Chapter 31 #2
Bertha jabbed a finger toward my cloak. “Wool wears. Fur mats. Snow turns to slush. Slush turns to misery. After a week in that thing, it’ll start saggin’ and pullin’ at the seams and lettin’ wind in through the gaps ye didn’t know existed.
” Her eyes narrowed. “You need somethin’ that doesn’t drink winter. ”
I frowned. “That’s not a scientific measurement.”
“It’s lived experience,” Bertha snapped. “Something your book didn’t tell you.”
“I’ll find a better coat.”
“You’ll freeze before you do.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
I stared at her.
She stared back.
It was a stalemate, except I didn’t have time for it.
“I need to get to the boundary,” I said.
Bertha’s expression didn’t change. “Aye. Why?”
I hesitated.
Because the truth was a tangle. Because the truth involved dragons and betrayal and an imprisoned girl whose name had been cut out of her own mind. Because the truth sounded like madness if you didn’t have the correct sequence of events.
Bertha waited, arms crossed.
She could outwait glaciers.
I forced the words out anyway.
“Elara is alive,” I said. “And she’s in chains. They’re starving her. They’re breaking her bones. And they’re putting her on trial soon.”
Her mouth tightened. Not angry. Not performative.
Grief.
She swallowed.
“Right,” she said, voice hoarse in a way that made me look away. “Of course they are.”
I kept going. I had to. If I paused, I would start to feel things in a way that would derail me.
“I have… contacts,” I said carefully, because that wasn’t technically untrue.
Bertha blinked. “Contacts.”
“Yes,” I said. “The kind that can meet me at the boundary.”
Bertha’s eyes narrowed. “And these contacts are who, exactly?”
I inhaled once.
Then I said it.
“Isolde.”
Bertha’s brows lifted. “One of his wives?”
“Yes.”
“The one who looks like she’s always about to stab someone in the throat and run away?”
“Yes.”
Bertha stared at me longer. “Lovely.”
I ignored her tone and continued because if I stopped, I might never start again.
“And the Dragon King.”
Bertha didn’t speak.
Her silence was so complete it felt like a sound on its own.
Then she said, very calmly, “The what?”
“The Dragon King,” I repeated. “Valen. Ruler of Ashenveil. Dominus, as his people call him.”
Bertha’s face did something complicated. Disbelief first, then a flicker of something like fear, then irritation, as if fear was an inconvenience she refused to indulge.
“You’re goin’ to the boundary,” she said slowly, “to meet Isolde and the Dragon King.”
“Yes.”
Bertha took one step closer.
“You’re either the bravest woman I’ve ever met,” she said, “or the dumbest.”
“I am very intelligent, but not very brave,” I replied, because facts were facts.
Bertha stared like she couldn’t decide whether to slap me or hug me.
She chose neither.
Instead, she sighed, loud and long and resigned like the gods had finally forced her into being responsible.
“I see it in yer face,” she said. “Ye’ve already decided. There’s no talkin’ you out of it.”
“No,” I admitted.
Bertha rubbed her forehead with two fingers like she was trying to press the stress back into her skull.
Then she said, “You’ll need food.”
“I have food.”
“No you don’t,” Bertha snapped. “Not enough.”
“I can ration.”
“You’ll ration yourself into a grave.”
I opened my mouth to argue.
Bertha cut me off.
“And you’ll need water,” she added, shoving a skin into my hands like she didn’t trust me not to dehydrate out of spite. “And a knife. And shoes that won’t split. And a plan that isn’t just… I will simply not die today.”
“I have a plan. It was a functional plan. A reasonable plan. I have mapped the distance from this wing to the outer corridors, and then from the outer corridors to the northern stairwell, and then from the northern stairwell to the stable gate, and if I maintain a consistent pace without interruption, the probability of escape increases by nearly thirty percent, provided no one notices I’m missing for at least?—”
Bertha stared at me.
I blinked.
“—forty minutes,” I finished, quieter.
“Aye,” Bertha said. “That’s a lovely plan. Very scholarly. Very… made up by someone who’s never had to outrun men with swords.”
“I have outrun men with swords,” I said, offended. “Once. Technically.”
So I’d read books on it. That counted, right?
Bertha snorted. “Well, in the real world, you’ll need shoes.”
“I have shoes.”
Bertha looked down at my feet like I’d personally insulted her ancestors. “Those are not shoes. Those are decorative foot suggestions.”
“They are structurally sound,” I argued. “The stitching is intact, the soles are reinforced, and they were designed for long wear during court functions, which implies they can withstand?—”
“Snow,” Bertha said.
I stopped.
She waited.
I hated her patience.
“Snow causes moisture saturation,” I said slowly, already regretting this conversation. “Moisture saturation leads to fabric breakdown, which increases friction points, which increases blistering, which increases blood loss risk, which increases infection probability, which increases?—”
“Which increases yer chances of dyin’,” Bertha finished for me, smug. “Aye. Welcome to the point.”
