into one of her pockets. 
Purple was her sister’s favorite color.
She thought she caught a glimpse of a smile tugging at the corner of Einar’s lips. She’d suspected for some time that he held some affection for her sister and she couldn’t blame him.
Where Hilde herself was harsh and hard, like the cold, Sigrun was more akin to a hearth fire: warm, comforting, and inviting. She was undeniably beautiful, with her reddish-brown hair and large blue eyes.
If Sigrun was aware of Einar’s feelings, Hilde didn’t know of it. Her sister seemed more interested in finding someone to pair Hilde up with than choosing anyone of her own. And Hilde hadn’t yet decided what, if anything, she thought of Einar’s affections for her sister.
“Hildegard!”
She looked up at the sound of the familiar voice to see her mother approaching. Looking at her mother was akin to staring into a still lake, a reflection of an older version of herself. Mira was tall, with broad shoulders and muscular arms. The wind tugged at her loose blonde hair and Mira impatiently brushed it out of her eyes. Her face, like Hilde’s, was streaked with blue woad.
“How many did you get?” her mother asked as she reached her.
“Five,” Hilde replied, although in truth, she had forgotten to count.
The game that they played wasn’t as fun as it had been ten years ago, but her mother enjoyed it and so Hilde humored her. She beat her count, anyway, more often than not, so it no longer held the same competitive edge as it once had.
“Only five!” Mira exclaimed. “I downed at least nine myself.” She peered at her daughter, eyes narrowing. “Perhaps I’ll have to add an incentive next time. The loser will be in charge of dinner.”
Hilde laughed, shaking her head. Her mother always had disliked more traditional, domestic responsibilities, preferring to roam the wilds with a blade in her hand. She would happily do the obtaining of the food, but not the preparation, which made her and Bjornar such a good match.
“You know I don’t mind either way,” Hilde told her. “Though Sigrun is a better cook.”
“Aye, she puts us both to shame,” Mira said, slinging one arm around her daughter’s shoulders as they began to follow after the others. “Come. It is cold and I cannot wait to see what delights she has waiting for us.” 

Chapter 2 Alek

The vision began the same way they always did. Alek faintly recalled standing up, intending to cross the room, his eyes on the pitcher of water. It was another abysmally hot day in Issarya, the dry heat rolling over the dunes and into the capital city. Even here, in Prince Cyrus’s personal chambers, with its airy open windows and high, pillared ceiling, the heat was stifling.
As soon as Alek pushed to his feet, his vision began to darken at the edges. He frowned, but pushed aside the familiar flicker of anxiety. It would pass soon enough. He just had to put one foot in front of the other. Then the drop in blood pressure would even out, the darkness would recede and his vision would clear.
He took another step, trying to ignore the uncomfortable pounding of his heart. Most of the time, he didn’t feel it, but when he did, there was no ignoring it.
His sight only ever fully darkened when a vision came upon him. Despite recent evidence to the contrary, Alek resolved that this would not be one of those times. He pushed aside the nagging worry and took another step.
And promptly fell into darkness.
He knew well enough by now that his body had likely collapsed to the ground, though he never felt it. Not at first. He saw nothing of his surroundings; not his own body, not Prince Cyrus or his luxuriously appointed rooms, or the servants sent to tend to them both. Even the Issaryan heat could not follow him where he’d gone.
What he did see were two vast armies, spread out before him, in a landscape he did not recognize. The forested ground reminded him vaguely of the Hinterlands. He hadn’t laid eyes on the northern territory for years, but he could never forget.
These woods, however, were far too green to be the Hinterlands. Ignoring the forest, Alek turned his attention to the soldiers, but their appearance made even less sense to him.
They were not dressed in the wool and fur, or leather and chainmail, of the northern barbarians, nor did they boast the leather and bronze plating of Issarya. Once or twice, he thought he caught a glimpse of something—or perhaps someone—who looked familiar, only for it to be lost in the teeming mass.
The soldiers brandished all types of weapons, some of which Alek failed to recognize, but he was no closer to determining who they were—or what they were fighting over.
As he watched, one of the soldiers was struck down, but there was no blood. And instead of lying motionless, the dead soldier vanished, his body fading before Alek’s eyes.
His own eyes opened wide and he grimaced as a wave of heat, light, and sound came rushing back. Too loud. Too bright.

“Alek!” A voice he recognized as the prince. “Are you all right?” Cyrus had knelt beside him on the floor, shaking his shoulder gently.
Alek winced, baring his teeth. Now he could feel every bit of his body that had collided with the floor, his right elbow and the back of his head taking the brunt of it.
“I’m fine,” he said, pushing up into a sitting position. “I just…stood up too fast.”
Cyrus was all too familiar with Alek’s physical condition, as well as the supernatural one that plagued him, and this wouldn’t be the first time he’d witnessed its effects.
“Here.” Cyrus thrust a glass of water into Alek’s hand and he gulped it down, waiting for his heart rate to slow, his breathing to even out. His body to cool, the heat due in part to his condition, the rest from fainting in front of someone.
Again.
He stared up at the colorful drapes dangling from the ceiling, matching the pillows scattered about the floor. Why couldn’t he have landed on one of them instead of the hard marble?
As always, the vision had faded as quickly as it had come, leaving him weak, disoriented, and vexingly with more questions than answers.
“Better?” Cyrus asked, tilting his head to one side.
Alek nodded. “It’s this heat.”
Cyrus didn’t look convinced. It was true that heat made Alek’s condition worse, but he should have known better than to think he could lie to the prince.
“That’s not it, though, is it?” Cyrus asked. “You had another vision.”
Alek met the prince’s dark gaze. He had brown hair, shot through with streaks of gold. His skin was a healthy tan, darker than Alek’s own, kissed by the sun. In the too-bright light streaming in, he looked like a god, the highlights in his hair matching the gold accents on his chiton. 
Alek nodded, running a shaking hand through his hair.
“How many does that make this week?”
“I don’t know,” Alek replied, though in fact, he knew all too well.
“What was it this time?” Cyrus asked, standing and walking over to a small table that held a bowl of fruit. He plucked a single green grape and popped it into his mouth.
