Page 12 of Blood Beneath the Snow

“Yes,” Father said. He intertwined his fingers and tilted his head to the side. “We’ve discussed the appropriate course of action thoroughly since my return.”

I continued chewing methodically, though the bite now tasted like ash in my mouth. I refused to give in to what he wanted, which was to get a reaction out of me.

Father’s voice grew stonier with every word he spoke. “For the sake of our country—the sake of our favor with the gods—I hope that infant perished the moment you snatched it from the sacrificial altar.”

I stared straight ahead, not breaking eye contact with my father, though I desperately wanted to know what my brothers’ faces looked like. Hopefully their shock at my crimes made my interruption of the ritual worth it.

My father clenched his fork so tightly, I wondered if it would break. Or whether, more likely, he would melt it. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d caused him to damage property.

“You,” he said, face turning red, “are a shame to this family. You dare disrespect the gods who protect us in battle?” His voice rose toa shout as he continued, “When we are so clearly losing the war? When we need the gods more than ever?”

Losing? Hadn’t he said they were close to winning? The surprise lasted only a moment before it transformed, and anger coursed through me. I had tried to tell him over and over how terribly the godforsaken were being treated at the hands of the priests, but he wouldn’t listen.

I slammed my palms on the table. “They have never been my gods,” I cried. “You sacrifice the godforsaken, treat us as lesser beings, and refuse to listen to us!” I felt the blood rushing to my face. My heartbeat was loud in my ears.

The hand holding my father’s fork erupted in flames. No one at the table flinched. The metal in his grasp began to wilt like a dying flower under the sun.

When he spoke again, his voice was terrifyingly soft. “You will not disrespect our country.” His hand shook. “Or your gods. Or your family.”

I glanced at my brothers and my rage evaporated from me like smoke drifting away in the wind. Björn grinned from ear to ear, watching with glee shining in his eyes. Jac stared at his plate, unmoving. Erik and Frode continued to eat, ignoring the argument entirely.

My father let his fire go out, wiping the liquid metal off his hands with a cloth napkin. “In six weeks, we will host the Bloodshed Trials. But before that, we will celebrate your wedding and your departure to Faste. In fact, the wedding delegation arrives tomorrow to begin planning. This is only one portion of your punishment.” His cold blue eyes met mine. “I do not think either of us will be disappointed to part ways.”

“Tomorrow,” I said. My voice was as hollow as I felt. I forced the furious tears in my eyes not to move any farther. “You told me I had another month.”

He shrugged. “We received word from Faste last week. There was a skirmish at their border and they are anxious to see their end of the alliance fulfilled in case Kryllian decides to bring the war to their territory. Besides, you’re well-known for your antics. Why would I give you an opportunity to wreak havoc on your own engagement? It was more pertinent to keep the information from you.”

Fury bubbled in my stomach, threatening to overflow.

“You’re an absolute—”

Frode stood and put his hand around my wrist, clasping it tight enough to be a warning but light enough not to hurt. He raised an eyebrow, and I knew he was trying to calm me down.

He helped me stand and led me from the dining room. My father offered him a nod of encouragement and I hissed through my teeth, scowling.

Frode and I walked in silence. Having a brother who could read my thoughts was helpful when I didn’t want to talk.

A skirmish at the border. Not even a real battle. That was all it had taken for Faste to renege on their original marriage date and come running to Father for help. If Kryllian truly was pushing at their borders, it made sense they’d want our soldiers occupying their country sooner.

But the logic of the situation didn’t soothe my upended emotions.

When we reached my room, I sat on the edge of the bed, and Frode cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”

“Go away,” I mumbled. There was no emotion in my voice. No thoughts in my head for him to steal.

He winced but nodded and stepped out, closing the door softly behind him.

I waited until his footsteps disappeared before slamming my fist into the wall, then watching the bruise bloom outward from underneath the skin of my knuckles. The pain was sour, but it felt betterthan the hole in my chest filled with disappointment, bitter about having to obey my father.

Again and again, my hand connected with the stone. I kept hitting until blood was smeared on the wall and I couldn’t feel the pain anymore.

Only when I collapsed, my hand a destroyed mess of flesh, did I realize my father had never said what the rest of my punishment would be.

The Hellbringer visited me inmy dreams.

Beneath the haze of exhaustion weighing down my bones like lead, I knew I was asleep. The world swirled around me, colors and objects blending in impossible ways. The pain of my now-swollen hand was nearly forgotten, and the events of the day seemed laughable, not life altering.

I tilted my head to the left to study the dark figure who stared down at me. Despite his blurry form, I knew with a certainty who it was—the handcrafted mask was impossible not to recognize. And the loveliest thing about dreaming? The absence of fear. Where earlier the sight of him had made me freeze, now I found myself entirely neutral to his presence.

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