💥 This is a rough draft and is unedited. Each word is battle-born. Read at your own risk, be kind, and enjoy.

character inspo by Wonder.

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I run my fingers through Frey’s long mane. She’s the purest white, and her eyes, flecked with blue, lock on mine as she lets out a deep exhale through her nose. She’s massive and strong, and absolutely stunning. Reaching out, I run my palm over Hati’s dappled face, clomping a pace slower beside us. He’s white and gray and equally magnificent.

“They are a gift?” I clarify, incredulous. “From Hel herself?”

“Thank you, Asha,” Arless murmurs, and accepts a steaming mug from one of the warriors. “Tell him what you told me.”

Asha turns and meets my gaze. She’s a novice fighter, her face still plump with youth with a spark of eagerness in her dark eyes whenever she’s around Arless. She brims with purpose and determination, just as Arless did when we were young, and I see why she respects her as she does. “The general told me they are a gift from the goddess. That they were made for each of you.” She nods to Hati. “He is stubborn and determined. And that one,” she continues, nodding to Frey, “She is sneaky and fast as lightning.”

I grin. “All I’m hearing, Ari, is my horse is faster than yours.”

Hati’s massive head whips up with a snort, his mane flailing around him.

“Stomp on his toe, Hati. No one would blame you,” Arless mutters. Hati paws threateningly at the ground in answer.

Chuckling, I rub his forelock. “I’m only teasing. You’ll get used to me.”

Arless scoffs.

“Actually,” Asha hedges, “Nira, the general’s mare, is the queen of horses. She is the fastest and most powerful. The general wanted to make sure I told you that part as well.” The warrior grins impishly.

Arless barks a laugh.

“Of course she is.” I sigh. “And, of course he did.”

With a widening grin, Asha leaves. I give both horses another neck rub before joining Arless at the campfire.

It crackles and pops, sending a flurry of sparks dancing into the frigid midday air. Camp is relatively quiet as the warriors rest after hours of hellish battle. Though Arless doesn’t look rested at all. Then again, we’re both weary to the bone. But I’m not sure what darkens her features more, the pine shadows shifting around us from a snow-clouded day, or her heavy thoughts, and I know exactly where they linger.

“This isn’t any feat, Ari,” I say firmly. “Sylas looked at her like—like he was going to devour her. Not to mention the north won’t exactly welcome her with open arms. To them, she is the enemy.”

She rests her elbows on her knees, arching her delicate brow. “If she does not stay with us, then with who? Where else would the princess, heir of the entire southern empire—the lone survivor of her family and a beacon for her every enemy—be safer than with us?”

Huffing a breath, I peer into the veil of falling snow. My breath clouds with each exhale, but I don’t feel the cold so much as remember it. Sighing, I shake my head. I hate when Arless is right, and I have no answers to best hers. “My count was three hundred and forty-one, by the way,” I add victoriously and out of spite.

Her mouth gapes in mock astonishment. “Gods, really? I only beat you by a hundred and ten.”

“What?” I shake my head. “No, I think you skew your numbers.” There’s absolutely no hiding my devastation.

Arless nods toward Warsong, leaning against her tent, where the princess is being tended to.

I curse under my breath. “You and that damn bow. What do the Gatriel sisters put in your arrows, hmm? Do they use magic?”

Arless grins.

“And, for the record,” I add, holding up my finger. “The wounded don’t count unless it’s fatal.”

“Child,” she mutters and takes a sip of her steaming mug.

I grin, watching her do something as benign as drinking her tea after watching her stab, decapitate, spear, and feed off dozens of enemy soldiers. “Does it help?”

Slowly, Arless’s eyes drift from the fire to me, and she licks her lips. “What?”

“The chamomile and mint.” I nod to her mug. “In our past life, you drank it to help you sleep. And now?”

She lifts her shoulder and stares into the stoneware. “It’s familiar.” She’s thoughtful for a moment. “It brings me comfort.”

Purposeful footsteps crunch through the snow toward us, a cadence I’d recognize anywhere, and our brief solace evaporates. I grab my deerskin of grog, nestled in the snow beside me, and gulp half of it down.

Imara stops a few paces away, clad in wildfang robes as she holds her hands to the fire. Her nose is adorably red, though I try not to notice, and once again, I’m hit with the reality that she is a human and that she hates me.

I chug for another heartbeat. Unfortunately for me, getting drunk isn’t nearly as easy as it used to be. And the sweet taste of grog is more sickening than anything as I gulp it down.

