Chapter Text
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Battle cries roared in the clearing. The sounds of war thrummed overhead; horns blasting against the thunder of drums, beating and pounding just as hard as the hearts in the chests of every soul on the battlefield. Such rhythms spurned the bloodshed. The once lush clearing had been reduced to mud made sloppy under frantic boot-falls and the weight of lifeless flesh.
A hammer clutched in the fist of your enemy screamed through the air at your skull. After dispatching an opponent who wielded a worn broad sword, you ducked under the attack with a great stroke of luck. The intended blow was hardly inconspicuous as it was delivered with a vicious cry from a man clad in a dark red cuirass lined with white animal fur – the colors of the enemy. You braced your weight onto one leg and, now crouching, stuck the opposite leg out and sent the man crumbling at the knees. With an “oof,” your attacker fell into the rust-colored mud. He was quick to his feet, but he could not outrun the arrow you buried deep between his eyes despite the lithe recovery.
Around you, you spied a swarm of red-clad bodies retreating from the clearing.
“Come my kin! They flee our blades!” You cried, pointing your axe in the direction of the enemy. Reaching around your waist, you pulled the carved ox horn from your belt. With a deep breath, you sounded the advance.
Your attackers, retreating from whence they came, assembled at the mouth of the clearing.
Their assault had begun in the dead of night, war horns blaring through the darkness like a howl in the dark. Despite the enemy’s stealth, it was made clear soon enough that the gods had wagered against them. In preparation for such an attack, your clan received your long-fought foe with the ferocity of sharpened axes and swift arrows. However, the real champion was the hastily, yet effectively, crafted trip wire made by your artificers the night prior.
Swarming them as they fled the clearing, your warriors pushed the enemy back into the bowels of the woods. Some climbed trees to escape blood-thirsty blades while others ducked behind boulders to evade the keen tips of arrowheads. As the sun peeked over the horizon, glazing the clearing with the scarlet hues of dawn, you sucked in a deep breath and blew into your horn again to signal the killing blow. For a moment, it seemed like a sure win.
You primed your veins for the rush of victory, but instead, silence fell and your clan stilled with bated breath. The air was charged and the once glorious morning soon muddied from shining persimmons to dull grey-browns. Then the silence ended.
A loud scream curdled the blood of every man and woman within earshot as one of your warriors went flying as if he’d been catapulted through the trees. Eyes wide with shock, you watched. You tracked your warrior’s trajectory, hoping to observe what had caused him to be sent flying to his death.
What in Helheim could have done that? Bristling for whatever may come, your paint-stained eyebrows raised with surprise as your eyes landed upon the largest woman you’d ever seen.
“Gods…” you spoke to yourself, lips cracked and caked with blood. You were sure your eyes deceived you – were you witnessing a true Valkyrie come down from the realm above? She was immensely tall, taller than any woman you’d ever seen before. Clad in an ivory gambeson lined in fur the color of snow, the woman was armored in heavy mail. Locks the color of raven feathers curled down to the tops of her shoulders as she swung a Dane axe as large as you. On her belt was a shield that sported a white dragon displayed on a brass cross patonce over a red field, the heraldry of your long-fought enemy: Clan Dimitrescu.
You froze at what to do next. Never before had you faced a foe of such stature. Another scream chortled through the trees. After a moment, it became very clear what happened to your kinsman; you watched as another of your warriors was bludgeoned by the blunt side of the woman’s gargantuan axe and sent sprawling into the rest of your men like a pin and tumbler. But the moment of panic was short-lived. This woman cut down more of your clan with every swing of her axe and it became incredibly pertinent that you needed to stop her.
Thinking fast, you surveyed the area frantically, looking for the individual you sought till you spied him a few yards away.
“Ulf, where’s Vidar?” You shouted toward a burly blonde man whose duel axe head was interlocked with an enemy spear. With a strong pull outward, Ulf broke the spear in two and elbowed the spearmen in the side of the head, causing the man to drop like horse dung.
