"You cannot mend what's broken with false promises and pretty words," I retort, my grip tightening on the dagger that rests at my hip. "You claim to be a man now; then prove it to me."
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Stjarna is a passionate Dane woman born during a ra...
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Once again I sit upon the scratchy surface that I have claimed as my bed. I rest against the far wall of my cell, savouring the coolness of the stone beneath my aching back before sinking to lay down.
Drip, drip, drip.
An unknown brown liquid spills from the damp ceiling above, creating an intolerable song amongst the silence in my cellar. My fingers twirl absentmindedly at the bundles of hay and hair under the torn, fur-lined blanket that is intended to keep me from freezing during the harsh night. As if that will do anything. I'm surprised it's even lasted me this long.
My attention is drawn quickly to the sound of locks unclasping against stone. The scratching sound comes as more of a surprise this time though, considering I did not hear the usual hardness of footsteps or barrels of laughter that generally come first.
I sit up quickly, eyes fixating to the stone of the door.
"How many times can I possibly be summoned in one fucking day!" I yell in its direction, hoping to deter whoever had come to no doubt disturb my solitude. I do not stand but instead I decide to lounge back again into the meagre bed, my head propped up by a hand. A subtle act of defiance.
They could pry my cold, dead corpse from the hay before I'd be taken to Eiríkr one more time tonight.
The stone groans as the door opens slower than usual. The quietness of the room creates an unsettling feeling in my stomach. Shadows pool in from all directions as a dark silhouette enters the chamber. A large form emerges abruptl--Now I see him.
Uhtred's little bitch.
In the flickering candlelight his features are illuminated. Shadows cast across his fair complexion and soak into the darkness of his thick onyx hair. It's different now—longer and flowing freely over his forehead and down the back of his skull. Silver rings are still framing intricate designs woven through his hair. As he steps into view, I'm drawn to the tattoo spanning from his skull to his neck on his right, a mark I had almost forgotten in the passage of time. With a sharp intake of breath, I recognise him for who he truly is--the man whose actions shattered my hopes of freedom, an enemy whose enigmatic presence has haunted me for years.
