Chapter 4
AURA
Toftlund City, Treland
Aura tosses on the rigid cot beneath her back. Aches and pains permeate every crease of her body, yet she does not fully awaken. Only when she concedes she is not safe in her bed at the family home of Blackwood, do her lashes flutter open.
The chaotic noises of the city filter in from the streets, and so do the flickering street lamps. Through the weariness of the day, she groans into a sitting position to discover herself in the Healer’s Infirmary.
Fuck it all!
All of the Trial's events rush back with a fury, and suddenly, she is stumbling to her slippered feet in the darkness, searching for her armor. Instead, she finds three other empty cots, a bucket of bloodied rags, and a collection of surgical tools.
“Careful, Your Highness.” A young woman approaches her in stained white robes. “How are you feeling?”
Like my axe is thirsty for treasonist blood. “Sore.”
“You sustained quite a beating. It will take time for you to heal completely. You need rest-”
“Healer!” Someone shouts from outside.
“Drengr Trials,” the young woman mutters under her breath. “Please relax, Princess. I shall return!” She shouts over her shoulder, leaving Aura alone again.
Outside, the thick wooden walls of the Infirmary muffle a myriad of voices. She sees the lights of Toftlund dancing through the windows and knows she needs to move swiftly if she expects to catch Isabel before she has a chance to flee the Salt Province.
Aura intends to explain the betrayal atop the tower to her parents.
But not fucking tonight.
What better way to prove herself a true Drengr than by gutting the bitch who challenged her to a Death Match?
Could her father and sister forgive the failed Trial and still instate her as a Drengr?
Good gods of the Endless Shore, I beseech thee. Guide me to Isabel Kilton. Permit me to satiate my vengeance.
Unsure where the Healers placed her armor and underclothes, she eventually ceases her search and stumbles out of the Infirmary in the cream-pigmented nightgown and slippers the Healers dressed her in.
Without her braid, the back of her neck is exposed to the evening air for the first time since she was a little girl.
As she clutches at her bare neck, she feels a delicate silver pendant hanging around her neck. She clutches frantically at the tiny nautilus shell–the Sacred Stone of Treland.
Only two other people were permitted to carry the stone—her sister Thora and her mother, the Keepers of the realm—and she had a feeling which one of them slipped it around her neck while she lay broken.
Thanks, Mum.
Since her parents are halvguds, born of a god, she possesses a unique ability that surpasses even the gods’ control, wielding every ability in the Endless Shore, with one tiny, eensy, weensy caveat.
She must channel her seidr through the stone and request permission from the gods to use her powers.
No matter how stubbornly her resolve grows, the Princess becomes disoriented and winces as she sways away from the Infirmary and redirects toward the city docks in the dark.
Isabel must flee the Salt Province to return to her rat family in Timber.
A thought strikes her.
How did I not see it before?
When was the last time her father permitted anyone from Timber to join the Drengr?
For the love of the Briny God, my family's lives will be at stake if I cannot find Isabel before she finds me.
Aura investigates the docks, anticipating the bitch will attempt to stow aboard the trading vessels bound for the neighboring Province of Timber.
This night, I earn my father’s pride.
She barges onto a fishing vessel overturning crates and nets, searching for those raven locks she will rip from her fucking skull.
“Isabel! Come out, you cunt! You owe me a Trial!” She stomps from ship to ship, searching through every nook and cranny.
At last, she comes upon the final vessel in port: a smaller longship built for speed with a curved bow carved to resemble that of a fearsome wyvern head with jagged teeth and horns like gnarled tree roots.
The Wicked Wyvern of Skalor?
If her father’s ridiculously embellished tales are to be believed, the Wicked Wyvern hides deep in the wilderness of Skalor, waiting to devour the gods and their children.
The appearance of a Skalor vessel does give her pause.
Her father’s Conclave isn’t for another couple of weeks. Why would someone arrive so early?
She teeters only momentarily before recommencing her tirade under the shadow of the Wyvern head.
She searches every pack in the stern. Once she reaches the ship's bow, a sweet, smoky, familiar scent tickles her senses.
Shit, she freezes, clutching a net, is Pops here?
She prepares to peek inside a small barrel when she attunes to her environment and senses someone’s gaze. A smoke ring spins past her face, and she whirls on her heel to find a silhouette of a mountainous man perched along the side. Pipe smoke swirls around his shadowed form.