“I haven’t seen him,” Ulf replied before his eyes went wide. He plucked a dagger from his belt and chucked it behind you. Startled, you ducked. The throw was followed by the sound of crunching and the clank of crumbling mail. You glanced over your shoulder, glimpsing an enemy swordsman who’d fallen under Ulf’s perfectly timed blade.
Your eyes snapped to the yellow-haired man. “Thanks,” you called to him.
With two lithe but calloused fingers, a curt whistle sounded from your jaws. You searched the battlefield while ducking under bodies and blades, scanning for any signs of Vidar. Soon, a deep whinny echoed from the other side of the clearing. A hoard of warriors moved in a wave-like motion to avoid being trampled by the hooves that galloped to your aid. Vidar, your massive warhorse the color of midnight appeared from the fog that rolled down the mountainside. Before the animal reached you, you plucked the spear off a fallen comrade. You grabbed a hunk of Vidar’s curly, ebony mane, swung a leg over his fur saddle, and mounted him in stride.
With you atop him, the horse released a mighty snort to await your command and pawed at the bloody earth impatiently like the soldier he was.
Now with the thunder of hooves at your disposal, you launched yourself back into the belly of the battle. “Get!” You squeezed your mount’s flanks and spurred Vidar on. You queued the bit in his mouth, urging him forward with a fierce cry in the direction of the oncoming carnage. After dispatching a spearman who threatened to impale your mount, your eyes searched the battlefield till they landed on the unmistakable white of your query’s armor. Being mounted awarded you the advantage of height, but it was hardly difficult to find the giant shieldmaiden again. Her stature alone made her stick out like a sore thumb, not to mention the growing wake of destruction and bodies that followed closely behind her.
Your jaw twitched in rage. With every swing of her axe, more of your warriors fell. You had to stop her.
Thinking, you flipped the spear in your hand and pulled Vidar to a sudden halt. The stallion snorted, understanding your cue, and reared on his haunches to give you a better aim at the woman. As the horse reached the peak of his height, you sent the weapon screaming forth with the force of a torrent.
But you missed.
The blade at the spear's tip met the metal of the shieldmaiden's axe, then ricocheted off and away into the trees beyond. Vidar landed with a defeated stomp. You couldn’t believe it. You kept your eyes trained on the woman, who turned around with satisfaction on her bloody, painted face and met them with a pleased smile.
You just scowled, disappointed.
“Seems I’ve got your attention. You’ll have to do much better than that,” shouted the woman, her voice full of bass like a freshly tanned drum.
You could not take your eyes off her. She was captivating in a way that made you want to kill her. So sure of victory, you thought briefly of the songs they’d sing of your triumph over this woman. You even splurged to think defeating her may earn you the title “giant-slayer”.
Now that you’d harnessed her attention, the huge woman ended her carnage. With an upturned fist and a stern command, she halted her warriors, and the men and women under her banner stayed their blades as she stepped with grit in your direction. You’d never seen her before, never on the battlefield, nowhere. But due to her clan’s obedience, you assumed she was at the very least of high rank amongst them.
Is that why she captivated you so? You could not afford distraction right now.
The woman’s intent dawned on you. Mimicking her command, you raised your fist in the air. “Stop my wolves,” you ordered.
Your clan halted their efforts and turned their attention to the showdown that was gaining traction before them. Gathering, men and women on both sides of the battlefield congregated around you and your gargantuan rival. They all formed a ring with their blood-soaked bodies as the dead lay among you. A less-than-perfect circle took shape, creating a smaller battlefield of its own.
Vidar’s rib cage expanded under you with heaving, powerful breaths while his heart bounded along. This horse enjoyed war. In tune with your mount, you huffed from the exertion. Though Vidar’s role in this battle was finished, yours was not.