Alek sighed. “You’ll hear it soon enough.”
He would have to report to Cyrus’s father, King Aeneas, and he didn’t fancy having to recall the experience more than once. Especially not now, with the images still so fresh in his mind.
“Come on,” Cyrus urged. “Maybe going over it will help you make sense of it.”
When has that ever helped? Alek thought but did not say. He knew better than to be petulant around Cyrus. Usually, it was the other way around, with his more even-keeled temperament balancing out the mercurial prince.
But the frequent visions, coming upon him without warning, were starting to wear on him.
“You know Father will expect an answer this time,” Cyrus added, as if Alek could forget.
It was the entire reason King Aeneas had Alek brought to the palace in the first place. Seers were exceptionally rare and the king wanted to be the first to know about any potential threat that might be looming on the horizon. He would eagerly listen to any information Alek might provide him.
It's not my fault he got stuck with the most useless seer.
Alek’s visions rarely lasted long enough to make out much detail. He’d heard Darius, Cyrus’s older brother, remark on more than one occasion that there was something wrong with Alek. That his physical condition prevented him from being an effective seer.
But until another one came along, he was all they had.
He sighed again. “All right.” Cyrus always asked after his visions and he knew it was easier to give in than stubbornly refuse. “I saw two armies, engaged in battle, but who these armies were, what they were fighting over, and where they were fighting, I couldn’t tell you. I recognized nothing.”
For a moment, he debated telling Cyrus about the last thing he had seen—the soldier that had faded from sight after being killed. But he dismissed it as a flight of fancy. Not everything in his visions were to be taken literally and not all of them came to pass either.
The hardest part was trying to discern what was real and what was not.
Cyrus frowned. “That’s it?”
Alek shrugged. “What were you expecting?”
“Me, nothing. But Father will have hoped for a great deal more. He’ll be disappointed.”
Alek looked away. The prince wasn’t telling him anything he did not already know.
“Do you feel all right now?” Cyrus asked. “Can you stand? If you like, I can make your excuses. I’ll tell Father you’re not ready to see anyone just yet. With this heat, I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Alek felt a small flicker of warmth toward Cyrus, knowing the prince would cover for him if he asked him to. But it would only be delaying the inevitable and much like pulling a thorn from one’s foot, he preferred to get it over with.
“No, that’s all right.” He stood, bracing himself for his pulse to start racing again. “I’d rather face him now.”
Perhaps he would get lucky and Aeneas would be otherwise occupied—down at the chariot races or visiting one of his favorite concubines.
But when they inquired of a servant stationed outside the throne room, they were told Aeneas would see them within. Alek’s stomach sank slightly and his heart began racing, just as he knew it would. It only grew worse as they stepped into the throne room, seemingly every eye turning in their direction.
Alek forced himself to breathe deeply. No one could tell that there was anything wrong with him just by looking. They had no idea that he could feel his pulse, throbbing in the back of his head, along his temples, and the pads of his fingers.
He wouldn’t pass out here—there was no fear of that—but the sensation was deeply uncomfortable. When he’d told Cyrus once of how strongly he could feel his heartbeat, the prince had simply shrugged and remarked that it was a reminder that he was still alive.
It was, Alek thought. An unsettling reminder.
His skin felt hot—too hot—and he could feel his face flush, sweat breaking out over his skin. It wasn’t just that he was nervous. Any strong emotion, it seemed, was enough to summon the sensations. Fear, embarrassment, anger.
After this, I’m going to go soak in one of the pools.
The thought gave him a small amount of pleasure. Something to look forward to.
The throne room was longer than it was wide and seemed to take forever to traverse. Alek wished Cyrus would break into a run, if only so they could reach the end faster. The sudden increase in movement would do little to quicken his pulse now that it was already high.
A fountain burbled somewhere, hidden from view by the courtiers and courtesans lining the pathway. Some of them held large palm leaves, waving them languidly in the heat. Near the foot of the throne, Alek spied a troupe of dancing girls, clad in strategically placed silk.
Prince Darius, seated slightly below his father, frowned as they drew closer. He was more muscular than Cyrus, a warrior compared to a poet. His chiseled jawline looked like it belonged on one of the great statues of the ancient kings. His hair was dark, his brow heavy, his nose sharp.
When he stood, clapping his hands, he commanded the room, his voice carrying effortlessly. “Everyone, out!”
Everyone, of course, but the three members of the royal family and one unfortunate seer, who wished he was anywhere else.
The sound of footsteps treading over the marble flooring echoed throughout the chamber. And then they were alone, the silence deafening in the great space.
No explanation needed to be made. They all knew why they were here. And King Aeneas did not want the details of any of Alek’s visions overheard.
“When?” the king asked.
He resembled Darius in coloring, his skin an even darker tan, almost brown, lined and weathered by the sun. A golden torc adorned his neck. A ring glittered on every finger, each one baring a different gem.
“Only a few moments ago,” Alek replied. “Your Majesty. We came straight here.”
Aeneas grunted. That was probably the only news he would find to his satisfaction. “And? What did you see this time?”
Alek bowed his head. It was easier not to see the disappointment in the king’s eyes. One day, he feared he would see something more there. Something dangerous.
“Two armies, locked in combat, my lord.” Alek recounted all he could remember, the finer details of the vision already slipping away.
He told them of the variety of weapons and armor favored by the soldiers, how he could discern no clear allegiance or faction among them. How there were no obvious victors and how even the landscape was foreign to him.
Without looking up, Alek could hear the scowl in Darius’s voice. “This tells us nothing! Those armies could be anyone.”
“What it does tell us, though, is who the armies are not,” Aeneas said, his tone more thoughtful than Alek had anticipated. “Neither of the armies are ours.”
That much was true. Issarya’s army would never fight with such a lack of order.
“Seer.” Aeneas rarely addressed Alek by name. “What do you make of this latest vision?”
Idon, help me. Alek took a deep breath, looking up. “I hesitate to say, my lord. Such a vision could have many meanings. It could be the armies are literal, or simply a representation of conflict to come.”
He felt Cyrus’s gaze on him, but the younger prince said nothing.
