The members of the King’s Guard all glanced at us as we passed, but quickly disregarded us as stragglers left behind from the mass of Sentinels that had been housed inside the walls of the Keep. My friends were helping me blend in easily—not to mention the matted mess of hair tangled all around my face and Bjern’s woollen wrap covering my Legionnaire’s brand. If anyone had looked close enough to spot Vale’s mark beneath one eye, the mor-svjake beneath the other, or even the little silver soul mark across my lower lip, they would have known … but thankfully, they didn’t.
Sig and Bjern flanked me as I sat at the table, all of us facing the wall at the end of the hall, where nobody would have a chance to see my face. They were consciously trying to shield me as much as possible. Frey and Herra sat facing me, strikingly opposite in appearance. Herra was a portrait of stunning contradictions, her skin a smooth chocolate brown, her hair a short bob of bright blond curls. Her eyes were dark—wide and filled with the intrigue of the Eloi magic. She was tall and graceful, dressed in plain black training clothes, as though she was trying to make herself appear to be a Vold. Frey was dressed the same, though she was a seamless, perfect blend of colour, from her pale skin, to her pale eyes, to her pale hair.
I dug into my griddle cakes, pausing only to chug down the water Sig handed me, and then the juice Frey handed me. My fingers and mouth were sticky by the time I finished, sitting back with a satisfied groan. Frey didn’t wait a second longer.
“Tell us what happened.”
The food curdled in my stomach immediately, and I had to swallow several times to make sure it didn’t come back up. I pushed up Bjern’s wrap, tracing my arm, where the Spider’s mark had curled. I pulled in a deep breath and told them a disjointed tale. I told them of the Spider, of my deals with the great masters, of my twisted bond with Calder.
“He might be right,” Herra said thoughtfully, those soulful eyes staring at a spot over my shoulder. “What you’re describing isn’t the Blodsjel bond. It’s something darker. A need to be so close that you almost absorb each other, warring with a resentment of that closeness. Did the Captain never explain to you how the Blodsjel bond is supposed to feel?”
My teeth worried my lower lip, my head beginning to shake when I paused, my eyes falling to the table. “Twins,” I admitted. “He said it felt like his Fjorn was his twin.”
“You weren’t born as a Fjorn, not like the others. What was it the first Fjorn said to you again, about how you were created?”
“She said that they each sacrificed their power to create me. They bled into the waters and screamed into the wind to create a storm to tear the evil of the worlds apart.”
“That much has proven to be true,” Frey noted, tapping a slender, pale finger against her chin. “We all watched the storm that washed away the Darkness. But if you’re a culmination of their power, if they created you, then the connection between you and Calder might be a remnant of his link to his Fjorn’s power—which was passed to you—combined with the Darkness inside him striving to reach you.”
“That would explain why he feels close to you but resentful of you at the same time,” Bjern agreed, his hand landing on my shoulder, squeezing me lightly.
I sighed, my head falling into my hands. “I was stupid. I thought I defeated the Darkness. I thought I completed another of the battles.”
Frey frowned. “I don’t think it works like that—the battles sounded like they had an order. The first, for resilience of the body,” she recited, holding up a finger. “The second, for sharpness of the mind.” Another finger. “The third, for purity of the soul. The fourth, for strength of the spirit. And the final battle, the most impossible, to cheat immutable fate.” She ticked off each of them on a finger. “The prophecy is clear that fate is the final battle, which indicates a strict order. Your next battle is of the mind.”
“I can’t defeat the Darkness until I’ve completed all the other tests?” It came out like a question, my eyes flitting from one face to another.
“That is if we’ve translated it correctly,” Frey answered. “The test of fate may not have anything to do with the Darkness. The Darkness may be the great war referenced in the prophecy. Maybe reuniting the three worlds is what will defeat the Darkness.”
“This world hasn’t been very good to me,” I whispered, still staring at the deep grains of the wooden bench. I hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
Frey caught my hands, not even hesitating this time. Her eyes stared into mine, the lightest, brightest pools of intelligent blue.
“If you fight hard enough, you can make this world yours. You can create a world that will be good to you.”
“You’re changing it already, Ven.” Bjern’s hand slipped from one shoulder to the other, pulling me against his side as his arm wrapped around me. “The stewards see you as one of their own. A Legionnaire. A warrior to match the Warmaster. A beauty to catch the eye of the King—they might not know the truth.” He laughed as I raised my hand in objection. “It’s what they see. They see the great masters—previously only figures of myth and legend—now present wherever you are. Fighting to dance with you. Summoning you to their sides. To everyone in Fyrio, you are a steward who has risen above most sectorians. The stewards are hopeful. Proud. In you, they see a brighter future for themselves and their families.”
“It’s not true.” I felt an enormous weight suddenly settle on my shoulders. “None of it is true.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Herra shook her blonde curls. “It’s what they see. It’s what they believe. Little steward girls think they can become Sentinels, now. There will always be people who need to see others as lesser-than, who feel threatened now by the insinuation that they never treated the stewards right … but most of us are all for this change, Ven.”
“And when they find out that I intend to marry all five of the masters?” I asked, my brow arching, an absurd laugh bubbling in the back of my throat. “What kind of positive change will that bring?”
Bjern’s body shook, his laugh silent. “We all know the masters won’t let that happen. They haven’t pushed you this far to give up now. If they truly thought there was no chance of you choosing, wouldn’t they just kill you now?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “Or they’ll go through with it and kill each other off one by one until the strongest of them remains.”
“Or the smartest,” Frey interjected.
“Or the sneakiest,” Herra added. “Or the craziest.”
“It comes down to how bad they want to sit on the eternal throne,” I muttered, as Herra and Frey both glanced over my shoulder, distracted by something.
I glanced backwards just as a familiar man in the King’s Guard uniform pointed to the back of my head. His attention was a bright spark, his full lips unsmiling, though the dimples at the corners of his mouth hinted at some kind of ever-present mirth. He had soft-looking hair, as dark as his heavy brow. A few braided strands wove through the waves. I frowned as he muttered something to the man either side of him, and they all walked over to our table.
“Christian,” I greeted the man who had challenged me at the gates to the Keep.