From your belt, you withdrew your axe. With a neat swing, you kicked your legs to one side of your horse’s back and smoothly dismounted, sinking up to your ankles in squelching mud. But it hardly fazed you. Your gaze never left your challenger. You told yourself it was to strike fear into her heart or get into her head. But somewhere deep down, you knew this was a lie.
You approached the woman and up close she was even larger than you imagined. She was at least a head and a half, maybe even two heads, taller than you. Her massive, broad shoulders and wide back were the largest you’d ever seen on a woman. You briefly wondered where she’d found armor to fit her, but it then occurred to you that Clan Dimitrescu was known for their impressive armor smithing.
The clouds that shoved out the beauty of the dawn had come like an eager harbinger, thick and foreboding, that spelled death. Rain began to fall, slow at first but gaining speed. Within seconds, a downpour unleashed Thor’s unbridled wrath upon the battlefield. A mixture of dirt, warpaint, and blood saturated your hair and brow. It flowed like rivers down your skin and stung your eyes. The pain made you feel alive.
Vidar had followed you. He stood still while you plucked several intact arrows from his saddle quiver and filled the one strapped to your back. “I invoke the right of holmgang,” you challenged, swirling your axe in your hand as rainfall dripped off your nose. “Leader to leader.”
The immense woman grinned smugly, her dark hair falling into her chiseled face. Somehow, it was an even darker black now that it was saturated with the rainwater. She chuckled grimly with a jumping roll of her huge, armored shoulders.
“Why would I? I could kill all your clansmen and crush their skulls into bone dust beneath my boots. No one could stop me.”
The warning was said with pride, her voice crisp and deep. Clearly, it amused her to think you asked this challenge of her, but it was one you knew she couldn’t refuse. No self-respecting vikingr could.
The large woman held the heavy weight of her axe in just one hand, slowly raising it with malice to point at your chest. “Not even you could stop me.” Stupidly, you wondered how strong her muscles had to be to heft such a great weight so effortlessly in one arm.
“But the challenge is sacred,” a voice called from amongst the gathering of warriors. You had no idea who the voice belonged to, or which side they fought for, but you respected their loyalty for tradition.
“Jarl, my lady Alcina, you must accept!” Another came right after. This time you tracked it down and were surprised to find it belonged to a warrior clad in red and white. A Clan Dimitrescu warrior. But all that rebuffed inside your head, worthless except for her identity that you now knew. Her name was Alcina.
Your heart lubbed in your chest at hearing it spoken aloud. You’d thought she was just another officer, maybe even a commander. But no. This was your enemy clan’s jarl.
You stung yourself for not recognizing her. Her great size and huge Dane axe were her calling card. Legendary, even. You’d never met Jarl Dimitrescu before, most certainly not on the battlefield, but her bloodthirsty nature was well known to your clan. She was a very effective killer and, rumor was, she enjoyed it a little too much.
For years Clan Dimitrescu had grown fat and lazy on their flourishing mining and alcohol industry, leaving their axes behind for coin and politics. Fighting amongst Clan Vargr and Clan Dimitrescu almost ceased entirely, but when Alcina rose to power after the death of her father, the old jarl, her hunger for war quickly rekindled the flame under your clan’s centuries-long feud. Soon the fighting began. Over land. Resources. Food. Territory. And it hasn’t stopped since.
Like a fool, you’d challenged your enemy clan’s jarl and you had a suspicion it was going to bite you in the ass like a feral mutt.
You swallowed hard. This fight had all of a sudden gained stakes higher than you could’ve ever possibly imagined. There were rules about this sort of thing, but Jarl Dimitrescu didn’t strike as a follower of such things. Technically you were of too low a station to challenge her, but she had yet to revoke her issue. It rattled your nerves. Her arrogance deflated you, as if winning was a sure thing and she was just merely humoring you.