Darius snorted. “In other words, he doesn’t know. Father, I don’t know why you insist on humoring him. This ceased to be amusing long ago.”
Aeneas waved at his older son to be quiet. He leaned forward slightly on his throne. “You didn’t recognize either side? Could it have been the Hinterlanders?”
Alek hadn’t mentioned that a handful of soldiers looked as though they might be Hinterlander or even Issaryan. Even though the northerners had no uniforms or structured army to speak of, the way Issarya did, Alek knew the four clans did wear particular patterned cloth to identify themselves. Tartan, he believed it was called.
But he hadn’t made out one singular, dominant pattern to signify anything.
“I don’t think so, my lord.”
Aeneas sat back, pressing his fingers together. “This could be a warning of a new threat that we are not yet aware of. Invaders, perhaps. New challengers from across the sea. Which is the last thing we need when we are already dealing with the Hinterlanders.” He seemed to consider something, running a hand along his beard. “No,” he said finally. “I can do nothing without more information. There is a reason for your increase in visions, I am sure of it. Pray, stop by the temples, meditate, commune with the gods. Do whatever you have to in order to seek clarity. The moment you have another vision, I want to hear of it at once. I feel we are getting close to an answer and I pray it is revealed to us soon.”
It was a dismissal and Alek was glad to take it, to be out from under the stern gaze of the king and the baleful glare of Darius.
He bowed to them both, relieved when he and Cyrus took their leave. If the gods have some message they want revealed, I wish they’d bloody well hurry up about it.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Cyrus remarked cheerfully once the door had boomed shut behind them.
“It could have been worse.” It certainly hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected.
“Look, it’s been a long day. Don’t run yourself ragged trying to puzzle out the vision right now. You just need something to take your mind off it.”
“You’re right—” Alek said, his mind returning to the pools he’d envisioned earlier.
But Cyrus had a different destination in mind. “I know just the thing to take you out of yourself for a while.”
“What is it?” Alek asked, somewhat warily.
Cyrus grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You’ll see. It’s a surprise.”
“Do not, for the love of the gods, say that we’re visiting a brothel.”
It wouldn’t be the first time. As a companion to Cyrus, Alek had accompanied the prince to all manner of unsavory destinations—and that particular den of ill repute had been the worst. Cyrus could do whatever he wished, but Alek had no intention of partaking in that particular pursuit.
It had been one of the most unpleasant experiences of his life, waiting for Cyrus to return, bearing witness to all manner of things he would rather forget.
Afterward, Alek had asked Cyrus not to drag him along to such places again, and faithfully, the prince never had.
“No, brother,” Cyrus said, still wearing that grin that made Alek nervous. “Something even better.”
Better? What could be better in Cyrus’s mind?
Alek shook his head, resigned, and followed after the prince. The pools would have to wait. 
 
Chapter 3 Hilde

The sun was beginning to set by the time their war party returned to Crow Clan’s great hall. Hilde could see the building, standing proud atop its hill, for leagues before they reached it, lit by the last dying rays of the sun. Her heart swelled with pride at the sight of it.
A large wall encircled the hall and the homes that surrounded it, belonging to the clan’s eldest and highest ranking. Still more dwellings stood outside the wall, their roofs made of thatch. Torches flickered along the wall and in the hands of sentries as they patrolled back and forth. Braziers had been lit at regular intervals, staving back the chill of the approaching winter. A few snowflakes drifted down lazily as Hilde approached.
Within the wall itself, great stone and wooden statues stood, bearing the likeness of the four animals that the clans were named for. There was Wolf, for loyalty. The proud Stag for honor. The great Bear, for strength. And Hilde’s favorite, the clever, cunning Crow.
The statues had been carved with such loving skill, they appeared real in the firelight. Hilde imagined she could reach out and stroke Wolf’s fur or make out each feather on Crow’s wings, poised to take flight.
Before stepping into the great hall, Hilde peeled away from the others and slipped into her small house, near the edge of the lodge. As the daughter of a shaman and a shieldmaiden, she was permitted to live so close to the center of their community—no small honor.
It was dark inside when she entered and she lit a small candle, giving off just enough light to see by. She shivered as she carefully removed her brynja and the bloodied tunic beneath. She would have to light a fire when she returned, finally calling it a night, or she would shiver until she fell asleep.
Luckily, she intended to drink enough mead to thoroughly warm her. With her armor and weapons set aside, Hilde donned her favorite dress of blue wool. Their battle had been a victory and tonight was for celebrating.
And, if she were honest, she hoped she might spy a certain dark-haired warrior at the feast tonight.
There wasn’t much to be done about her hair, hanging wild and unbound, aside from a few thin braids. Wrapping a cloak around her shoulders to ward off the chill, Hilde stepped back outside and made her way up the path and into the great hall.
She felt warmer at once, the massive hearth on the far wall crackling merrily. The smell of roasting meat filled her senses and she glimpsed a wild boar over the spit before her father’s booming voice directed her to where her family waited.
“Our warrior joins us!” Bjornar exclaimed, gesturing with one large hand. “How did it go?”
Hilde ducked her head, smothering a grin. Her father’s praise never failed to make her feel like a little girl again, happy to have been met with satisfaction.
Bjornar was built like a bear, even larger than Einar. From the look of him, one would assume he was a warrior, like his wife, but he had chosen the path of a shaman, communing with nature, spirits, and the gods themselves.
It was an art whose value Hilde understood, but the practice of it eluded her.
“The Issaryans were exactly where the crows told you they would be,” she said.
Bjornar thrust a tankard of mead into her hands as she joined them at their table. Grinning, she recounted the events of the battle as servants bustled about, filling everyone’s plates with some of the roasted meat, hearty vegetable stew, and freshly baked bread.
Hilde’s gaze flicked up to the front of the room, where Helvar sat, Einar beside him. The clans weren’t ruled by kings, as the Issaryans were, but Helvar was the closest thing they had. She knew one day, it was expected, that Einar would be sitting where his father was now, in the ornately carved chair—not large enough to be called a throne, but set apart from the rest.