She tossed a pair of worn leather boots at me. I caught them and stared.
“These look… used,” I said, because they did. Extremely.
Bertha’s eyes narrowed. “They’re experienced.”
“I don’t like that wording.”
“Ye won’t like frostbite either,” she replied, digging back into the supply pile. “Now. Knife.”
“I packed one.”
Bertha’s brows rose. “Did ye pack one you can reach while panicking, bleedin’, and bein’ dragged like a sack of turnips?”
“I am not a sack of turnips.”
“Worse. Turnips don’t argue.”
I exhaled through my nose, which I suspected was what people called a laugh, but it felt inefficient.
Bertha shoved a blade into my hand anyway. “Put it where you can grab it fast.”
I slid it into my belt.
Bertha nodded once, approving like I’d finally managed basic arithmetic.
“And food,” she added.
“I packed enough for four meals,” I said, then immediately regretted saying it out loud.
Bertha stopped moving.
Slowly, she looked at me.
“Why,” she asked, very calmly, “only four?”
“Because eating slows you down,” I said, like that was obvious. “Digestion requires blood flow. It diverts resources. It creates unnecessary stops. It can create noise. And also, I didn’t want to risk being caught with stolen provisions?—”
Bertha grabbed a chunk of bread and shoved it into my hands.
“Eat,” she ordered.
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
My stomach growled so loudly it felt like a betrayal.
Bertha smiled with grim satisfaction. “Aye. Sure.”
I stared at the bread like it was insulting me personally.
Bertha leaned closer. “If you’re going to go play hero for the Dragon King, you’re not doing it on an empty belly.”
“I am not playing hero,” I snapped, cheeks warming.
“This is a strategic decision based on risk assessment and potential outcomes. I have information that may be useful. And the Dragon King’s presence outside the boundary suggests a shift in regional power structures, which means if I help him enter the kingdom, I can observe firsthand the interaction between?—”
Bertha raised her hand. “Stop. I’m beggin’ ye.”
I shut my mouth.
She nodded. “Good.”
Then she sighed, looking me up and down with the expression of someone watching a baby deer attempt politics.
She gestured toward the small passage behind her hideaway.
“Fine,” she said. “I suppose I should go with you.”
My brain stalled.
I said, very clearly, “I’m sorry, what?”
“Yes,” she replied, like I was the one being unreasonable. “No use helpin’ it. If you go alone, you’ll freeze in a ditch, get eaten by a frostwolf, or get caught by the first patrol with eyes.”
“I can manage?—”
“Ye can’t even manage a proper cloak,” Bertha said. “You’re goin’ to need someone who can.”
“That’s not?—”
“It is,” she insisted. “And I’m not lettin’ Elara die because ye went out there and played hero with no supplies.”
That hit me harder than it should have.
Because Bertha didn’t know Elara was the reason Valen wanted in.
Because Bertha didn’t know anything except that a girl she’d once taught to breathe through fear was in a dungeon, being dismantled piece by piece.
And Bertha still chose to move.
She shoved open a narrow door and guided me into a small storage corridor that smelled like oil and old straw. The light was dim. The air warmer than it should’ve been. Everything in Icespire felt wrong lately, like the cold was thinking too hard about where to settle.
Bertha rummaged without hesitation, fingers quick, sure.
I watched her automatically cataloging.
Waxed cloth.
Salt.
Flint.
A blade that had seen too much and still wanted more.
“Good,” I muttered. “You’re prioritizing weight and versatility.”
Bertha paused mid-reach. “Did you just compliment me?”
“I’m not complimenting you,” I said stiffly. “I’m acknowledging competence.”
“That’s a compliment where I’m from, girl.”
I ignored that. “How quickly can we reach the boundary with a horse?”
Bertha snorted. “If I get us the right mount, ridin’ through the night, keepin’ hidden, not stoppin’ for anything but breath and prayer…”
I leaned forward, desperate.
“…six days.”
My stomach dropped. “We don’t have six days.”
Bertha’s eyes flicked to mine. She was a woman who’d survived too long to believe in mercy.
Then she sighed like the world was personally inconveniencing her.
“Right,” she muttered. “That’s the problem with time. Never waits for anyone.”
I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “Bertha. We have to find a quicker way.”
She jerked her chin toward a shadowed corner. “Stay here. I’ll get what we need.”
“And the transportation?”
Bertha’s mouth curled, smug and irritated at once. “My stable gossip can help us there. The stablehands’ll do anything for a woman who listens to their tragic love stories and pretends to care.”
“That doesn’t sound like a reliable strategy.”
“It’s the most reliable strategy I’ve ever used,” she said flatly. “Men are simple.”
She turned to leave, then paused at the door. Looked back at me.