Yet, contesting Jarl Dimitrescu was likely your only hope, despite it probably being suicide. She was right — there were not many who could stop her. Her height and size alone put you at a great disadvantage, and her strength was a lethal force to be reckoned with. But if this would stop more of your clansmen from falling victim to her, then you’d certainly give them the best fighting chance you could, victorious or otherwise.
The jarl knew she didn’t have to fight you, but at this point it would look bad on her if she didn’t. Her smile dropped and she sneered with a look of begrudging disappointment, as if someone had sucked all the fun out of her good time.
“Fine!” Jarl Dimitrescu grumbled, slamming the hilt of her mighty axe into the soaked earth. “Let’s get this over with. The gods will not deprive Clan Dimitrescu of its victory.”
She picked up her axe and heaved the top end into her opposite fist like it weighed nothing. Water droplets surged onto her ivory armor, jumping off the plates with a charming clink. A strong clap of thunder sounded overhead. It was followed by a blast of lightning that lit up the sky behind Jarl Dimitrescu’s head, illuminating her eyes that appeared golden under soggy, dark curls.
Beneath your feet, the already-soaked dirt had turned slick and sloppy with water and death. You fastened your teeth to your mandible, clenching the muscle tight. Behind you, another crack of lighting surged. It was time.
“Let’s get it done then.”
Sprinting forward, you reached around your waist to grab your offhand hammer where it had been strapped to your belt, waiting in surprise.
The hulking jarl smiled wide with delight. She burst to meet your challenge with a heavy sweep of her huge weapon. Her speed was impressive for her size, but you, the lighter and nimbler fighter, dodged the devastating attack with relative ease. As Jarl Dimitrescu heaved to recoil from her blow, you leaped to her right with an outstretched leg onto a large boulder, planting a steady foot on its flat side. You then used the stone as a springboard to front-flip yourself over the other woman’s mass entirely in a strikingly graceful display of agility.
But gods. Jarl Dimitrescu was so tall. You didn’t know whether to be impressed or intimidated. Her first swing had been made to display her raw power, but it was very obvious that your first order of business would be to cut her down to size.
Now at Jarl Dimitrescu’s back, your swift motion gave you the precise opportunity to bash the blunt tip of your hammer into the unguarded side of her knee. Warriors clad in the colors of your clan cheered while your adversary growled in pain, falling forward onto her newly injured knee.
With her now within your range, you moved to execute a killing blow. Jarl Dimitrescu’s eyes widened for a split second.
Using her axe as a pivot to compensate for her limb, Jarl Dimitrescu narrowly scrambled out of the way to avoid your deadly counter-strike, one that, had it landed true, would’ve split open her skull. But instead of flesh and bone, the blade of your axe buried itself deep into the bark of a maple trunk.
“You’re quick,” the mighty woman heaved, somehow bringing herself to stand. You watched as she did so, noting how much trouble she went to avoid stumbling while putting weight on that injured knee. It was a valiant effort. But she wasn’t fooling you.
You yanked at the hilt of your axe, trying to unsheathe it from the tree wood’s grasp. Out of the corner of your eye, the hulking jarl approached with her massive weapon in hand and a grin on her face. Flicking your attention back to your useless axe, you continued to pull frantically on its handle. It wouldn’t budge. Not one bit. When the slurping of mud rang loud in your ears, the only thing you could do was duck. The power of Alcina’s imposing swing was so strong you felt the wind it caused to slice through the air as the blade just barely nicked your cheek.
Had you been a second too slow, it would’ve freed your head from your shoulders.
Hearing a creaking and then a crash, you looked back at the tree. Somehow, some way, the jarl’s swing had completely felled the thing in a single blow. Saying your prayers and forgetting your axe, you scrambled backward with haste on hand and foot through the muck.
“Very quick,” Jarl Dimitrescu remarked. You could tell she was oozing with satisfaction at her continued display of raw power. You brought a hand to the wound on your cheek. When you recoiled, your fingers were stained red. She’d definitely nicked you alright.
