Page 8 of Blood Beneath the Snow

I told myself we knew where it was going from the start. A relationship with a short fuse, unable to live past its beginning stages of passion. Arne didn’t seem to mind, but lately I found myself wondering if our feelings were aligned. If he wanted something more than a safe place to practice his firsts with a friend.

Did it matter, though? In the coming weeks we would go our separate ways. Neither of us would be able to stop it.

Forcing the thoughts from my mind was easy. I didn’t have time to dwell on the sick feeling burrowing deep in my stomach whenever Arne kissed me these days or the hunger gnawing at my insides. I needed to train, to learn how to fight, to take care of myself. Things that were impossible when my family was in the city instead of on the war front. I had to take advantage of my limited time. I would not place my fate so securely in the hands of a husband I didn’t know.

Unsheathing my sword was the most natural motion in the world, the sound like music to my ears. Here, I could forget my run-in with the priests. I could forget the way the robed figure held the scythe over the infant’s chest while she wailed.

I closed my eyes and tried to shake the image from my head. Remembering the gruesome scene would only make me angrier. Freja was getting the baby to safety—no one had died senselessly at the hands of the priests today. It was more than I could hope for.

One ritual of many,my thoughts whispered.A life saved now, perhaps. But will it make a difference in the end?

Arne didn’t wait for me to get set before he swung his blade, the metal arcing toward me. I stepped back and leaned so the blade didn’t swipe me.

“How did it go today?” Arne asked as he turned and swung again. “Is Freja all right?”

I braced my hands on my hilt and parried, wrists shaking from the impact. Arne might be skinny, but he was strong. Every clash of our swords rattled my bones, but today I was glad. It would distract me from the baby’s cry ringing in my ears.

“Good, I think.” I saw an opening and lunged, but Arne dodged easily. “The priests managed to grab me, but they didn’t catch Freja and she had the baby, so…” I would have shrugged if I wasn’t parrying his next blow.

Arne narrowed his eyes, though I felt some of the tension drain out of him when I mentioned Freja’s safety. The two had grown up together long before I knew them. If I didn’t know better, I might assume they were siblings. “They caught you? Your father is going to give you hell.”

“I know. My mother already did.”

We were falling into a rhythm. Parry, thrust, swing, block.

“And you don’t care?”

I frowned and tried to surprise him with a twist he wasn’t expecting, but I wasn’t as sneaky as I’d hoped, and the blow was easy to block.

“I’ve never cared.” My breathing was getting heavy. “Especially not now, right after my birthday. The Bloodshed Trials are in six weeks. The Fastians arrive in a month for an engagement ceremony and the wedding. I’ll be gone soon enough—might as well get as many blows in as I can beforehand.”

Arne’s voice was strained. “And you don’t mind?” he asked. “Being married off to the Prince of Faste?”

Then I saw it—a gaping hole in his defenses. I swung and he tried to parry but missed, and my sword cracked against his armor. Finally, a win.

We both relaxed, breathing hard. I pushed loose strands of hair out of my face and shivered at the cold breeze rustling the leaves on the trees. “It doesn’t matter if I mind,” I said. “It’s not like I have a choice.”

Arne shrugged.

I held back a sigh. He was so open with his feelings, and I…well, I wasn’t, but it didn’t stop him from reading me like a book. He was disappointed our time together was coming to an end.

Arne didn’t appear interested in sparring anymore, his sword hanging at his side, so I practiced my stances. He watched me silently, offering no comments. The blade felt like home in my hands. I sliced it through the air, enjoying the feel of the momentum.

“Besides, what else would they do with their godforsaken disappointment of a daughter?” I asked, my voice razor sharp at the edges. Arne asked me these questions over and over; he knew the answers.

“My family always does what the priests say. ‘Sacrifice infants.’ ‘Treat the godforsaken like trash.’ ‘Go to war against Kryllian.’ When Faste offered to send food in exchange for my hand in marriage”—I relaxed my stance and shrugged—“the priests thought it was too good to be true.”

Arne sheathed his sword. “You’re not something to be traded,” he muttered.

I sheathed my own sword and turned to him, quick as a whip. “What would you have me do?” I demanded. “I won’t run. I won’t show them I’m afraid. That’s one thing they don’t get to hold over me. Otherwise, I’m a slave to my own fate.”

His face was red; whether from the cold or from the sting of my words, I wasn’t sure. Either way, his eyes didn’t meet mine.

“Halvar thinks I should compete for the throne,” I continued, my words cold. I already knew exactly how Arne would feel about this. “Force my way into the Bloodshed Trials.”

“And you’re considering this?” Apparently I wasn’t the only one who could put up a mask when threatened.

I shrugged. “Why not? If you want me to stay here so desperately, then competing is the only way.”

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