Rand

"The Amity of Lost Saints would like to make one thing abundantly clear: we do not align ourselves with the radical group calling themselves the Consecrated. They are a dangerous and violent off-shoot that should absolutely be steered clear from." — from an official notice penned by Father Bertram

~~~

Rand sat on a boulder, head tilted back to observe the stars through the canopy of birch trees. Frey, the bright northern star, continued to move swiftly toward the constellation Fynla made of five stars forming a perfect circle in the inky black. The constellation of the new moon.

I told them, Rand thought, pure elation causing a grin to split his tanned, sallow face. I told them all and they didn't believe me. Now they will writhe in righteous judgment for their willful indifference.

He shut his eyes and lifted his dirty palms to the skies in thanks. Not that his faith had ever wavered, but the sign sent to him the other night had been a welcome encouragement. A burst of radiant light from inside the abandoned monastery. He had seen it from afar, like the light of a midday sun cutting through the dark. A good omen. A divine signal that he was on the right path.

Confirmation that Saint Orla was, indeed, on the cusp of her return. The Hastening was upon them.

They sacrificed another fair-haired maiden they found foraging around the borders of Stonefarrow. Even now, her blood dripped from their altar into the loam, an offering of hastening. He hoped Saint Orla would be pleased with their gift. That it would secure her grace and favor.

Not that he was worried. If anyone deserved divine favor, it was him and his devoted ones. They would do anything for the saints. They had set themselves apart, inking their zeal into their foreheads.

A war cry rose up from his camp. Rand rose calmly, pulling his axes from his belt, and stalked with long strides through the darkness.

He found the camp under attack by a white fell wolf. These monsters were common in the northern parts. The size of horses, they had deadly jaws and paws that could kill in one swipe.

The wolf was probably drawn in by the scent of blood from their sacrifice. Holy blood. He would be damned if a cursed beast feasted on it.

His people fought with a calculated, ruthless ferocity. Unafraid. This was part of their life, living set apart in the wilderness. Facing the beasts was yet another way they proved themselves worthy.

The white wolf sunk its teeth into Nesta's neck and picked her off the ground, thrashing her violently before tossing her aside. Her limp body hit a tree and her spine crunched.

Rand sneered and raised his axes, barreling toward the monster. With a cry he lodged one ax into the side of its neck, then kept his hold on the handle as he swung himself up and onto its back. Edrin and Romulus hacked at its legs just as Rand lodged his second ax deep into the wolf's skull. Eyes rolling back, the monster's legs gave out under its body and it collapsed in a heavy heap.

Rand jumped from the wolf with poise, face splattered with black blood. All of them, breathing heavily, walked over to where Nesta's body lay crumpled, blood seeping from her neck. None of them wept. None of them grieved. The saints had decreed that she would die before seeing the glory of their return. Such was their will and so be it.Nesta's glossy, blood-shot eyes were wide open to the sky. Rand tilted his head to follow the dead gaze.It was fixed on Frey, the bright star. Shining like a topaz stone in a vast sea of darkness.

~~~

Thorvald

"I know you will be a good leader, my son. Better even than me. You are a steadfast defender." — from a letter penned by Erik Irontooth, Jarl of Vlaskafell, before his death

~~~

The cold wind numbed Thorvald's skin, sending snow to sting his face and stick thick to his beard and lashes, but he didn't feel a thing. He spurred his horse on through the mountain pass. He had to find out. He had to know.

Thorvald brought only two people for this journey— Ulrick, leader of his guard, and Ingrid, a soothsayer. They rode on either side of him, not complaining about the harsh weather. He was thankful to have such hardy people in his corner. He was every bit loyal to them as they were to him.

The tall cliffs on either side of them eventually tapered off, giving way to a mist-cloaked valley. Thorvald had never set foot anywhere near here. He knew better than to trod on cursed ground, but he couldn't accept what he'd heard without looking into it. It wasn't in his nature. He owed Princess Briar this much.

Ingrid's magic was protecting them, anyway. She hung yarrow and bones of Siga around their necks. No, he wasn't afraid. He was in an ill-humor. And that wasn't in his nature either.

They followed the rocky path down until it led them to a bridge guarded by standing stones inlaid with gems. "The ward," Ingrid said, reverence in her voice.

Thorvald could feel it. The air was like syrup.

Beyond the bridge, through the curtain of snow, he could make out the vague shapes of simple houses, but he saw no living souls.

Thorvald cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "I would like to speak with the leader of this valley."

They waited, straining their ears against the shrieking wind. No one emerged from the mist.

Thorvald looked at Ingrid. Beads, bones, and dried flowers hung from her body and were woven tight into her flaxen braids, ensuring her power and protection. Her frost blue eyes glinted as she gave him a single nod. Tattooed fingers releasing the reigns, she slipped from the saddle, barely making a sound as her brown boots hit the frozen ground. She always seemed part figment to him. Like she physically had one foot in the world of the spirits. She was like smoke, like the mist all around them. Thorvald had been friends with her for many years and trusted her completely, but he always harbored a little fear toward her. Reverent fear. Like she could strike him dead at her whim and be perfectly justified in doing so.

The two men watched her go through the ward and over the bridge without so much as a shudder. Thorvald sent a prayer to the Fates that all would go well, that the werewolves would cooperate.

Thorvald gave Ulrick a sidelong glance and the man thinned his lips somberly. He would have preferred an encouraging smile, but smiles of any kind were rare with Ulrick.

He imagined spotting Briar walking down the path. Her gold hair would be striking even in this dull gray light. It had always reminded him of rippling sunbeams. The kind of sun that cut through the dead of winter.

It felt like a hundred years before Ingrid emerged from the mist, followed by a tall man. He walked slowly, keeping a wide berth between them as he eyed her warily.

Ingrid slipped back through the ward like it was nothing, eyes meeting Thorvald as he did so. "His name is Jack," she said quietly before climbing back into her saddle.

Jack stopped before the bridge. He was clad in a coat of sewn animal skins, the hood trimmed with brown fur. His tanned face was layered with scars. Thorvald was struck by how weary he looked.

"What do you people want?" the werewolf leader demanded.

Thorvald bowed his head and placed one fist over his heart in greeting. "I appreciate you coming to talk with me, Jack. I am Jarl Thorvald of Vlaskafell."

"I don't care who you are," Jack said, eyes narrowing. "What business do you have with us?"

"I am wondering if the princess is here," Thorvald explained. "Princess Briar."J

ack paused for a moment. His thick brows came together. "Who?"

Thorvald exchanged a look with Ulrick and Ingrid. "The princess of Oloria was never sent here?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jack said, shaking his head. "No one by that name lives here, royalty or not."

It's just as I feared, Thorvald thought, clenching his jaw. Leith is a lying bastard.

Anger broiled in his chest. He cast his eyes to the snowy pine forest past the village.

Where was his bride?

If Leith had done something to her, there would be hell to pay.