Page 11 of Blood Beneath the Snow

Frode and I both despised Björn, and Frode once told me our other brothers, Erik and Jac, would sympathize if they were able to voice their thoughts without being lashed for it. “Erik only cares because he thinks Björn is neglecting the gods’ demand to be more like them,” Frode had told me with an eye roll. “Self-righteous of him.” I took him at his word; Frode was terrible at lying and he didn’t have any reason to.

Father watched Erik, the oldest, and Jac, a year and a half younger than Frode, more closely than he did the two of us. Perhaps because he had written Frode off as a potential candidate for the throne long ago. And it was no secret the king wished I never existed in the first place.

Björn continued to drone on about the war. I didn’t pay much attention—the war was old news to me. Everything in Bhorglid was always about fighting, conquering, finding victory over someone else. Over time, the concept became boring. Not to mention Björn had a way of getting under people’s skin enough to make them snap. If he didn’t shoot fire from his fingers, I would have wondered whether he had the godtouch of annoying people.

“Then Father let me help strategize on how to take back the eastside of the river,” Björn continued, his shoulders straight. “Helping me prepare for when I am leading the armies.”

Jac kept his face carefully neutral. As the most skilled strategist of us all, he would have given his arm and leg to lead the armies to victory. Björn never wasted a moment shoving it in his face how Father had never invited Jac to a strategy meeting. It made my cheeks burn with fury.

There was nothing we could do, though. As Father was keen to remind us often, everyone had their place in our society, and as soon as one stepped out of line, it was only a matter of time before everything began to fall apart. If the people had rebelled against Father when he was crowned king, I have no doubt he would have used his fire to quell the insubordination in a heartbeat.

Thankfully, the people were thrilled when he won the Bloodshed Trials of his generation, slaughtering his two younger brothers without a second thought. The same way my four brothers were supposed to run swords through each other until only one was left alive—the one who would take the throne.

Only then would my father abdicate. He and my mother would become citizens like the rest of the population, albeit far wealthier than most. They would live peacefully as long as they didn’t attempt to interfere with their successors’ choices, in which case…

Well. Let’s just say my own grandparents had been executed before I was born.

Erik spoke then. “We are successfully decimating Kryllian forces. If we are faithful and careful, we’ll be able to take the war from our wastelands to their shores soon. The country will be ours for the taking.”

Mother nodded, and I tightened my grip on my fork, knuckles going pale. Ours for the taking. I clenched my teeth and Frode shot me a warning look.

I know. I’m not stupid.

I’d voiced my opinions before, and they’d made it clear my thoughts weren’t welcome. That didn’t keep me from thinking the war was a waste of time.

My father sat back in his chair. “Victory is in sight,” he said to my mother. She smiled at him, and I sent Frode an image of myself gagging.

Frode, who was mid-swallow, choked on his food. Jac had to thump him on the back for a moment before he could breathe again.

Björn shot me a suspicious look, as if he too could read my thoughts. I smiled at him.

“And what of the Hellbringer?” Mother asked.

Suddenly, I cared a lot more for the war talk than I had a moment ago. Frode sent me a strange look and I ran through my memory of the morning’s chase, allowing him to observe it. He frowned and tapped his fingers against the table but didn’t speak.

“He continues to wreak havoc on our armies,” Father said. “He is the only thing standing between us and our victory. Now, though, there are rumors circulating about him. We’ve had intelligence return to us with news that he’s away from the front more often than not. They say he’s searching for something.”

I was utterly absorbed and barely noticed myself asking, “What? What is he searching for?”

Everyone turned to me, expressions varying from surprise that I’d spoken to anger that I’d been listening. “Why do you care?” Father sneered. “The war is no concern of yours.”

I swallowed hard and sat up straighter. “I am a citizen of Bhorglid. Of course the war is my concern. It’s everyone’s concern.”

Björn glared. “The war is a matter for the godtouched. Not anyone as lowly as you.”

Frode interrupted. “We don’t know what he’s searching for, only that he’s looking for something that could win them the war.”

The room fell into silence, Frode’s support of my question hanging tense in the air.

Before I could return to my meager portion, my father spoke again. “Revna,” he said. My name lingered in his voice, and I resisted the urge to cringe, immediately regretting bringing any attention to myself.

All eyes turned toward me. I fidgeted with the embroidery on my sleeve. “Yes?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. Everyone was staring at me, waiting for Father to strike.

My father crossed his arms. “Your mother informed me the new year ritual was disrupted this morning.”

I tried to keep my face casual as I chewed another bite. “Really?”

Björn snorted and my mother’s icy gaze narrowed on me.

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