Chapter One #2
I hug my arms tighter, sinking into myself. My thoughts swirl, and I don’t know how to shape them into anything I can say out loud. I don’t like fighting. My heart pounds in my ears, even though no one’s yelling at me.
I just…I wish they weren’t so angry. Or maybe I wish I were brave enough to speak up, or smart enough to make sense of what I’m feeling, because I don’t know if Beatrice is right or if Maeve is. Maybe both. Or neither.
My thoughts are all jumbled, overlapping with Fenric’s voice from earlier.
“Even the birds stop to listen when you sing.”
I stare down at my hands, knotted in my skirts. Another commander. Would he look at one of us and think, That one. She’ll do ? Would she even be allowed to say no?
Maeve sighs, dragging a hand through her copper hair. “No one’s going to force anyone, Bea. The girl would have to agree. That’s the whole point. It’s just an introduction. Nothing more.”
I glance at Maeve, then down at my hands.
It’s hard to know what to think. Beatrice isn’t wrong. Back at Havenmoor, everything was about obedience. But, here…it feels different. Most of the time. Still, the idea of some stranger arriving tomorrow, just to look at us, makes my skin feel too tight.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
I just know I don’t like yelling. I don’t like pressure. And I really don’t like being reminded that, even here, my body might still be seen as something to bargain with.
Beatrice doesn’t respond. She just turns away, arms still locked tightly over her chest like armor.
I lower my eyes, wishing I could disappear into the earth. I want to say something, to fix things between my friends. But all I can do is fidget with my skirts, my voice locked somewhere behind my ribs.
“Maybe I’ll go see Elda,” I mumble softly, more to myself than anyone else. “She was going to show me how to bind a fever with willow bark today…”
Maeve nods gently, as if she understands exactly what I’m doing, slipping away before the storm starts again.
I don’t look back as I walk away.
The path to Elda’s cottage winds through the garden and along the edge of a stream, just past some sun-dappled trees.
The stones are warm beneath my feet. I wiggle my toes a little as I walk, enjoying the heat, even though I know I probably should’ve worn shoes.
Tomorrow, I’ll wear the sandals Maeve gave me.
I like being barefoot. It makes me feel… connected, I guess, like I belong in the garden, just another gentle thing growing under the sun.
The cottage is nestled beneath a crooked tree, its branches heavy with white blossoms. There are bundles of drying herbs hanging from the porch beams.
I knock softly on the wooden door, then poke my head in. “Miss Elda?”
“Annie, child,” comes the warm reply, voice cracked with age and kindness. “Come in, come in. I was just thinking of you.”
I step inside and shut the door gently behind me. The cottage smells fragrant with something simmering, maybe elderflower.
Elda is sitting at her work table, sorting petals into a little clay bowl. She’s wrapped in a shawl, her gray hair hanging in a long braid down her back, her horns poking through the fringe.
“You’re not wearing shoes again,” she tuts affectionately, peering down at my feet.
I flush a little. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, my dear. Just don’t burn your toes off. The stones can be cruel.” She pats the stool beside her. “Sit. Let’s do something useful with those clever hands.”
I perch on the stool, folding my hands in my lap. “What are we making today?”
“Cold medicine,” she says, handing me a handful of crumbled leaves. “For fever and aching bones. You’ll need to know this come winter when all these brawny Bulls start sneezing like new Calves.”
I giggle softly, then press my lips shut. I always worry that my laughter sounds silly. But Elda smiles like it pleases her.
She shows me how to crush the leaves properly, how to add them to honey, and boil it down just so.
We mash roots with a stone pestle and line little cloth sachets with chamomile and eucalyptus.
She teaches me to cut ginger thin as ribbon, to recognize the signs of a brewing fever, and to cool a cloth with willowbark-soaked water.
“Now, this here,” she taps a yellow flower. “This one’s called elecampane. It opens up the lungs. Clears the airways like a breeze through a closed window. If someone’s wheezing or can’t breathe, this’ll help them.”
I nod solemnly. “Elecampane,” I whisper, committing it to memory.
She watches me for a long moment, then pats my hand. “You’ve got soft hands, Annie. But, they’re strong, too. The best healers are like that.”
My chest warms at the praise. I’m not sure what to say, so I just look down at the tiny glass jar in my palm filled with the pale syrup we made together. I feel…calm here. Useful. Like I’m slowly becoming someone who might matter.
