“Someone is trying to send you a message.” Elecia finally gave words to what they all were thinking.
Vhalla absorbed the situation for a moment longer, before throwing the tattered cloak over her armored shoulders. She tied it in the front and let the shredded fabric fall to her ankles. It gave the appearance that she had endured some violent assault. “Good.” Vhalla tightened her hands into fists, letting her Channel cut through her exhaustion. She hadn’t slept more than a few hours the last two nights, and something told her it was going to be another long day. “I have a message of my own to send.”
She started for the camp palace, leaving Elecia and Jax to catch up behind her. Vhalla squinted in the morning sun, steeling herself for whatever the day would bring. It didn’t matter who was threatening her now, Emperor or otherwise; they’d all end up disappointed when the battle was done and she was still standing.
A surprisingly chill wind swept through camp, sending the remnants of the robe fluttering around her like the wings of ravens.
THE CAMP PALACE was empty inside, save for one man. Aldrik turned from where he had been pacing the room, his face crumpling into relief at the sight of her. Vhalla gave him an apologetic look, any verbalization cut short by being pressed into his chest.
She panicked, quickly squirming to step away.
“No one else is up yet,” he whispered into her hair, soothing her worries over his father seeing them.
Vhalla relaxed slightly, watching Jax from around Aldrik’s arm. He stared with interest, but there wasn’t the same shock as all the others who had discovered her and Aldrik’s relationship. There was a sorrowful understanding to his shoulders. It unsettled her more than anyone else’s reaction toward the relationship ever had.
Aldrik pulled away, his palms resting on her shoulders. “What happened?”
“I got stuck on patrol,” Vhalla explained.
“Patrol?” Aldrik frowned. “I would have thought it explicitly clear that you are not to be put on any sort of patrols. It’s too dangerous for you.”
“Hardly,” Vhalla protested the ridiculous notion.
“Vhalla, I don’t want anything happening to you.” A frown tugged at the corners of his lips.
“Aldrik,” she said stubbornly, “I survived the Night of Fire and Wind, an assassination attempt, a fall from the Pass, a run alone through the North.” Vhalla took a step away and pulled his hands from her shoulders. “I’ve killed more people than I have fingers. I’m not the girl you found in the library, and I can protect myself.”
He stared at her in disbelief, but the glimmer in his eyes began to ignite with admiration. Aldrik focused his attention upon her to the point that Vhalla felt herself glow. She smiled bravely up at him, squeezing his hands lightly.
“Well, now that that’s settled.” Elecia cleared her throat uncomfortably. She resonated exasperated disapproval at Vhalla’s hands intertwined with Aldrik’s. “Sit, cousin, and let me see you.”
“I’m quite well—”
“Not yet to my satisfaction.” Elecia rolled her eyes. “Now sit.” Aldrik obliged his cleric, and Elecia was quick with inspecting the crown prince.
“Jax, get us food, would you?” Elecia instructed.
Jax left with a nod.
“What are you wearing?” Aldrik asked, just noticing Vhalla’s attire.
Vhalla adjusted the cloak over her shoulders. She explained the evening with a turn, showing him the slashes down the back. Aldrik’s eyes darkened, and he was immediately back to his determined defense of her.
“Major Schnurr,” Aldrik muttered. “You should stay away from him.”
“But—” Vhalla’s protest was interrupted by Elecia.
The dark-haired woman turned, looking Vhalla up and down. “He’s right,” she corroborated.
That gave Vhalla pause.
“The major is old West,” Elecia explained when Aldrik’s attention had retreated within his own thoughts.
“I’m a lady of the West though,” Vhalla observed.
Elecia snorted. “Look at you, Miss Lady.” A wicked little smirk told Vhalla this was how the Western woman teased.
“He’s the wrong sort of West.” Aldrik had finally returned, whatever he was mentally working through resolved for the moment. “Old West, Vhalla. Not like my uncle.” Her prince regarded her thoughtfully. “Like the sort that still holds the banner of the dead King Jadar and seeks to bring back the days of xenophobia toward the South, the monarchy of the West, enslaving Windwalkers and using them for their own nefarious purposes ...”
Vhalla paused, the cloak suddenly feeling very heavy on her shoulders. The Burning Times, the genocide of the Windwalkers, had been almost one hundred fifty years ago. It was inconceivable to her to think the sentiment still lingered on in anyone.