Jarl Dimitrescu watched you examine your cheek. “Almost not quick enough.” Her chilly demeanor rattled you, leaving gooseflesh on your skin. In her rumbling voice, you could practically hear the sneer on her lips.
Soft soil under your fingers sucked you down into the earth as you shuffled backward. Scurrying, you gained traction on both feet. You reached around to grab the dagger on your belt but were denied by the smooth tip of Jarl Dimitrescu’s Dane axe as it butted square into your chest with unimaginable force. The blow sent you rocketing back into the mud, but before you could register what had happened, you were swiftly lifted into the air.
You felt the squeeze of your gambeson tighten around you, feet dangling. Through eyes soaked with blood and dirt, you saw a hand the size of a meal plate clutching the front of your chest piece, fur soiling under its white-knuckled grip. As your eyes traveled farther up the arm, it was easy to visualize the handsome, war-wrought face of the huge, black-haired woman as she hoisted you clean off the ground with absolute ease.
Oh. Wait a second. Her eyes really were gold, deep, and threatening. Like a wildcat’s.
The jarl squeezed the front of your gambeson, reminding you of her presence. You gripped her meaty forearm. “What now, little warrior?” She threatened. More lightning exploded in the distance.
Grappling with her arm, another snide grin spread across Jarl Dimitrescu’s face, reminding you of a cat who’d caught their canary. You snarled at her despite the pain shooting through your face from the wound she’d inflicted. The rain stung the exposed flesh as water seeped into the slice.
“Go to hell,” you spat. For all your wriggling, the woman’s grip was too strong. Her raven hair hung, soaked from the downpour, but it still bounced when a sinister laugh rumbled from her throat.
“Fiesty. I like that,” Jarl Dimitrescu hummed. “A crying shame it is – you are such a fine young thing. Pity. Any last wishes?”
It was clear she had a flair for this sort of thing, the dramatics of it all, though the rank compliment burned your blood. Her reputation precedes her. But the longer she talked, you quickly reasoned, the longer it allowed you to worm your way to freedom. You thrashed again, kicking at her chest plate, which earned you naught but another disheartening chuckle. When you could do no damage with your legs, you had no choice but to fight dirty.
You remembered your father’s words. Fight with honor but fight to win.
Jarl Dimitrescu’s grip became tighter and tighter, choking you. Did she mean to crush you to death? She could if she wanted to.
“Agh,” you seethed. “Actually yes.” You settled both hands around her huge forearm. “Tell me how this feels, bitch.”
You sank your teeth deep into the exposed meat of Jarl Dimitrescu’s ungloved hand. A guttural howl of pain followed. Screaming, the woman let you go, sending you hurtling again into the muck. You landed flat on your rear with a firm thud and a familiar squelch. You’d just about had it with this ridiculous, slippery shit.
The jarl rained a wealth of obscenities in your direction, not that you cared to pay them much mind, but the way she gripped her bloodied hand caused you to smirk with gratification.
You knew now that you needed to put as much distance between you and her as possible. For a moment, this seemed to be a simple enough task to accomplish. But when the lumbering woman came charging at you with pure murder in her eyes, axe in hand, the situation became a lot direr. Your axe was buried in the jagged stump of a fallen tree. The hammer, while effective before, would do little to the hard steel of the woman’s plate and Alcina was simply too tall to inflict any damage to her skull without miraculously growing a pair of deer haunches. If this was what being trapped felt like, it was awful.
Then you remembered the bow and quiver strapped to your back. You reach around to palm its soft wood. Relief filled you to know it had not broken under your weight.
Jarl Dimitrescu charged, growling. “I’ll make you regret that!” Her weak knee slowed her just enough to give you time to unwind the bow from around your chest. You nocked the arrow. Pulled back the string. Aimed.
In a kneeling position with one knee in the muck and the other leg at a ninety-degree angle to balance on, you felt the black fletching tickle your cheek as it slid by, thick with the liquids of battle. You let out a breath and aimed. The large woman had forgone a helmet. This was it. Your victory. Your legacy.