After we tidy up, Elda disappears into a cupboard and returns with a tiny woven basket lined with cloth. She fills it with the herbs we used today, some already bundled, some loose, and tucks a sprig of fresh mint on top.
“For you,” she says, placing it in my arms. “So you can practice. And maybe steep some tea if the nerves get to you tomorrow.”
My throat tightens a little, but I manage a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Miss Elda.”
“Shoo,” she smiles, walking me to the door. “Go, before your feet get cold. And keep your wits about you tomorrow, tournaments tend to stir up more than just dust.”
I step out into the late afternoon light, the breeze tugging at my skirt. The little basket feels light in my arms, but it’s filled with so much more than leaves.
The air is cooler now, and the crickets are starting their songs. I walk back to my little room, the basket of herbs clutched in my hands. A small comfort, especially since everything is still so new.
When I first arrived, after the Minotaurs had come and taken us from Havenmore, I was so terrified I could hardly breathe. I remember the long, tearful journey here. I couldn’t speak a word, not even to Beatrice, who had held my hand the entire way.
Beatrice...she had cried for a week after Maeve was taken and didn’t return. The poor girl couldn’t stop. It was like all the strength had drained out of her, and all that was left was sadness. The fear of being here, of being so far from home, was too much for her.
Not that I had fared much better. I'd cried so often those first few nights that my throat had gone raw, yet I was too afraid to ask anyone for water. The Minotaurs didn’t hurt us.
The women of Blackhorn tribe greeted us upon arrival and, when they explained what the humans had done, how we had been used without knowing, it broke my heart. But it also kind of made sense.
The Hucow girls of Havenmore were never treated quite the same as the human village girls. We were taught to smile and be polite. We were trained to be grateful for the smallest kindness, the bare minimum.
So, when they told us the truth, it didn’t feel like a terrible surprise. It felt like something I had always suspected, but had been too afraid to say aloud.
I still don’t know how I feel. Some days, I am so tired it feels like I am made of fog, or my chest feels tight and full of bees. But, as time passes, those days are fewer and farther between.
Maeve has always been the brave one, even if she doesn’t see it. She adjusted more quickly than either of us. Beatrice is still hurting in a way I do not know how to fix. I just try to give her space. I think that's all I can do right now.
She still misses Havenmoor. There’s sadness in her eyes whenever she talks about it.
She doesn’t cry anymore. Instead, she's angry. At the world, at Maeve and me, and sometimes at nothing in particular. She does laugh once in a while, even though I can tell it’s not entirely genuine. At least it’s progress.
I pull the curtains aside in my room, letting the last of the daylight seep in. My space is small and simple. There’s a cot, a wooden dresser, and a little table by the window where I set my basket of herbs. It’s not much, but it’s enough, and I’ve made it my own.
I decide to wash up before bed. Peeling off my gown, I shiver as the air licks my bare skin.
On my dressing table sits a small porcelain basin and a delicate pitcher filled with rosewater.
I pour it slowly, careful not to spill, watching the soft pink petals dance as they swirl in the bowl.
I start with my face, and the cool water kisses my cheeks, chasing away the warmth of the day.
Then, with a fresh cloth, I gently clean down my arms and neck, trying not to miss a single spot.
At last, I tend to my feet, always bare and carrying the dust of my day's wanderings.
I drag my fingers through my curls, wincing as they snag.
Aunt Hettie used to say my hair was like the brambles in the garden, wild and stubborn.
“No one will tame it, Annie-girl,” she’d sigh, tugging gently with the comb.
I wonder if Fenric thinks it’s messy. If he prefers smooth, golden waves like his own.
Stop it. He doesn’t think of you at all.
I open the little jar of honey balm and smooth it gently over my cheeks.
It makes my skin feel soft. Then, I take the lavender oil and press a drop to my wrists, before dabbing it on the hollow of my throat.
My reflection stares back at me from the small oval mirror I have hung on the wall.
I study my figure, how my waist dips in before flaring into generous hips.
The heavy swell of my breasts, my dark nipples that are pebbling in the evening chill.
My backside is full and ripe, the kind of curves bards write bawdy songs about.
I cross my arms over my chest as if that could hide what the Gods saw fit to give me, and turn away.
