Chapter 11
Nights during the rainy season were considered a novelty; for once, one could sleep without breaking a sweat as the weather cooled, especially after rain.
So Azul was specifically miffed at being woken tonight.
Host, there are people…here. The little snake had woken her, and a while later the first man snuck in through her window.
The smell of blood permeated her room. Her eyes were wide open, staring at the padded wood that separated her bed from the wall. The crickets outside her window had quietened down, and all she could hear was the branches swaying in the breeze.
Are they here to kill me?
Numerous schemes she'd considered being executed against her; none quite included two men—one hiding under her bed, the other sneaking around her room searching for the other as if she didn't exist.
They must be trained professionals. That was the only way to explain their gall.
She tightened her hand under her pillow around the silver hairpin, specially made by the blacksmith Borji had recommended. She figured it would be a good day to break it in.
The man under her bed was injured. The stench of blood was so strong she struggled not to scrunch her nose, soon enough the other assailant noticed.
She heard rough grunting as a body was dragged out from under her bed and pressed against the wall away from her.
They hissed at each other like vermin, speaking in low tones.
A bunch of quacks, she thought, perplexed. From her experience, hired killers were so much better at navigating the bedrooms of others.
The injured man groaned as his back hit the wall.
Burning pain spread from the knife wound in his side like poison through his veins.
Ragnar Valthorne had survived worse. He had taken arrows, spears, and blades, so this simple wound shouldn't have affected him so badly. But this had been a coward's strike. A blade from someone he thought he didn't need to guard against.
And now he was bleeding out in some forgotten corner of this godforsaken place like a wounded deer.
"My apologies, Great Khan, but we must make way for the Divine King," the man who pinned him hissed.
Kasimir.
One of his own men, bought off by that woman, turned traitor for promises of power under new rule.
Ragnar tried to focus on the man's face, memorise it so he could drag the bastard through the Seven Hells with him, but everything kept blurring at the edges.
"You shouldn't have tried to take what wasn't yours," Kasimir continued, pressing him against the wall.
The pressure on his wound made Ragnar's body nearly shut down.
"The old ways are done. The Divine King will unite the tribes, and you—" A cruel smile.
"—will be nothing but a corpse she steps over. "
Ragnar's hand moved weakly towards the knife at his belt, but his fingers wouldn't cooperate. Too much blood loss.
Pathetic. Dying in a woman's bedroom.
Kasimir took a sharp breath, his lungs seizing, eyes bulging. His mouth opened in a soundless gasp as something silver protruded from his throat. Blood bubbled up around the wound, dark and viscous in the moonlight.
A cloth appeared from nowhere, pressing firmly against Kasimir's neck as he slumped forward.
"Sorry," a soft voice said, a voice like the chiming of bells. "But my maid has enough to clean up without adding blood to her list."
Kasimir collapsed with a thud.
Ragnar found himself staring.
It wasn't a man, nor anyone that seemed like a trained killer. An absurdly fragile-looking girl with pale hair hung loose around her shoulders. She wore a simple sleeping robe that did absolutely nothing to conceal her form.
And her eyes—eyes of death.
She pulled the silver hairpin from Kasimir's throat and wiped it clean on the dead man's robes before rising and fixing those exquisite eyes on him.
"Your turn," she said softly.
The hairpin pressed against his throat—not breaking skin, but positioned right over his jugular. One flick of her delicate wrist, and he'd bleed out in seconds.
Ragnar tried to speak, but only a rasp came out. His vision darkened, blood loss finally catching up to him.
"Who are you?" The woman's voice was steady, unbothered by the corpse at her feet or the dying man before her. "Why are you here? Who sent you?"
He wanted to answer. Wanted to tell her he was the Great Khan of the Valthorne tribe, that she dared not harm him if she knew what was good for her.
"You dare—" before he could continue speaking, the silver pin pierced skin, drawing blood. It shut him up instantly. He gulped at the sensation, which slowed his heart rate, making it feel as if time had come to a standstill.
Obscene.
What an obscenely audacious woman. He could snap her neck under separate circumstances.
"Don't delude yourself into thinking you can kill me. Behave and I will save you."
Heat rose to his cheeks, but she could only see his eyes. His hair was a mess, framing his face along with the mask that hid his identity.