As they ate, faint music rose over the hall, though not enough to be distracting. Hilde tried her best to savor the moment. There would always be another battle. The Issaryans would not give up. They would recover from the setback they had been dealt today.
But for now, here, she was surrounded by the people who meant the most to her, enjoying fellowship and quite frankly good food.
It seemed endless, the servants bringing out plate after plate, making their rounds to top up any tankards in danger of running dry.
By the time the feasting had begun to slow and the skalds took the center of the floor to recount their tales and songs, Hilde knew she had already consumed more mead than was wise.
She glanced up at the shields lining the rafters of the hall, borne by the great warriors of old who now lived on only in legend. She knew it was foolish to think so, but she longed to one day be one of those heroes. To do something so great, she was immortalized in poem and song.
What would she most want to be remembered for? She greatly admired Astrid, whose tale was her favorite—the shieldmaiden who braved a blizzard to hunt down and kill the massive wolf Fafnir, who had been terrorizing her people for years.
But Fafnir was gone and there had been no more rumors of wolves that large or dangerous for generations. The great beasts of old were all gone. There were no more giant eagles making off with children or bears threatening livestock.
No, the clans’ biggest foe now was a distinctly human one. Perhaps she would be remembered for slaying the most Issaryans. Maybe even enough to bring an end to the war.
The thought warmed her, helped along by the mead.
As she listened to the melodic voices of the skalds, she thought she could almost see the images they spoke of, as though conjured in front of her.
When the last skald had finished their tale, a faint pulsing drumbeat rang out. As one, they rose and pushed the tables and chairs to the side, clearing the floor. This was the part Hilde liked best of all, though she preferred to watch.
As more instruments joined the drums, an eerie voice rang out, chanting, the source a woman with dark hair, wearing a headdress of antlers. 
Bodies rushed to fill the newly vacated space, swaying to the rhythmic chanting. Some of the revelers had donned various hoods and headdresses, representing the four animals. One woman spun past wearing a shawl of black feathers. Another man had a bearskin over his shoulders, the claws hanging down against his chest. 
Hilde’s gaze found a man wearing a wolf hood, a hint of dark hair visible beneath. She knew at once that it was Olaf, recognizing the set of his shoulders anywhere. He had removed his tunic, if he’d ever had one, baring the blue tattoos on his chest.
She felt a nudge in her side. “Go on. Ask him for a dance.”
It was Sigrun, her sister, dressed in a deep purple gown, her reddish-brown hair carefully braided. Sigrun was slighter than Hilde and softer, where her sister was all edges. She had a smattering of freckles across her cheeks, faded slightly now that the summer months were behind them.
“No, that’s all right,” Hilde replied, hoping her sister would let the matter go.
Sigrun grinned. “You know you want to. What’s the harm?”
The harm was that he could refuse her, putting an end to the silly little hope that flared inside her whenever she caught a glimpse of him. The harm was that she might go out there and make a complete fool of herself.
“No one’s watching,” Sigrun hissed. “They’re all too drunk to pay attention.”
That was probably true, but it was still a risk Hilde didn’t have any interest in taking.
“Maybe next time,” she vacillated, reaching up to self-consciously touch her hair.
“You say that every time. Maybe I should dance with him, just to make you jealous.”
It would make Hilde jealous, she knew, but not for the usual reasons. She was jealous of Sigrun’s confidence, her carefree spirit, the way she effortlessly commanded whatever room she walked into. She was jealous of the way men looked at her sister, a way they never looked at her.
Strength and ferocity were qualities that were valued in a warrior, but not always in a wife. Such men wanted women who were quiet and soft, not brash and loud. Women who were comforting, nurturing, who would give them many children and mind hearth and home.
That was the kind of woman Sigrun was and what they saw when they looked at her. There was nothing wrong with that kind of woman, Hilde reflected, and sometimes she wished she could be just that.
But she wasn’t and never would be.
Sigrun sighed. “Just when I think you’ve drunk enough to finally go out there… Only you could be so fierce on the battlefield and be a complete ninny when it comes to men.”
“I am not a ninny,” Hilde insisted, mildly offended.
I’m just better at killing men than wooing them.
But Sigrun had already waded into the fray. Hilde could track her sister’s movement effortlessly, even among the crowd, her purple gown flashing as she spun, contrasting beautifully with her hair. It wasn’t long before Sigrun was no longer dancing alone.
The music had a certain tempting quality to it, Hilde couldn’t deny, and she fought the urge to move her shoulders, swaying to it herself. Her gaze moved between her sister and Olaf, lingering on his broad chest, the muscles in his forearms, the veins in his hands.
At some point, Sigrun rushed back up to her, breathless, sweat beading at her hairline. “How is he ever going to notice you if you never get out there?” she demanded. “You only live once, you know.”
And then she was gone again. Her sister would dance until the early hours of the morning, her energy seemingly boundless.
A pleasant weariness had settled in Hilde’s limbs, from the long trek through the snow and wielding her sword and shield.
Next time, she told herself, though it felt like a lie.
For now, she remained standing to the side, sipping more mead as she watched Olaf, her cheeks growing warm.  
 
Chapter 4 Alek

The suffocating heat hung heavy in the air, even within the shade of the carriage. Alek let out a sigh of relief when the wheeled conveyance finally slowed to a halt, stepping out into the full glare of the sun. At least there was a faint breeze here, carrying with it the barest tang of salt from the sea and other less savory smells of the city.
He turned to face away from the street, to see what destination Cyrus had in mind, and his heart sank, his gaze alighting on the massive circular amphitheater. He’d been here before, more often than he’d like, and while it would certainly provide a distraction, it was not one he wanted.
“Cyrus—”
“Come on,” the prince said eagerly, sandals slapping on the stone as he hurried inside. “I hear they’re putting a Hinterlander in today.”
Alek sighed and followed Cyrus, making their way up the many stairs to the seats reserved for the royal family. They were neither too close or too far away that they could make out no details of the fight that would take place below.
Already the place was packed to the brim, the air filled with the low murmur of voices. Alek saw a glimpse of coin flash as it changed hands, bets placed on the match. The building had no ceiling, but the curving walls sloped inward slightly, providing shade for the higher seats. Those at the bottom, which ran the cheapest—and sometimes came too close to the fight for comfort—were completely exposed to the sun.