What does it matter? Fenric has probably bedded a dozen ladies more beautiful than me.
They probably don't have flesh that jiggles when they walk or thighs that whisper together with every step. He can’t possibly want some blushing farmgirl who startles at her own shadow.
I slip into my sleeping tunic and curl onto the bed. Knees drawn to my chest, I stare out at the quiet village, but my heart won’t still.
Because tomorrow is the tournament.
And Fenric asked me for my favor.
It doesn’t mean anything. I press my lips together, trying to smother the foolish hope rising inside me.
Maybe he only pitied me. Or worse, what if it was all a jest?
A cruel game where the others laugh later and I’m left standing alone, ribbons clutched in my trembling hands like some silly, lovestruck girl.
But…what if it wasn’t?
The thought steals my breath. What if, when he enters the ring tomorrow, my token is tied to his arm for all to see? And the whole village knows he chose me?
He won’t.
I bury my face in the pillow, squeezing my eyes shut. It’s foolish to ache like this, my stomach twisting, my thighs pressing together as if that could quiet the strange, restless heat low in my belly.
He's Fenric. And I'm just...me.
The thought should sting, but as I shift beneath the thin blankets, there's a traitorous warmth between my thighs. My fingers clutch at the sheets, twisting the fabric as I remember the way his golden eyes sparkled when he asked for my favor. His deep voice, his smile…
A whimper escapes before I can stop it. I push my legs together tightly, but the pressure only makes the ache worse. The linen of my nightdress rasps against my peaked nipples, making me squirm. I suddenly feel too hot and aware of every inch of my body.
I shouldn't…
But my hand is already sliding down my stomach. The first brush of fingertips against my bare skin sends a jolt through me. I'm drenched, slick heat coating my inner thighs.
“F-Fenric,” I whisper into the dark, testing how his name feels on my tongue.
My middle finger dips lower, circling my clit. A sharp gasp punches from my lungs. Stars. I've never— Oh —never touched myself here, not like this. The pleasure pulses through me, leaving me breathless.
“Even the birds stop to listen to you sing.”
The memory of his words makes my hips jerk. I imagine it's his calloused fingers teasing me open instead of my own, his broad body pinning me to the mattress, while his mouth whispers filthy praise against my neck.
“Please,” I beg the empty room.
Two fingers sink into my dripping core, and I bite my lip. Sweet Gods, it's a little uncomfortable, but the pain melts into mind-numbing pleasure as I curl them just so. My walls flutter desperately around the intrusion, greedy for more.
“That's it, little songbird,” Fenric's phantom voice growls in my ear. “Take what you need.”
My free hand goes to my breast, and my fingers tentatively circle the peaked nipple.
I gasp when I pinch, and a sudden bead of milk pearls at the tip.
The shock of it makes me whimper, but I don't stop.
My other hand moves faster between my thighs, fingers slick and desperate.
The sounds are shameful, but I can't bring myself to care.
I pull my nipple, another sweet sting, and more milk trickles in thin rivulets down my flushed skin.
“F-Fenric,” I moan. The dual sensations overwhelm me, the ache of my swollen breasts, the throbbing between my legs, until I'm writhing, back arched high off the bed, lost in a haze of pleasure so intense it hurts.
“Oh, Gods!” I sob as the orgasm rips through me, violent and all-consuming. Stars explode behind my eyelids, my core pulsing around my fingers as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over me.
When the last ripples of pleasure finally fade, I’m left breathless and trembling. My thighs clamp together tightly as if to hold onto the feeling. The sheets beneath me are rumpled, my nightdress clinging to my flushed skin.
Oh Stars.
I bury my burning face in the pillow. A proper maiden shouldn’t do such things. But, beneath the shame, something new and daring unfurls in my chest.
Because now I know what it feels like. And suddenly, I can’t stop wondering what it would be like if it were Fenric’s touch instead of my own.
The thought sends a fresh shiver down my spine. Would his calloused hands be gentle? Would his voice be rough in my ear as he coaxed these sounds from me? Would it feel even better?
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images won’t leave: Fenric above me, his gold eyes dark with wanting, his body covering mine. The fantasy makes my stomach flutter in a way that’s equal parts terrifying and thrilling.
As I curl into the blankets, my body still humming with satisfaction, one wish lingers.
I want to know.