At least she found the source of the pipe tobacco, and it is only a stranger, rather than a Drengr, stalking her.
He shifts his weight, allowing a streak of lamplight to illuminate half of his face, lined with aged scars. His eyes are like the clear, light blue of crystallized ice. When they meet hers, there is a twinkling of amusement.
“Is there a reason you are disturbing my ship, girl?” He questions in a voice so smooth and deep it resonates in the pit of her soul. Another smoke ring billows into the center of the haul, yet he makes no move to reprimand her trespassing.
She is frozen to the floorboards, gazing at the mystery man shrouded in twilight. Something akin to terror brews in her as she takes in the man's appearance, which suggests that he eats other men for his morning meal.
“Apologies, Sir. " The words tumble out in a rush. “It appears I am aboard the wrong ship.”
“You are here for a reason. State it.” His command holds not a drip of animosity, only a firm request for her willing obedience.
Drawn like a moth to a flame–all her rage temporarily abandoned–her legs inch her forward as if of their own free will.
Further along the dock, a Toftlund guard passes by with a burning torch, casting an orange glow on the sailor, who appears wrapped in the night itself. From his trousers to his armor, he could melt into the evening with his black attire.
His sleeves are rolled up to his inked, muscled forearms, resting on his thighs. Clutched in a rough hand is a long-stemmed pipe, the wood resembling the unique blackwood trees around her home.
In the torchlight, she can discern his ruggedly handsome features scarred from winters of battle.
She expects him to have an impressive Salt Warrior plait and is shocked to find his mahogany hair lined with gray and closely cropped, matching his impressively thick beard, which is also heavily dosed with salt and pepper.
He is not of Salt nor a mere sailor. Based on his helm, he is likely a Jarl of Skalor.
When he remains stoically silent at her approach, she feels her heart rate quicken, and she admits it is time to leave the harbor.
She carefully steps over the side and onto the pier.
In her haste, her slippered feet slide along the wet wood.
Ah, shit!
Aura’s stomach somersaults as she falls backward, her arms flailing about as her back crashes into the hull, her nightgown now tugged up and over her breasts.
“Ouch.” She groans while humiliation burns through her nearly naked figure, sprawled out in such a compromising position.
Use the stones!
“Grandpapi Briny, let me turn invisible!”
Nothing happens.
Shit.
Before she has a chance to recover, she feels the rocking of the vessel as the stranger’s heavy footsteps shake the boards before hovering over her exposed body. In the faint street light, his cold eyes pervade the darkness.
Once again, her lips part, attempting to explain herself, yet only inaudible noises emanate. Damn, if her nipples did not pebble at the sight of his broad shoulders casting a vast shadow over top of her.
He crouches with a faint tug at the corner of his mouth. “That looked painful.”
Aura brushes the fabric of her nightgown over her bare body in a grasp at some aspect of decorum. Goosebumps creep along her arms and legs as his frostbitten gaze appraises her curves as if he were a man starved and she a full-course meal.
Her heart thunders at his hungry expression, a heated desire that reaches into her abdomen and evokes a heavy response from her arousal. Before she can process the fire burning under her skin, he extends his large hand, inked with faded Salt runes and symmetrical lines.
Blushing and feeling more ridiculous at her reaction, she gently places her hand into his calloused palm.
For an unknowable reason, she anticipates cold skin and is pleasantly surprised by his warmth.
If she knew any better, she would have thought he had emerged from the bottomless pit of the Abyss.
“Thank you,” she murmurs as she struggles to keep her footing, lest she look the fool again. She lifts her lashes to drink him in, unable to turn away.
His gaze isn’t simply cold.
It is unflinching.
And he has easily seen forty winters.
“Truly, sir, I am here mistakenly.” She manages to squeak out without glancing away from his perfect nose and lips crafted for devouring flesh.
“Briny! Invisible, now, please!”
Nothing. Not even a tingle along her skin.
“I know you are there, Grandpapi! Why are you ignoring me?”
The side of the ship connects with her back as his hands clutch each side of the boat, trapping her. The collar of his black tunic tugs low, revealing chest hair to match his salt-and-pepper beard and more dark ink lurking along his battle-hardened skin.
His eyes, bright and cold like the frozen fjords, intently focus as if assigning her appearance to memory. The stranger is now so close that his scent of wood and leather tantalizes the Princess. Everything about this man has her ensnared in his grip—each twist of web sears her flesh with heat.