Arless glances between us, that damn eyebrow of hers arched again.

“Well, my lords,” Imara prompts, her eyes solely on Arless. “Do I tell my shieldmaidens we head north?” she asks sharply. The wind tousles her hair, long, loose and clean, no longer braided and matted with blood. Though she looks exhausted from a night of brutality, the firelight makes her green eyes gleam impishly. She looks softer and more feminine than usual, and I take another drink.

“Since every aspect of our original plan has changed,” Arless explains, “We’re deliberating the best course of action.” She nods toward the tent the princess is in. “With Sylas gone, it is on us to keep the princess safe, as well as our warriors.”

“Wherever we take her, there will be resistance to the princess,” Imara unhelpfully points out. “And nearly a thousand warriors who know who she is, that she’s with us. So there is no keeping her identity a secret.”

There’s a collective inhale among the three of us.

“Then we make sure everyone knows she is protected by the Darkborn,” I tell them, and Imara’s eyes cut to me. “Though you detest our existence, Commander, our reputation will be helpful in this scenario. Don’t you agree?”

Imara’s eyebrow lifts so minutely, I almost miss it. “You mistake me, my lord. It is only you I detest.” Her smile is so forced but so beautiful, I huff and have to look away.

“They will understand,” Arless says, her voice distant. “They must.”

“And Sylas?” Imara continues, “How long will the general be gone?”

There’s a beat of silence before Arless shrugs. “He goes where Hel tells him. So . . . as long as it takes.”

Silence. Many heartbeats. The crackling fire and whispering wind through the treetops. Sylas and Lucian’s absence is the most uncertain, unnerving part of all.

Imara’s gaze burns along my arm; I can feel it roving each of my runes and they tingle in response, but I keep my gaze locked on the fire.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it,” she muses. “You Darkborn never get cold, do you.” Not a question. A reminder. That we are unnatural. When I glance at the shieldmaiden, she shivers and nestles deeper into her furs.

Arless wraps her cloak tighter around herself, but it’s only muscle memory. She isn’t cold, neither of us are. We likely never will be again.

“It’s decided then,” Arless says. “We take the princess with us. Back to Rockhavn. It’s the only way to keep her safe.”

Imara stares at the princess’s tent in consternation, and by the minute uptick of her heartbeat, I consider how worried she might actually be about the princess. “If any of Barron’s people get their hands on her, not only will the girl’s life be forfeit,” she murmurs, “but the people will have no one to rally behind but him. They will lose hope, and in turn . . . our enemy more than triples in size.”

My gaze travels the length of the scar on Imara’s face, it’s hairline thin but traveling from her right temple down her cheek with a slight curve at the end. I’ve heard whispers about her scars—how she lost all her loved ones to Torchkeepers six winters ago—but knowing one of them had a blade against her face makes my fangs ache with hunger and my body coil with fury.

“Exactly,” Arless says more loudly than necessary. When I glance at her, she’s giving me the stop-staring-at-her-like-you’re-going-to-kill-something look.

I avert my gaze as Arless continues. “And we can’t exactly take the short route back, parading her through towns and villages, alerting everyone we have a human girl traveling with us, stirring up questions. We must ask our warriors to use discretion. We can’t exactly keep her a secret, but if they don’t want additional battles to fight, it’s in everyone’s best interest to keep her name from their lips.”

“Barron knows,” I tell them. “Or rather, he will. And soon. That’s why we need to leave the south. We don’t know these lands like we do home.”

“Which is why Sylas heads deeper south,” Arless adds. The fact that he and Lucian left without a word to me still stings. But then, I was the one fucking a shieldmaiden in the great hall, while their entourage headed out, so I can’t fault him completely. “Hel believes Koldis is key to the battle ahead, though he knows not how.”

“Aye, and Hel may have gifted us snow,” I interject, “but it will not last forever. We can protect the princess better at Qisp Keep.”

Arless tilts her head. “I thought you said we shouldn’t take her to Rockhavn?” There’s no mocking tone, nor any snideness, only curiosity in her question.

“And as you said, we have no other choice. My worry is Sylas—”

“Sylas?” Imara rasps. “Why would you worry about Sylas? Did he not leave you in charge of the princess?” Imara holds Arless’s gaze, and I get the feeling she’s intentionally avoiding speaking to me. I can’t say I blame her. Nothing good ever comes of it.