Alek scanned those seated in the lowest rows, taking in the modest cut and quality of their garments. Plebians, all. He would have been down there, too, in another life. No patrician would be caught dead down there. They came to see the action, the same as everyone else, but some came to get closer to the action than others.
Those in the very bottommost row might find themselves splattered with blood, if a blow landed just right, giving them something to brag about to their friends. 
Or the loser of the match might not be the only casualty of the day. More than one spectator in the lower levels had been killed by an errant spear’s throw.
How much had they paid, he wondered, saving up their wages for weeks, just to see blood spilled upon the sand?
Alek turned away, tamping down his disgust. He knew the fight served a purpose other than lurid entertainment. They were a form of punishment and redemption both. Most of the arena’s contenders were criminals, sentenced to death, and he supposed they deserved to die for their crimes. But why must their deaths be made into a spectacle? Something to be jeered or cheered?
He shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. Here, very little of the breeze penetrated the arena’s walls, the air hanging stagnant. And his heart hadn’t yet settled from his climb up the stairs.
A voice rang out, echoing over the assembled spectators, announcing the name of their first challenger. It was not a name Alek recognized and he sat forward to better glimpse the man. This must be the Hinterlander Cyrus mentioned.
It was rare for one of the northerners to be taken alive. Rarer still for them not to be killed outright, saved instead for the spectacle of the arena.
Stripped of his furs, the man wore simple trousers and leather boots and nothing more. His chest was bare, exposing an intricate tattoo of swirling blue. His long blond hair hung lank in his face. His head was bowed slightly; Alek couldn’t make out his features. There was a hunched quality to his posture, reminding Alek of a cornered animal, desperate and primed to lash out.
A cheer rang out as the second challenger was announced. This name Alek recognized. Titus had been fighting in the arena for several years now, an impressive feat by any measure. A convicted killer, his sentence condemned him to fight in the ring. He would either be killed in the arena or, if he survived a fight, he would be left alone until the next time he was thrust back in.
So far, he hadn’t yet lost. They were still waiting to find a challenger to carry out his punishment.
The crowds loved him and Titus knew it. He strutted around the perimeter of the arena, his arms raised high, basking in their adoration. It no longer mattered that he was a murderer; he entertained them and thus won their hearts.
But one day, his luck would run out and so would the adoration. The fickle crowd would move on to the next challenger and the name Titus would be all but forgotten.
Across the ring, the Hinterlander watched Titus’s antics. Alek wondered what the northern barbarian thought of it all, but in truth, perhaps he thought little of it. Perhaps he felt right at home.
In one hand, Titus held a sword, his usual weapon of choice. The Hinterlander held a large, two-bladed axe. The weapon hung low, drooping in his hand. For a brief moment, Alek thought perhaps the northerner would refuse to fight at all, that he would rob these people of their sport, and spite them all.
But when the gong sounded, the Hinterlander’s head snapped up and he rushed at Titus. Despite the sand beneath their feet, unfamiliar terrain for a Hinterlander, the man moved fast. In only a few strides, he had reached Titus, hefting the great axe above his head and bringing it down with all his weight behind it, the muscles in his back and forearms rippling.
Titus swung his sword up to block and the two weapons collided in a shower of sparks and the screech of metal. The crowd erupted into cheers.
The Hinterlander fought like a savage, his attacks relentless. Already, he had Titus on the back foot, always defensive, retreating across the arena, warding off his onslaught.
In spite of himself, Alek leaned forward slightly. Would this be the day that Titus finally met his match?
The barbarian swung his axe again and this time, when Titus moved to block it, the blade of his sword shattered. Before the Issaryan could move, the axe darted forward for a second strike, burying itself in Titus’s shoulder.
A collective, audible wince rippled through the crowd as blood spirted from the wound, soaking into the sand. Letting out a roar, Titus grasped ahold of the axe before the Hinterlander could withdraw it. Titus tore the axe out of his shoulder, ripping it away from the Hinterlander. Alek grimaced at the sight of the full wound, the torn sinew, muscle split all the way to the bone.
His stomach roiled and sweat broke out along his forehead. At least it would be over soon.
But rather than bury the axe in the Hinterlander’s neck, as Alek expected, Titus instead tossed the weapon aside. He lunged at the Hinterlander and the two grappled, delivering bruising blows to the torso and ribs. The Hinterlander slammed his fist into Titus’s wound and the gladiator bellowed in pain.
For what seemed like an eternity, but was likely only moments, it appeared that neither man had the advantage. Then Titus darted forward, his face contorted in a snarl, and brought his teeth down upon the other man’s ear. The Hinterlander let out a high, keening noise as Titus tore the ear free.
Alek winced, shutting his eyes so he didn’t see what happened next. Weakness was not a trait that was valued in Issarya, as Prince Darius had so kindly pointed out on one of Alek’s other visits to the arena, as a member of the royal entourage. The prince had been scathing, as he so often could be, openly pondering what kind of man Alek was if he was bothered by a bit of blood—or perhaps he wasn’t a man at all.
But this went beyond a bit of blood. It was pure savagery on display, the two men down below fighting like animals, each going for the other’s throat.
The brutality of it all disgusted him, but he tried to tell himself that they deserved it. They were barbarians, after all—or at least the Hinterlander was. Titus was a murderer, which wasn’t much better.
He didn’t care if anyone observed his reaction and thought him weak now. His pulse had begun to race again; he could feel the fluttering sensation in almost every part of his body.
He opened his eyes again to see that the Hinterlander had managed to force Titus to the ground, the northerner straddling the other man, his meaty hands around his throat.
The image began to fade as darkness crept in at the edges of his vision.
Please, not now!
Alek’s pleas went unanswered, the darkness pressing in. He was still sitting; he hadn’t stood up too quickly. This wasn’t his heart condition plaguing him. It was another vision, and so soon after the last.
The darkness overtook him, replaced almost at once with another image. The roar of the crowd, the cloying heat, faded away.
