Chapter 2 Tears, Ale, and Blood
TEARS, ALE, AND BLOOD
“The moment you raise your fist, you have already declared war. The moment you stand in defiance, you have already chosen your enemy. But war is never fought on the battlefield alone, it begins in the silence, in the spaces between words, where no one dares to stand beside you.”
—Láda Velé?a, Goddess of Leadership and War
Noel
Iwas here not long ago, buying ale for Winter’s Farewell.
My mother taught me from a young age the importance of that day, a time to celebrate surviving the brutal cold and to honor those we lost along the way.
In our village, the homes of the fortunate were adorned with early spring flowers, a mark of gratitude after making it through another winter.
For mourning families, it was a day of reflection, their homes left bare, the silence louder than any decoration.
Some families hosted feasts, sharing what they had as a symbol of endurance and resilience.
My mother believed in the act of giving, and she always made it a point to gift a meal or warm fabric to those grieving their loved ones, a gesture that spoke to her view that community is a bond stronger than any season.
She was always so different from the others in Tárnov, or even the soldiers from other villages who came to train with us at the base.
Our own house would be filled with the smell of freshly baked bread and the ale set out for any weary traveler who might pass by, because my mother believed that even in hardship we must show kindness.
She would say that we are all bound by the same cycle of life, death, and renewal.
It has been a tradition in our family for many generations.
The familiar musty air of the inn, and the scent of vodka, settles around me. The heavy door closes behind me with a thud, and for a moment, the world outside feels far away. But as I make my way to the bar, Nina’s words haunt the edges of my thoughts.
My mother, afraid. The idea feels wrong. Nina saw something in her, something I didn’t. What did I miss? Why didn’t I press Nina for more?
But what else would she say? Mother barely spoke with anyone.
I slide onto a worn wooden stool, and the bar creaks under my weight as I press my elbows into it. The innkeeper’s wiping down the counter, his back to me and his shoulders hunched as if the air in here weighs him down too.
I catch my reflection in the dusty mirror behind the bar. Hollow eyes, pale skin, my dark hair one big mess. The grief has etched itself into my face so deeply I barely recognize myself.
“An ale, please,” I murmur, my voice rasping from the dryness in my throat.
The innkeeper grunts in acknowledgment, his movements mechanical as he pulls a bottle from the shelf and pours the drink. I stare at the liquid as it sloshes into the cup, golden and bitter. I’ve never been fond of ale. My mother used to say it dulled the mind. But tonight, that’s what I need.
I pay with one silver coin. It’s too much for one cup, but I don’t have less.
The innkeeper tosses the change, a few copper coins, onto the bar, and I let them rest where they are.
As I sip the drink, the burn spreads down my throat, but it doesn’t take away the pain in my chest. Ale can’t answer the questions running through my mind.
It can’t bring my mother back. It can’t erase the fear that something far worse than I know is hiding beneath the surface of Tárnov.
The barmaid moves like a ghost, her eyes flicking to mine as she passes. They’re tired, but in them there’s something like . . . understanding. She doesn’t ask how I’m doing. She knows. Women in Tárnov always know when to stay silent.
I take another sip as I scan the room. A few men sit in the far corner, their faces dark in shadow.
One of them catches my gaze. Commander Barric from the tsar’s court.
I remember him from the day I met the tsar.
He was standing at a distance, and he even smiled at me then.
But now, he holds my eye for a moment too long to be casual, then turns away.
A prickle of unease crawls down my spine.
When I set my cup down, the dull thud against the wood barely registers over the pounding in my chest. Everything feels different tonight. Or maybe it’s just me that’s different.
The door creaks behind me.
“Noel, darling, you look sweeter than ever.”
The voice grates on my nerves before I even turn to look at him.
Arnold, the commander of the newbies’ troop.
If you could even call him a commander. After a few loud steps and a smack to the barmaid’s behind, he leans on the bar, his grin as oily as the smears on the counter.
He brushes his hair back in a way he must think looks charming. It doesn’t.
“Did you miss me?” he asks, his voice cloying and irritating. “Even when you’re grieving, you’re a beauty.”
My skin prickles with annoyance, but I don’t let it show.
I know what Arnold’s doing—needling me, waiting for me to crack.
He’s always been like this, even back when he was my superior.
Back when I was just another soldier under his command, working twice as hard for half the respect.
He’s the kind of man who thinks power comes from the uniform, not from the person wearing it.
I told my mother everything about him. Every smug remark, every ugly smile, every time he tried to undermine me.
I can’t count the nights I’d gone home, ranting about the way he treated me.
How he always found a way to turn every little thing into a battle for dominance.
She always told me to be careful, to not let his bitterness drag me down.
She knew the kind of man he is, maybe better than I do.
He leans closer, his breath hot with the stench of vodka and tobacco.
“You’ve been working too hard, Noel.” His eyes rake over me like I’m some prize he’s entitled to.
“You should smile more. It wouldn’t hurt to show a little softness now and then.
Might even win you a few points with the higher-ups. ”
I can’t help the tiny bit of rage that rises in my chest. Smile? Softness? What would he know about surviving in this world with nothing but grit and strength? He’s never had to prove himself like I have, never had to claw his way up from the bottom while everyone told him he didn’t belong.