“He did,” I grit in answer because everything is more complicated now. I’m not sure if Sylas being away makes it easier or worse. “But he didn’t intend for us to keep her with us. He couldn’t have. Not after his . . . reaction.”

Imara frowns, but I wave it away and take the final dreg of grog and toss the deerskin aside.

“We don’t know when they will return,” Arless snips. “It could be months, or . . . years.”

I feel her trepidation—it matches mine—and our eyes meet. There’s a strange and unexpected emptiness without Lucian and Sylas near. It feels like I’m constantly holding my breath, and I worry it will be that way until they return.

Rubbing my face, I focus on the dancing fire flames as the three of us stew in silence. The towering pines surrounding the clearing sway gently in the breeze, their rustling needles a soothing counterpoint to the ominous thought of the days ahead.

“We keep moving, quickly and quietly,” I finally say. “We sail home, toward Crowsgate.”

Arless’s breath catches. We have no other choice, but I don’t have to tell her that; she knows it as much as I do.

Imara glances between us. I assume its curiosity quickening her heartbeat, but she has the courtesy not to ask. “Whatever comes of it,” she says instead, “we’ll manage. We always do. Besides, it seems the goddess has set us down this path. There is no deviating from it.” Despite Imara’s general disdain for the Darkborn, she is our most respected commander, so her leadership is expected, but even more so, appreciated. My eyes shift to hers as she adjusts her furs. “It’s settled then. I’ll tell my warriors to get some rest. We leave for the harbor tomorrow.”

Arless nods, and Imara’s eyes dip down to me before she turns on her heel and strides away. A few heartbeats pass and I lean back in the snow, staring up at the bending treetops as snow tickles my face.

“That was . . . slightly uncomfortable,” Arless says. My eyes snap to hers and she nods at Imara’s retreating figure.

“Yeah, well, believe it or not, not everyone likes me.”

“Oh, I believe it.”

I roll my eyes as she takes another sip of her tea.

“But that was not dislike, Thorne. Not entirely. That was—heavy. I practically tasted what it is.”

Scoffing, I glance toward the fortress hidden through the sea of trees. No matter the distance, however, Imara’s feral tone as she stood in the great hall earlier brands itself in my memory. “Trust me,” I mutter, “it’s nothing.”

“Oh, it’s something, brother. My stomach is still knotted with tens—”

“It has to be nothing,” I bark, and as amusement glints in Arless’s eyes, I groan, scrubbing my hands over my face again. I’m too tired for this.

“I see.” Arless takes another sip from her mug to hide her smile.

“Look,” I start more softly, “Imara can’t stand to be in my presence. And more importantly—”

“More important than she can’t stand you?”

“—she’s human, Ari.”

The smile on her teasing expression falls instantly. I don’t have to explain how much that matters. Arless lost everyone she cared about in the same fire. And I will never position myself to lose those I love again, especially fragile humans who age and die so quickly.

We sit in somberness as what’s left of our preternatural high from battle diminishes entirely, and our eternal, very complicated and unearthly existence festers like an infected wound. Always raw and painful. Never healing.

With the rustle of fabric, the princess pokes her head out of Arless’s tent. Her youthful face is clean but etched with uncertainty as she glances around our camp, cautious, before stepping out. The wind howls as it rushes past, tugging her heavy cloak as she pulls it tighter around her shoulders.

“Feeling better?” Arless asks, motioning the princess toward a hide-covered stool by the fire.

The princess nods and walks carefully through the snow, eyeing the blanket of white like it’s made of pure magic. Her hair falls in loose, tawny waves down her back, catching in the breeze, and her cheeks redden quickly from the cold.

“I’ve never seen winter,” she says, so quietly I might not have heard her above her crunching footsteps if not for my acute senses.

“You will see much more of it from now on,” I caution. She settles on the stool, wrapping her heavy fabrics around her. Her cloak is the color of lapis with a gilded hem; not lined with fox or wildfang or saber cat fur like everyone wears from the north. “The sun shines only one season in Nordlund. But you will get used to it. Eventually.”

“Is that where you will take me? To your home?” Uncertainty laces the princess’s words, but there’s a tinge of hope, too.

“Is that your wish?” Arless asks, as though the princess has a choice in the matter.

Eyes leveled on Arless, she hesitates, only a moment, before she dips her chin.

I study the girl, noting the amalgam of emotion in her eyes. “You are not frightened of us, Princess?” Her heartbeat stumbles, but the girl’s expression doesn’t change.