It was not an army Alek gazed upon this time, but a woman. She wore a chainmail shirt, laid over a blue wool tunic. Her long white-blonde hair hung loosely, aside from two braids at each of her temples. The braids were thin and so tight he could see her scalp where the hair had been plaited back.
Her hair moved as though stirred by wind. He couldn’t feel it, but he thought it must be cold—there was snow drifting through the air. As he watched, she turned to face him. She had strong features, with a sharp jaw and high cheekbones.
She stared at him as though she could see him, pinning him in place with icy blue eyes.
Alek came to with a gasp, raucous cheering ringing in his ears. Cyrus stood over him, his face etched with concern, one hand gripping Alek’s shoulder.
The fight was over. And the vision was gone. 
 
Chapter 5 Hilde

The next morning, Hilde set out early, accompanied by her family and some of the other warriors from yesterday’s battle. Her head throbbed slightly and her mouth felt fuzzy, the telltale sign she’d indulged in too much mead last night. But the cold morning air, crisp against her skin, cleared away the last of the lingering effects.
She had packed a small satchel with food and provisions for the journey, which would take most of the day. They would arrive at their destination around midday and return to the dun shortly before nightfall. It was frustrating, at times, to lose an entire day, but necessary.
Setting out, they traveled through the snow-dusted forest, the walls of the settlement vanishing behind them. The snow grew deeper as they went along, slowing Hilde’s steps, clinging to her boots.
More snow began falling. There was no wind to speak of and the large flakes fell straight down, the air thick and silent. The sky was almost the same shade of white as the ground, an impenetrable wall of cloud, making the time of day difficult to discern.
Here and there, Hilde spotted tracks in the snow where animals had passed by. She recognized elk and wolf prints and occasionally the small imprints of birds, but saw little wildlife. They were all tucked away somewhere warm, if they had any sense. But animals did not have the same responsibility that humans did, and so they trudged on.
They could have taken some of the horses, with their short statures and heavy coats, but the beasts were more suited to the areas to the south, where the forests were sparser and the snow less heavy.
It wasn’t an unpleasant day for a journey. Hilde had made the trek many times when the wind was whipping and the cold had a bite to it, as though it had fangs of its own. Her muscles, still sore after yesterday’s battle, protested slightly, but she ignored them.
It grew noticeably colder the further north they went, and Hilde shivered, wrapping her cloak tighter. Bjornar spoke occasionally, pointing out signs to Sigrun, some message of nature that shamans found significant. It meant nothing to Hilde. She knew how to track, the signs to watch out for, and how to read the sky, the clues that warned of bad weather to come.
She watched as her father pointed out a fallen cluster of feathers, a mark scored onto a tree, and smiled to herself. 
Something cold and hard struck the back of her head, the icy sensation running down her neck. Hilde whirled. Sigrun already had another ball of snow in her other hand, primed and ready to throw.
Hilde answered her sister’s wolfish grin with one of her own, darting to the side as her sister threw the snowball. It went wide. Bending, Hilde quickly scooped up a fistful of her own, the cold burning against her fingers. Sigrun squealed as it struck, clumps of snow clinging to her hair.
Before her sister could retaliate, Hilde hurled another one. Sigrun ducked behind their father, Bjornar’s bulk providing an excellent shield. Hilde hissed the moment the snowball left her hand, knowing already that it would miss her intended target.
“Oi!” Bjornar exclaimed as the snowball struck him squarely in the chest, bursting into pieces.
“Now you’ve done it,” Sigrun laughed.
And then it was an all-out melee, Mira joining in, taking no one’s side, pelting her husband and daughters with an accuracy that rivaled her axe throwing. The forest rang with the sound of their cries and laughter. Hilde was vaguely aware of the other Crows watching, but she couldn’t be bothered to care what they thought.
She turned as another snowball hurtled toward her, landing a glancing blow on her temple, exploding and sending snow raining over her. She laughed, opening her eyes, and the laughter died as her gaze met Olaf’s.
She thought she caught a glimpse of amusement in his dark eyes and for a moment, she hoped he might join in.
And then another snowball flew past her, missing by a wide margin. But she wasn’t the intended target. The projectile struck Olaf on the shoulder and Hilde froze, feeling her cheeks grow hot. She spun, knowing as she did so that she would see Sigrun.
Her sister shot her a mischievous, challenging grin. Of course Sigrun would do something like this. She had too much confidence at times.
Mortified, Hilde dreaded turning around, but she had to know what Olaf’s reaction would be. He stood there, glancing between the two sisters, as though weighing his response. Hilde held her breath. Her entire body felt hot enough that if she were to lay down in the snow, she wouldn’t have been surprised to find it steaming.
“All right, girls, that’s enough,” Bjornar called, saving her.
She let out a slow breath, turning to see that their destination had come into view. The time for fun and games was behind them. Now, they focused once more on the reason for their journey.
As they stepped out of the trees, Hilde sucked in a breath, the splendor of the sight never failing to enchant her, even after all these years.
A massive lake stretched out before them. Nestled on the edge of Bear Clan territory, it was a neutral site, belonging to no one but the gods. All northerners ventured there to pay homage to them.
Hilde lifted her gaze. Against the overcast sky, through the snow, she could just make out the floating islands that hung over the lake, said to be inhabited by the gods. She had never seen them up there—it was too far to make out any detail. The islands all looked terribly small from such a distance, but she imagined they were actually quite large.
But what always snared her attention, holding it far longer than anything else, was the enormous tree standing in the middle of the lake. The tree of souls, named for the belief that its roots stretched all the way to the land of the dead, while its leaves reached that of the gods. It was far larger than any mortal tree, visible for leagues away.
Following after the others, Hilde stepped out onto the ice of the lake without fear that it would break. The lake had never once thawed during her twenty-five winters, nor had she ever heard tell of it melting at any other time. She could probably bring the entire clan and the ice would support them all. 
Nestled around the soul tree and the edges of the lake were shrines to the various gods and their group of travelers split up, each seeking out the god they wished to thank or appeal to.
Bjornar split off from the group, heading to the same shrine he nearly always visited—that of Idon, god of prophecy and fortune, and one of the gods that shamans most identified with.