The arrow rocketed into motion. Time slowed as if trapped in a warbling, wet vortex. Creak. The bend of the wooden shaft. Whoosh. A flash of feathers. Tink. Rain bouncing off the thin, razor-sharp tip. Thud. The pound of your own beating heart.
It all happened within a second. The sky waged war too, sending millions of cool droplets down to earth. You had no idea how many had fallen since letting go. Your muscles ached. Your cheek burned. Your ass hurt.
The world loped back into motion with the sound of a sharp clank, like the bang of metal. You watched the arrow’s streamlined journey. But it didn’t end the way you thought. Your victory had been stolen. A sword fired into the arrow's trajectory, causing a crisp metal-on-metal clap that sent the lithe weapon ricocheting into the crowd of warriors.
“Stop this madness!” The man connected to the sword ordered. Somehow, even the rain obeyed, slowing to a drizzle. You were stunned to find the hand that held the sword belonged to the stern, grizzled face of your clan leader.
“Enough!” He shouted again.
You froze. Everyone froze. Your blood, chilled at first by the command, soon boiled inside your veins with outrage. Your own jarl had deflected the arrow that would’ve sealed your clan’s victory and ended centuries of fighting. Why?
“What is going on? Why would you do that?” You hollered back, lips furled with displeasure that began to take root. Some might have considered the outburst disrespectful, but your heart still strummed to the beat of adrenaline and battle. Not that you would’ve cared anyway. But your question went unanswered, leaving you even more pensive, as a group of three riders cloaked in black robes strode up on their horses. Red and white caparisons adorned the saddles of their mounts, making it clear they belonged to your enemy clan. They dismounted their horses and flocked to their jarl.
Like you, Jarl Dimitrescu looked both confused and aghast. This was the first time, you thought, you and your enemy ever had something in common. But after a moment, a sickening smile crept up onto her cheeks.
Did she know what was going on?
Your jarl, clad in the jet black and dark indigo of your clan’s colors, looked to Jarl Dimitrescu. He lowered his broadsword. You could not tell what was exchanged between the two of them if anything, because all you could see was the back of his head.
It infuriated you.
Then he addressed the crowd.
“There will be no more fighting today,” he said. “Or ever. Clan Vargr will lay down their arms against Clan Dimitrescu and accept its offer.”
You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. An offer? What fucking offer?
This couldn’t be happening, it couldn’t be true. Your clan had warred with Clan Dimitrescu for centuries, long before you were born and long before your clans had made the voyage to Scotland. Hate for them was bled into you out of the dying veins of your kinsman slain fighting them. And now they just…quit? The idea rejected itself on your tongue like too-charred meat.
Before you could register what was happening, you were on your feet. You passed the tree where your axe no longer hovered embedded in the bark of a dead tree, but on the ground with one of your arrows broken in half next to it. Apparently, instead of burying itself between Jarl Dimitrescu’s eyes, your deflected arrow had still made itself useful by dislodging your axe from the stump.
With a swift grab, you picked the axe up, eyes locked onto Jarl Dimitrescu like a wolf brimmed with cunning.
There was no stopping you, at least you thought. Jarl Dimitrescu kept her eyes trained on your entire approach. However, this was ruined for you too. You made it within feet of her when a stern hand on your chest, still gripping its sword, halted you dead in your tracks. Looking up, you recognized the face staring back at you, the long red braids and chiseled chin unmistakable.
Your jarl – your father.
“They ambushed us! Our warriors father, our brothers and sisters, are dead. They—” You looked to Jarl Dimitrescu with hatred. The axe in your hand raised to point at the large woman. “They are murderers. And we are going to allow them victory? No! I will not accept it.”
Barely a heartbeat passed before your father’s word slammed down like a hammer on an anvil. “Hush!” he ordered. Your teeth clenched in your jaw and your eyes burned with disobedience. Your father had never been known to be a soft man. True to his example though, you too had never been known to take things lying down. So, like always, you pushed back.