Arless and I glance at one another. The princess witnessed Sylas in a feeding frenzy only hours ago. Still, leery she may be, but there is a steadiness in her disposition we both sense, too.

“I have heard horrible things about you,” the girl says, thoughtful as she stares into the fire. “Tales of monsters and heathens and bloodletting. I’ve heard that you massacre innocents and murder all in your path, claiming it is the will of the fallen gods.”

“Fallen gods?” Arless parrots with amusement. “Seeing as we were reborn of their creation, and that they are responsible for the snow that has given our army the advantage over Blackhorn’s, it would be foolish for anyone to assume they are fallen.”

The princess doesn’t reply. Her wide, blue eyes shift between us, but they don’t linger too long before refocusing on the flames. “Whatever the stories,” she continues, “I have seen firsthand what is left in the wake of Barron’s armies, and I would rather take my chance with you than the Fists of the false king.”

“The Torchkeepers?” I clarify.

She nods. “If that’s what you call them.”

“Well, that’s . . . saying something,” I mutter.

“The other one like you,” the princess starts, clearing her throat. She runs her hands over her thighs and fists them. “The one in the dungeon who . . .”

“Sylas,” I tell her. “The one who killed Blackhorn?”

Her frantic gaze meets mine, her heartbeat quickening again. “Where is he?”

My brow furrows as I try to scent her emotions, trying to discern if it’s curiosity or fear that hums through her at the mention of him.

“He is no longer here.” I draw the words out, listening carefully to her heartbeat. It steadies, just a little.

“Will he return?”

I lift my chin. “In time.”

The princess nods as if she’s coming to terms with something and her gaze shifts once more to the fire. She licks her lips, her body shaking with a chill.

“I know he frightened you,” Arless says carefully. Her voice is softer toward the princess than I’ve ever heard it. “And he was frightening in that moment. But you are safe now because of him.”

The princess mulls the words over, biting her lip as her thoughts drift. “You should ask your questions, Princess,” I say. “At least the pressing ones. Seeing as you will be stuck with us for the foreseeable future.”

Blue eyes lift to me. “I believe you will not harm me,” she says soberly. “Or rather, I believe you do not wish to. But . . . What is to stop you when you are”—her gaze darts between us—“hungry.”

“We don’t much like the taste of princess,” I jest. “Too lean.”

Arless glares at me. “Ignore him,” she mutters. “All of us try to.”

I grin. “Try being the key word.”

Ignoring me, Arless continues, “Our feeding . . . it doesn’t work like that, Princess. Not normally. We have learned to control our hunger. It’s more private. Usually, at least. In battle, it is different. We are stronger if we feed, and when it comes to our enemy, we hold nothing back.”

“But Sylas, the way he looked at me. The anger in his voice. Will I be safe if he returns?”

“You are here with us to keep you safe–it was his command before he left. No harm will come to you when he returns.” Not entirely confident of that statement, I avert my gaze.

Questions tumble through the princess’s head. I can see them with every blink and furtive glance between us. Every time she bites her lip, I think she might finally ask another, but she doesn’t.

“I’m not sure I believe you,” she finally admits. “But I am not naïve. I know I have no choice but to trust you. And I have nowhere else to go.” Her voice cracks, and the princess peers down at the scrapes on her fingers and the dirt under her nails. “I will never see my home again, will I?”

Silence stretches as Arless and I stare at one another, uncertain how to answer that. The only way she’ll ever see her home again is if we eradicate Barron’s army and kill the man himself, and that is a battle we are nowhere close to winning. Not yet.

“One day, you will see your home again, Princess.” My voice is harder than I intend, but that is the least of our problems at the moment. “Eventually.”

She tucks her hands into her cloak. “Leore.”

Arless and I meet her gaze. “You can call me Leore.” Again, her voice cracks with emotion and exhaustion. “The truth is, I don’t feel much like a princess anymore. So, I would prefer it.”

“I am Ari. He is Thorne, but mostly he’s a pain in the ass, so feel free to call him whatever you like.”

That gets a hint of a smile from the princess. The crackling flames and rustling pines fill the silence once more, as the princess yawns despite herself.

“Get some rest,” Arless tells her. “We leave tomorrow, and it will be a long journey. You need your rest.”

“I don’t have the energy to argue,” Leore rises, her cloak puddling slightly at her feet. “So I bid you good day, for now.”

“Anyone will help you, if you need anything,” Arless says over her shoulder. The princess stops, hand on the tent flap. “Thank you, both. For your kindness. It will not be forgotten.”

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