Instead of following their father, Sigrun strode over to the shrine belonging to Fraedah, goddess of healing and fertility, another god of the shamans. 
Hilde watched her sister. There was nothing wrong with Sigrun so far as she knew, no physical injury to speak of, and the same was true of their parents. Perhaps there was a patient back in the dun that Sigrun came on behalf of now.
There were multiple shrines for the same gods, ensuring that there was room for everyone. Hilde already knew her mother would seek out the same god as she, but she didn’t follow after Mira. Instead, Hilde approached a shrine near the base of the soul tree’s massive trunk, where it vanished beneath the ice.
She wanted to be alone. Ever since her parents had shown her the proper way to pay tribute, she had done so alone. For her, a relationship with the gods was an intensely private, personal one, though she doubted she could have explained why if asked.
Perhaps it was the moments of doubt, the uncertainty, trusting something you couldn’t see and yet believed interceded in your life. That kind of trust did not come easily for Hilde, even now. She trusted in her family, her clan, the strength of her sword. But she didn’t like to leave such trust up to others, even the gods.
Still, she knelt before the shrine, made of a small cairn of stones. If she peered closer, she saw there were thorns, brambles, and sticks interwoven among the stones. The stone at the bottom was marked by a rust-colored stain, where tribute had been offered many times in the past, and would be again.
Taking a dagger from her belt, kept sharp and used only for such a purpose, Hilde tugged off her glove and drew the blade across her palm in one quick motion. 
She turned her palm over, letting the blood drip onto the offering stone. When that was done, she bandaged the cut and only then did she speak.
“Medua,” she murmured, addressing the goddess of war. “I thank you for yesterday’s victory in battle. I pray that you continue to grace us with such victories in future. Guide my sword. Let me be your instrument of wrath, beating back the invaders from the south.”
If Medua heard her sentiment, she gave no sign.
Hilde sat back with a sigh. She was used to this by now, but still, it came as a disappointment. She knew others who claimed to hear their god’s response. Her father certainly seemed to be closer to the gods than most—but then, that was hardly surprising for a shaman.
Sigrun had confided to her that though Fraedah never appeared to her in a vision, she heard the goddess’s voice often enough. Hilde had never heard Medua’s voice, never seen her face other than what was depicted in murals and carved into stone.
Still, her prayers were answered often enough. Whether that was Medua’s doing or sheer luck, Hilde didn’t like to consider.
She knew, as a fellow shieldmaiden and warrior, that her mother spoke to Medua as well. She’d asked Mira once if Medua ever answered her, to which her mother had replied, “You know Medua hears you every time your sword strikes true. Each time you spill the blood of our enemies. She is with you in every stroke, every blow.”
Her answer satisfied Hilde for a time, but the doubt eventually crept back in. When her sword struck true, was that the goddess guiding her, or was it simply years of sparring in the training yard, taking on any opponent who was willing, no matter how large, experienced, or vicious?
Hilde shook her head. What did it matter? The gods were real enough, she knew that for a fact. Her patron goddess, if that was what Medua was, was simply not a goddess of words but action. And she would take victory, no matter whose hand ultimately delivered it.
Reaching into her pack, she brought out a wedge of hard cheese and a cluster of cloudberries, leaving them as a further offering at the base of the shrine.
She stood and stepped back, looking up at the tree. It towered over her, the sheer scope of it making her almost dizzy. It had been watered with her own blood today, but tomorrow, she would give it the blood of the enemy.  
 
Chapter 6 Alek

When Alek next came to, the sound of murmuring voices greeted him, so unlike the raucous cries and screams of pain of the arena. He did not move, mentally taking stock of his surroundings. He knew the moment he opened his eyes or gave some other indication that he’d returned to consciousness, he would be interrogated about his latest vision and he wasn’t ready to delve into that just yet.
His visions were hardly helpful at the best of times, but this… He’d tried to cling to the vision, hoping to see a little bit more, to make the point of the vision clear, but he never managed to see enough before he ran out of time.
He was certain he had never seen the woman before. She looked like a Hinterlander and the snow falling around her seemed to confirm that. King Aeneas would be interested to know that much, at least.
Alek was lying on a soft bed, not his own but one he had spent enough nights in to recognize. He was in the infirmary. The voices belonged to the king and Prince Darius. Cyrus would speak up from time to time, but for the most part, he had little to say.
Alek wondered how long they had been there, talking about him.
“Has he woken yet?” Aeneas asked.
With an effort, Alek kept from tensing as he imagined the king’s focus shifting back to him.
“Not yet,” a fourth voice answered, which Alek took to be one of the palace healers.
“There’s no point in waiting,” Darius said, that familiar, petulant edge to his voice. “He won’t have anything of use to tell you, Father. I don’t see what good it is to have a seer if he can make no sense of these visions.”
The elder prince had never been fond of Alek and it made little different to him whether Alek could hear his words or not—he rarely missed a chance to berate him.
Alek knew all too well the source of Darius’s dislike. From the moment he’d been brought to the palace, he’d been treated like royalty himself, when he was nothing but a peasant from the mountain pass. A peasant who happened to be able to see the future, receiving visions from Idon himself.
It wasn’t Alek’s fault. At that moment, he would have gladly given up the ability to see visions. They hardly seemed worth it, causing him more trouble than not. He hadn’t asked the king to treat him any differently than he did anyone else. He hadn’t even wanted to come to the palace.
Not that Darius cared about any of that. All he cared about was reminding Alek of his proper place—easier said than done when the king treated him like a third son.
Alek had been given his own room in the palace and the finest garments to wear, tailored precisely to his figure, in any color or fabric he chose. He never had to fear going hungry, eating at the same table and enjoying the same dishes as the royal family each night. He was given an education, placed in the same classes as the two princes. Alek knew Aeneas had done this intentionally, thinking the competition would be a good incentive for his two sons.
Alek had outshone them both and Darius never forgave him for it. He couldn’t bear the idea of a peasant being better at something than him, no matter what it was.
“You lack patience, Darius,” Aeneas replied, his tone heavy with disapproval. “This latest vision could be the one we’ve been waiting for, when all will be made clear.”