Of all the ways to die, he thought with delirious amusement, it is to Tsenkhinn Narvaal.
"Speak," she commanded. "Or I'll assume you're here to kill me and save us both the trouble of waiting."
There was no need to listen to her; he could easily shift his body weight and she'd fall. He could —!
Pain ripped through him, overwhelming and agonising. He doubled over, his body folding as his mind felt it was being torn apart by the experience.
He looked down, his vision doubling and merging. Her other hand had pressed into his stab wound, pushing against it until his flesh tore and blood poured out so profusely he could hear it drip to the floor.
He reached out to grab her hand and pull it away, but she only pushed in deeper and he fell to his knees before her.
With haggard breaths, he tried to look up. Her hair was lit up by moonlight, glowing in such an ethereal manner he struggled to process.
…Why?
His body was hot, his heart thumped, and his head screamed for him to run, but he was arrested in that state, paralysed as if bitten by a viper.
"Pathetic," she said, her eyes so chilling he felt his heart nearly stop in his chest.
The man failed to consider that the reason he felt so stumped in his position at her feet was because he’d never knelt before any mortal, before her.
His body struggled to remain upright as the blood loss claimed him.
He reached out, but considering she was wearing nothing but loose robes, he found himself grabbing onto her waist so as not to fall.
His breath was laboured, and he struggled to keep looking up. Her bloodied hand grabbed his chin, forcing him up in his haze. Her visage blurred, her crown of gold falling over her shoulders.
"If I don't save you tonight, your life will end. Remember your saviour, Azul of the Borjigin." Her voice came once more, but he was already struggling to see. "You owe me your life, a debt you must pay; do you understand?"
His world sank into the depths.
Indeed, his survival was an act of god.
Daylight stopped Azul in her tracks. She straightened her back, cleaning her bloodied hands on a strip of cloth as she looked out to the brightening forest.
She had worked her way through the night—cleaning, disinfecting, and stitching.
She knew he had lost a lot of blood, so he wouldn't wake up for another three days at the very least. She sighed as she rolled her shoulders.
Her knees hurt from the position she'd taken to suture his wounds.
Now her beautiful silver needle set would need to pass through flames and alcohol to clean them for her next patient.
She heard footsteps approach. "Nkiru?" she called out, stopping the child from coming in.
"Akwaugo, you're awake?" the girl called from the other side of the door.
"Yes, of course, no need to help me with my hair today; I’ll be out in a moment, just wait for me outside."
The girl seemed to hesitate, but eventually, she answered. "Yes, Akwaugo."
Turning back to her patient, Azul found her bed empty.
Before she could comprehend what had happened, a hand dragged her arms back into the hold of a man. She wished to scream but he transferred both arms to one hand and used the other to cover her mouth quickly.
Leaning down, he spoke against her ear, "Do you wish to die?"
So much for the sedative; it clearly didn't work! Of course, making your own concoctions was nowhere near as efficient as ordering it from a pharmacy.
His grip was strong despite his injuries, his body heat radiating against her back like a furnace. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the way his chest heaved with laboured breaths. He was running on adrenaline and rage.
But what did she do? She only saved his life.
Azul huffed and stopped struggling for a moment, her body going deceptively limp in his hold. Ragnar's grip loosened slightly—his mistake.
She threw her weight backwards, slamming into his chest. More importantly, she drove her elbow directly into his bandaged side where she'd stitched him up.
Ragnar's grip shattered as agony ripped through him. His hand fell from her mouth and she heard the sound that tore from his throat—half-growl, half-scream.
She spun, and as he doubled over, she planted her hands on his shoulders and shoved. His weakened body couldn't compensate. He fell backwards, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that surely tore at least half his stitches.
Her hard work was being wasted on a meathead.
Before he could recover, Azul was on him, straddling his waist with her knees pinning his arms. Her hand shot out to grab the silver hairpin she'd left on the bedside table, and in one fluid motion, she pressed it against his throat once more.
The position put them intimately close—her thighs bracketing his torso, her loose robes struggling to cover her as she leaned over him. She was too focused on her anger to care about propriety.
But Ragnar noticed. His eyes widened fractionally before he could control his expression, and despite the pain and despite the blood loss, his body reacted in a way he clearly hadn't intended.
Azul’s eyes flickered with realisation.