Dyla sighed, staring up at the portrait. Bryn’d had it commissioned when Lyra had come back from Taka.

The Bear, large enough to almost be the backdrop, gazed piercingly from the painting, his huge arm holding Dyla close. The twins sat at their sides, Lyra looking as sharp and unpredictable as ever, her legs and arms crossed and her straight braid hanging over the back of the chair as her green eyes daring the viewer to question her place. Fenrin too had his arms crossed but in a more jovial, cocky way. His trademark wolfish grin on his face, narrowing his grey eyes. His hair hung to his shoulders, thick and wild.

It was quite the family.

Dyla knew she'd failed as a mother, but she also knew she'd never planned for motherhood. From the day she had met Bryn, that was all she lived for. He had swept her up from a fate worse than death and his intense lifestyle and personality had obliterated her past life and left her changed. He had a way of sifting the strong from the weak and she loved him for it.

She loved her children. When they were in pain, she ached, when they were happy she felt joy. But she had chosen Bryn over them, ignoring her job to be their advocate and leaving them to fend for themselves in the maelstrom that was life with Bryn. For that, her children would never forgive her, especially Lyra.

Nevertheless, they were all together. Finally. For not the first time, Dyla questioned her decision to stay home alone this summer. She wanted to trust her daughter. Lyra had been up to her old tricks and although Bryn was determined he was right and thus any other theory was wrong, Dyla wanted to hear Lyra out.

Dyla herself had no place in the power struggle, she was not one of the heads of the ever growing beast that was Bryn's kingdom. So even though she didn't try to convince Bryn to change his mind, she stayed behind to learn from Ulris and Harold what Lyra had been up to.

Lyra wouldn't speak to her but Dyla knew her daughter well enough to put the pieces together. Her daughter was good at her job. Her husband was strong and clever, but politics had never been his strong suit and besides...Bryn was getting old.

It was not something anyone would dare say aloud, or even suggest when alone. By all appearances and actions, Bryn was as strong and capable as ever, even if his hair had gone grey. The Brryn Grey-bear was what he was called, but it was with the same fear, if not more.

But Dyla knew. She saw the dimming in his eyes, the almost imperceivable slowing of his spirit and limbs. Most importantly, his drive was disappearing.

The fire that burned inside, pushing him to explore and to challenge himself was growing tame. The easy way was tempting now. He carried on as if nothing had changed, but Dyla knew it was only a matter of time before things started to slip—and in Bryn's word that meant death.

Dyla was growing old too, but more in mind than in body. She was only forty-six, but she felt so very tired. Bryn moved through life at a breakneck pace and she did not have the same almost inhuman endurance of her husband. She found herself pondering death more and more often these days. Wondering how it would all end. How she and Bryn, wanted it to end.

Although it was never verbally acknowledged between them, Dyla and Bryn both knew he had lost his path years ago. What had begun as a man against nature, wandering and testing his strength, had become a man carving out a country and fighting with other men to keep it. It wasn't true to Bryn's solitary spirit and she suspected that when Bryn sensed the time was nearing, he would take Dyla and leave for good so they could die together in the wilds.

He would leave his legacy in the eyes of men to their children, which is why she had left them alone to work it out. Especially with the wars over and the Jarl's looking more close to home for their conquests and Lyra's suspicions...

"Lady Dyla, dinner is ready."

"Thank you, Ulris."

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The old man bowed, he had developed a hunch over the years and though he never said anything, Dyla knew his eyesight was rapidly fading. Although most of the work had been passed to other servants, Ulris made sure to personally attend to the family's needs.

Ulris pulled her chair out for her and she sat down to eat. He rambled on about the affairs of the house and she only half-listened, still caught up in her own reminiscing.

She was just finishing when there was a ruckus near the front of the house. Ulris bowed and began for the door. "Excuse me."

It burst open and a swarm of soldiers entered, a crossbowmen shooting a bolt into Ulris' chest. Dyla stood and watched in shock as the steward’s form crumpled to the ground. She quickly ducked under the table, snatching one of the dinner knives on the way down.

"Lady Dyla. Come out, we have much to speak about."

She forced herself to calm down, her heart slowing and her face settling into a cold mask. She knew that voice. Slowly, she stood back up and sat in her chair, smoothing her dress.

The men had evenly dispersed themselves around the large dining hall. About two dozen, all in uniforms matching the resplendent robes of the man sitting a few seats down at the table. Jarl Hurson.

Not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction to his grand entrance, Dyla waited for Jarl Hurson to explain himself. His smile wavered for a moment at the awkward silence, but he soon carried on, "It's been a while. It seems every time I mean to come pay this estate a visit, some war or another crops up. Or my trade routes are ravaged or my allies send for my assistance. It's really quite a shame this has been delayed for so long."

"A Jarl's work is never done it seems."

"Yes, it is very hard to find the time to go hunting."

Dyla stood up. "I tire of this conversation. What are you doing here? I wouldn't have pegged you for a man who wished for death."

The crossbowmen aimed for Dyla, but Hurson held up a hand. "Sit down and tell me where your husband is."

Dyla did not sit down. Jarl Hurson was a fairly clever man. He knew Bryn wandered and he knew that it was never planned. The only person who could guess his habits well enough to be able to tell where he was at any given time was Dyla.

"He is out hunting."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

Jarl Hurson stood and walked over to Dyla. "When my spies reported that you were here, I'd assumed the Bear would be too. It cost me greatly to convince the king to let me enter another Jarldom to track him down so to find him absent has left me in bad temper. So, think carefully and tell me where he is. I am sure you know."

"Of course I know." She whipped the knife up, aiming for the Jarl's throat.

He stopped her wrist, grabbed her shoulder and slammed her into the chair. It fell down alongside her with a loud crash. Hurson nodded to two men and they picked her up, holding her arms as she thrashed against them. He grabbed her chin.

"Where. Is. he?"

"Get out of my house."

He backhanded her, his large ring cutting her face.

Dyla's heart sank. She could feel death approach like a shadow reaching across the mountains as the sun set. She didn't want to die alone. She should be with Bryn, but this was it. All she could do was die fighting the way she would if she was with him. Fighting.

She let herself drop and as the men adjusted their grips she lurched to the side, biting the man on the right's arm. He loosened enough for her to wrench her arm free and claw at the other man’s face. Four thin lines oozed blood before he could catch her other arm.

Dyla kicked one man in the stomach, but before she could do anything else, they held her straight and Hurson punched her in the gut. The soldiers let her collapse to the floor and she coughed, blood speckling the stone.

Hurson knelt. "I'm going to find him anyway. If you tell me, I'll take you with me and you can die together."

It was a tempting offer, but one Dyla didn't even consider. She looked up, her green eyes flashing like witch fire. "You can never kill Bryn, you are nothing."

Tyrik Hurson looked at Dyla's face, felt her eyes boring into him, staring him down like she was an empress authorizing his execution. For a moment, he felt very afraid, like he had opened the door to something horrible.

Then his pride returned and he drew a dagger and plunged it into Dyla's breast. She closed her eyes and, as he pulled the dagger free, she let out an airy gasp and fell to the floor.

The Jarl stood up and wiped the blade on the table cloth. "Move out. This is a dead end, he won't be back until winter. Loot the place, we're leaving."

The men filed out. Dyla gave one last shuddering breath before she shut her eyes, Bryn's name on her lips as she died.