Alek buried a wince. This was probably his least helpful vision to date. He hated proving Darius right or giving the elder prince any more weapons to use against him, but he couldn’t alter the vision.
Unless he lied…
He had never lied before and no one would be able to prove he’d been less than truthful. Until your false vision fails to materialize.
“Still, until we know more, I think it wise to send more forces to the mountain pass,” the king added. “If there is another threat coming, we need to subdue the Hinterlanders and quickly.” He paused, as though considering. “Come. It is late. Perhaps rest will do the seer good. We will learn of the nature of this latest vision soon enough.”
Alek listened to the scuffling of sandals as the two men walked away. He waited a few moments more, wanting to be certain they were gone before opening his eyes.
“You can stop pretending now,” Cyrus murmured. “They’ve gone.”
Alek opened his eyes to see the younger prince seated at the foot of his bed. “I never could fool you.”
Cyrus grinned. “No, you couldn’t.”
Alek sat up, leaning back against the pillows. The infirmary windows had been opened, letting in a cool evening breeze. Beyond, the sun was setting, staining the sky orange and pink. The room, with its high ceiling and thick pillars, had come to be one of Alek’s favorites, for which he was grateful. He’d spent enough time here over the years, due to both his visions and his other condition.
Some of the cloth tapestries, hanging down and dividing the infirmary into sections, fluttered in the breeze, gauzy and thin. Soon, the desert would lose the last of its heat for the day, the chill of night settling in.
“Thank you,” Alek sighed, turning his attention back to Cyrus, “for not telling them.”
Cyrus shrugged. “You’ve had a hard time lately. I figured you could use a bit of a break.”
“Just like old times, hm?”
The corner of the prince’s mouth turned up. “If only.”
Alek sighed again, the words bringing back memories of days spent in this room. He’d been young when he was brought to the palace and often sickly. Cyrus would steal away from class, smuggling books and sweets to Alek so that they could share together.
In return, when he was able to attend class, Alek often let Cyrus copy his notes. Cyrus had been a poor student, absent whenever he’d rather be doing anything else—which was more often than not. It was just one more reason, Alek supposed, for Darius to dislike him. No one was going to share their notes with the eldest prince if he decided to skip class.
Alek smiled at the memory of he and Cyrus, sitting nearly the same as they were now, only much smaller. He could still picture the handfuls of candies Cyrus had deposited on the bed, the two of them leaning forward to eagerly divide them. Quickly hiding the evidence whenever one of the healers passed by on their rounds. Giggling to themselves, eating so many sweets they were nearly sick.
Other times, whenever Cyrus was supposed to be in class, but snuck away to visit Alek instead, he would duck beneath the bed, concealed by the sheets hanging down. When asked, Alek would pretend not to have seen him.
The memories were bittersweet now, recollections of a fonder time that was over and would never be again.
From the distant look in Cyrus’s eyes, Alek guessed he was following a similar line of thought.
The prince lifted his head, as though rousing himself from his thoughts. “Titus lost.”
Alek blinked, caught off-guard. “What?”
“The fight,” Cyrus reminded him. “Earlier. Titus lost. Shame he had to fall to one of those northern bastards.”
At the mention of northerners, Alek’s vision flashed vividly back to him. The Hinterlander woman. The intensity of her gaze. 
Had the fight only been earlier that day? It felt so much longer.
“Well,” Alek murmured, “if it’s any consolation, I don’t think the Hinterlander will last much further after the wounds Titus dealt him.”
That seemed to cheer Cyrus slightly. “I suspect you’re right.” He reached out, plucking lint off the sheet. “You did have another vision, though, didn’t you?” 
Alek nodded. “I hate to admit it, but your brother is right. I’m afraid I can’t make much sense of this one either.”
Cyrus made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t mind Darius. You know he’s been in a foul mood ever since his engagement was finalized. Father’s been on him about that for some time. Soon as the wedding takes place, I’ll expect news that an heir is on the way.” He grimaced as if the words left a sour taste in his mouth.
Alek knew better than to blame Darius’s bad mood on his impending wedding ceremony, but he was too polite to say so. It was true, at least, that Darius had been more irritable than usual since his engagement to an Issaryan noblewoman some three weeks ago. 
Sophia, he thought her name was. Alek had little idea who she was, never having been one for court gossip, but she was barely eighteen summers, and he greatly pitied anyone tethered to a man such as Darius.
“What about you?” Alek asked suddenly. “Have you found anyone yet?”
They rarely talked about women. Sometimes, Cyrus would come home from a party or one of his nocturnal dalliances and declare that one girl or another had caught his eye. But they never held his interest for very long and then he was always on to the next—someone new and exciting.
And with his heart condition, Alek was hardly the sort of man that most women found attractive. 
Cyrus snorted. “Father doesn’t care what I do. Not like he does with Darius. There’s a sort of freedom in that. Now enough about me. I can tell that this vision is weighing on you. Out with it.”
Alek sighed. “I don’t even want to tell you. It was…”
Stupid? Useless? Pathetic?
“Odd,” he finally settled on.
Cyrus raised his eyebrows. “Odd? Do tell.”
“It’s hardly worth repeating.”
“Oh, no. You don’t get to tempt me like that and then keep me in suspense! You know I won’t tell Father. You can tell me, no matter how odd it may have been.”
“I saw a woman. That’s all.”
“What do you mean that’s all?” Cyrus exclaimed. “I can hardly think of a more exciting vision to have!”
“Cyrus, be serious.”
“I am!”
Alek shook his head, suppressing the smile that threatened to appear. “I don’t know who she is. I’ve never seen her before… I think she might have been a Hinterlander.”
Cyrus grunted. “I wonder what that means.”
Alek had no idea, but he could still picture her in his mind, still see her icy blue eyes, piercing into his own. Her gaze was so intense, he would have sworn she was staring back at him, as though she could see him, if he didn’t already know that such a thing wasn’t possible. 
“Was she beautiful?” Cyrus asked. “For a barbarian, I mean.”
There was only one answer Alek could give, if he were being truthful. “Yes.”