Because I’m a woman, and women don’t belong in the army.
I turn to face him fully, locking eyes with him and projecting a calm I don’t feel. “I smile when there’s a reason to, Arnold. Your face isn’t one.”
He chuckles. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. You’ve always had that fire. But you know . . . you’d do a lot better if you stopped pretending to be one of the men. Femininity suits a woman like you. A pretty face and eyes like a rotten tree.”
I grip the edge of the bar to keep myself grounded. If he weren’t so predictable, I’d laugh at how wrong he is.
“Come on, Noel,” he murmurs. “You know you’ve always wanted a man like me on your side. We could make a great team. You and me”—he traces a finger over the counter—“in one bed . . .”
“I don’t need a man like you.” I narrow my gaze, and my voice is hard as steel.
“I’ve done just fine without.” I brush his finger off, and he stumbles.
His elbow slips from the wooden surface, and I fight to keep my smirk from stretching too wide as I say, “I think it’s time for you to close your legs, isn’t it? ”
His grin disappears, and I savor that tiny victory. But I know better than to think he’ll back off. Men like Arnold never do. He clamps down on my arm with a grip like iron, yanking me from the stool before I have a chance to react.
I grit my teeth and plant my feet as the burn of rage surges through me.
“Oh, you think you’ve earned the right to talk back now?” His grip tightens, the pressure around my arm bruising.
Is that the only phrase men know?
But I’m not one of the fresh recruits he pushes around. I’m not weak.
My body reacts before I even realize it. A sharp twist of my torso, years of training taking over, and I wrench free from his hold with a snap that surprises even him. “You’re drunk,” I spit, stepping back to put space between us. “Stop this nonsense.”
But Arnold isn’t deterred. His eyes gleam with something dark, something far more dangerous than the usual drunken state. He moves forward, trying to catch my arm again. “You don’t walk away from me,” he snarls, his voice more menacing by the moment.
I move on instinct to knock his hand away. Caught off guard, he stumbles, and I see the realization in his eyes. I’m not someone he can push around.
The lanterns cast shadows on his face, deepening the ugly twist of his mouth as he lunges again.
But I’m ready this time. In one motion, I sidestep and drive my elbow into his ribs.
The satisfying sound of his grunt fills the room, but I don’t stop there.
I follow through with a quick fist aimed at his stomach that has him doubling over.
You’re pathetic, Arnold.
The inn feels smaller, the shadows longer, as if the walls are closing in. I can feel every gaze on me, the other patrons watching but none of them moving. No one’s stepping in. Typical. If I were a man, everyone would be involved by now.
Arnold straightens, gasping for air, his face twisted in rage. “You think you’re better than me?” he spits, voice rough, as if each word scrapes his throat. He swings, his mead-soaked brain slowing his reflexes.
I duck easily, and my fist connects with his gut once more, even harder than before. The force sends him staggering back, knocking over a chair.
For a second, I think it’s over. He’s down, clutching his stomach, struggling to catch his breath. But I know he won’t stay down for long. He’s not just angry, he’s humiliated. And a humiliated man is far more dangerous.
As expected, he lunges at me again, his hand shooting out to grab a fistful of my hair.
Wrong move. I dodge him as my hand snaps to catch his wrist and twist it behind his back. He lets out a yelp, and his knees bend as I force him down.
“You are too weak, Arnold,” I whisper into his ear, tightening my grip on his arm. The room is quiet, I can nearly hear his pulse. But no one moves.
And then, as I’m about to release him, he breaks free with a burst of energy fueled by rage and humiliation.
His hand comes fast—too fast for me to block—and the next thing I feel is the sting of his palm as it strikes my face.
The force of it sends me reeling, my vision swimming.
The sharp sting spreads across my cheek, but I push the pain aside and will myself to stay upright.
I lock eyes with him. I will not show weakness. But something’s different now. The room feels colder, and as my gaze moves around the inn, I realize it’s not just about Arnold anymore.
The men sitting in the far corners rise slowly from their seats, looking at one another, then back at me. They’re not here to help.
Arnold smirks as if he’s already won. “Oh, not so tough now, are you?”
The innkeeper pretends to wipe down the counter, avoiding eye contact, while the barmaid stands frozen, still clutching the tankard she was pouring.
The tension in the room tightens around me.
I can hear the crack of knuckles, the creak of leather as more men circle closer.
Commander Barric gets up, then sits back down. Looks around the room.
What was that about?
Arnold’s grin widens. “Come on, Noel,” he taunts. “You should know better than to challenge me.”
I don’t think. I lunge. My fist slams into his face with enough power to send him flying backward into a table. The wood groans under his weight, hitting the wall as mugs and shards of glass tumble to the floor.
Before I can steady my breath, something hard slams into the back of my head.
The pain is blinding, like fire spreading through my skull.
The world tilts as black spots swarm at the edges of my vision.
My legs give way, and I collapse toward the cold, unforgiving stone floor.
Sounds become distant, and Arnold’s leering face is the last thing I see before everything turns black.