Your words spat like venom. “Have you lost your damn mind? How can you just surrender?” You said seething, chest huffing.
In a single stride, your father came face to face with you, so close that his surprisingly combed ginger beard tickled your nose. It pissed you off even more, but not even then did you consider submission. You were still winded from battle, though the fight never truly faded.
“Do not question me,” he nearly growled. It wasn’t entirely like him to get up in your face like he was, you thought, but it probably didn’t help that you were publicly criticizing him in front of not only your own people but an enemy clan too.
So you did not balk. “I will not let them get away with what they have done.”
Your father, your jarl, then placed his body between you and Jarl Dimitrescu, who lingered like a wildcat ready to pounce. If he did so out of protection or embarrassment you did not know, but you hardly cared for either.
“You will stop this right now. You will shut your mouth. You will do as I say. This feud ends today and this discussion ends now.”
You scoffed. His warning, much less his command, was given little mind. “Why? Why today of all days do you decide to lay down your sword, rob me of my victory, and forgive them for their actions?”
Your father’s blue eyes turned bluer as his temper flared. “Because I am jarl and I say that it does.” Without another word, your father turned to walk back toward Jarl Dimitrescu, who looked unpleasantly smug.
“That is insufficient,” you retorted to his back, voice nearly at a hoarse bark. In his tracks, your father stopped. He turned his head over his shoulder and in his eyes you saw something that, for the first time in your entire defiant life, made you wish you’d kept your mouth shut.
The crowd that was once gathered to witness a glorious fight to the death now observed a showdown between father and daughter. Both you and him were imbued with the same stubbornness and pride, unwilling to yield for it was not in Clan Vargr’s nature.
Your father clenched his jaw tight and looked you in the eye. There, you saw his thoughts flash across his face in only the way you knew how. Suddenly, you saw his temperament shift as he looked about the crowd. What was going on here?
“My kin, my clan, and my warriors. I address you today for Jarl Dimitrescu and I have reached an agreement,” the ginger man began and for some reason, it was like watching a fire burn. You didn’t know why, but you glanced to Jarl Dimitrescu where she stood, her axe weighted in the muck at her feet, and she too was watching your father speak. “There will be no more fighting, looting, or raiding between Clan Vargr and Clan Dimitrescu. Centuries of bad blood between our clans will end. We will now be joined together in peace.”
The contents of your stomach lurched. No more fighting? Peace? This was crazy talk. Madness. Had your father eaten some bad stew? Was he ill? So many thoughts and excuses rattled through your head as surprise contorted your face. Surely Clan Dimitrescu hadn’t blackmailed him. What was so worthy that they had offered to convince your father, the most war-hungry man you’d ever known, to offer up a term as incredulous as peace? Your clan was not known for their good relations with practically anyone – there was a reason why they’d settled in the densest, most secluded forest in the region. Your father, as stern and calculated a man as there ever was, was similarly not known for his willingness to cooperate with anything that could have its own opinions. How in the world had this happened? Clan Dimitrescu was better at politics than yours ever would, but you still had a very hard time believing they’d gotten to him.
Your shocked stupor only ended when a husky, yet feminine voice rumbled to speak. It was not your father. You were almost thankful, had it not been for the words that were said next.
“Joined in peace,” said Jarl Dimitrescu, who then pierced your heart with her malign golden gaze. “And marriage.”
Your eyes blew wide. This time your stomach threatened to void itself for real. A pit opened in your chest, dumping your heart into your intestines. This could not be happening.
You gripped the handle of your axe harder, knuckles bloody and white on the wrapped leather as you looked at the lean image of your father. Unbridled rage flamed at him. If looks could kill, he’d been dead several times over by now.
“What —” your words had fangs that bared at him, making you appear like every ounce the snarling wolf of your clan’s sigil, “— have you done?”