Hilda let her feet dangle in the running water, enjoying the chill of it washing over her skin. With all the torches burning in the room, it was much too hot and stuffy. The clatter of coins sounded from behind her, followed by Marc’s grumbling. She looked over her shoulder to see him on his knees next to a fallen barrel scooping up handfuls of golden Harts from the ground. The chamber they were in was so far beneath the ground it felt like a tomb. A chest full of gold sat in one corner, two dozen empty barrels sat in the other and between them was a trough of water.

The only sound was the rushing of water at the bottom of the square hole Hilda dangled her legs into. She wondered what would happen if she just jumped. Would Marc dive in after? Would he even notice? Would James miss her?

The thought of her husband sent a spike of pain lancing through her heart, but she shook it off. Marc grunted as he lifted the heavy barrel and placed it into a trough of water. “God damn it,” he muttered as it sank to the bottom. He pulled it out of the trough and set about counting the gold coins as he removed them.

“I hate doing this.”

Hilda rolled her eyes. “Then learn to delegate.”

Marc grumbled under his breath some more. “I’m not trusting anyone with this much money at once.” He grunted as he heaved the barrel back into the trough. This time it bobbed to the top. Marc nodded in satisfaction before pulling it back out. He grabbed the barrel’s lid and hammered it in, making a water tight seal.

Marc took a moment to wipe away the sweat beading on his forehead before heaving the barrel back into the trough. He pushed it under the water, watching intently for air bubbles leaking out. “Oh, thank god.”

He hauled it back out of the water and set it on its side. A groan escaped his lips as he stretched his back. The sound of clattering coins echoed as he rolled the barrel toward her. He stopped the barrel next to the ledge and looked down into the rushing water below.

“We should throw a southerner down there sometime and see if he makes it to the other side in one piece.” He grinned. “That’d sure give the Forgers a nice surprise.”

He kicked the barrel over the edge and it splashed into the water, bobbing once before disappearing with the current.

“Just six more to go,” Hilda said.

Marc glared at her and went to fetch another barrel. As he rolled it to the chest he caught her eyes. “You could help, you know.”

“Fuck off Marc.”

“You can also leave. I’m not forcing you to stay here.”

Hilda frowned. She had nowhere else to go. She couldn’t go home. She didn’t think to grab money as she stormed out, so she couldn’t rent a room. She sure as shit wasn’t going to ask Marc for money. And it wasn’t hard to imagine what would happen to a lone woman living on the streets. So here she was, stuck watching Marc toss a fortune down a hole. And he damn well knew that.

“Why did you do it?” she asked.

“I’m paying for the last shipment of weapons.”

“Not that,” she spat, “Why did you tell James?”

He paused in his counting. “Why didn’t you?” he shot back.

“I didn’t tell him because I didn’t want to hurt him. You meant to.”

“I was upset.”

Hilda’s eyes widened. “You were upset? Did you see Lissa? Do you have any idea what you just did to my family?”

Marc let the coins in his hand fall back into the chest. “Don’t pin this all on me.” He turned to her. “Twenty years ago I thought he was dead, just the same as you. I was going to do my duty as his brother and take care of his wife. I didn’t expect it to become more than a duty. I’m sorry I told him but I’m not sorry it happened.”

Marc’s brow furrowed in anger. “I kept my peace for twenty years. Twenty years that you never told him. I didn’t force you into my bed.” He glanced at the mask on her hip. “Just as I didn’t force you to slit the throat of that boy all those years ago.” He looked her in the eyes. “I admit it. I betrayed him, but I never once lied to him.”

Hilda shook with anger and rose to her feet. “You’re so god-damned self-absorbed. Even now you’re making this about yourself. All that talk about fighting for the good of the people, serving justice, and getting revenge. It’s all just for your ego, Isn’t it?”

Marc’s visage darkened. “Don’t presume to know me, woman. I-”

“Don’t call me woman.”

Marc’s jaw tensed. “Hilda. I have given my entire life to this cause. Do not reduce the sacrifices of the men I’ve watched die. Do I like my position? You’re damn right I do. Who the fuck doesn’t like being in charge? Why the hell shouldn’t I be proud of what I’ve done? My father laid the foundation, but I built this.”

“Now, I’m sorry, but my brother’s feelings rate pretty fucking low on my list of concerns.” He turned away from her and returned to counting coins out of the chest.

Something warm dripped down Hilda’s fingers. It was only then that she felt the pain from her fingernails cutting into her clenched fists. She waited a long moment before speaking. “I made the mistake of trusting you for the last time.”

Marc tensed. She thought he would turn around, look at her, say something. Marc kept counting. That was what hurt most of all.

She left without another word.

***

She walked the streets, a maelstrom of fury and grief. And still she was beneath notice. The faceless crowd about her touched but never felt, looked but never saw, heard but never listened. As indifferent as they were self-important. Faces of stress, pain, anger, worry, and loss crowded her sight. Their suffering called to her like a sirens song. She was beneath notice in a faceless crowd, but she was not alone.

What she saw in the people around her was hunger. A desire for more, a thirst that could only be slaked with blood. The threat of violence hung heavy in the air, permeating through the city thicker than fog. Southerners wore hoods to hide their heritage, yet she knew them by the richness of their garb. Sons wore the clothes of the commons, but she knew them by the hate in their eyes.

Guards traveled in packs, seeking safety in numbers. They walked with confidence belied by the white of their knuckles. Their hands held their weapons like a king his crown. They watched the crowd with a singular expression. Fear. Green, Red, Venar, Thorne, it made little difference. Nervous eyes, shifting feet, hushed talk; weakness. She could almost smell it, taste the blood in the water. She hoped Marc died in the feeding.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Bastard.

Shouting sounded from ahead of her in the direction of the market. The pounding of boots followed. A squad of ten Greencloaks plowed through the crowd to her right. They disappeared and sounds of pain soon followed in the distance. In the hour she had been walking, this was the third incident. As she moved on, her foot fell into puddle. She looked down and saw she was leaving red footprints behind her.

The Inner City was disintegrating before her eyes. She’d be lying if she pretended it wasn’t satisfying. She snaked her way closer to the gates. Hilda could see the crosses in the distance. A dozen new victims had found their wings. She wondered what they did, if anything. She looked to her right down an alley. A pair of bodies sat in its mouth, collecting flies. The people around her ignored them. She passed without a second glance.

Worry increasingly gripped her. She wasn’t with her daughter, didn’t know if she was okay. She was sure Marc had men watching her but that was cold comfort. Men die all too easy these days. She passed the crosses, recognizing one of her patrons. The woman’s eyes followed her to the gate. Hilda passed the guards, feeling them look her up and down. A scowl creased her face.

Horns sounded from the castle. The whole city froze in a moment of utter silence. A brief mourning for those about to die. The city came back to life.

Hilda broke out into a run. She shoved the man in front of her to the ground and barreled past. Curses sounded behind her as she raced down the King’s road. Guards shouted for her to halt.

She supposed it looked suspicious, but she could think only of the rain. Hilda ran. Her heart pounded. She needed to get home. Alleys blurred at the edges of her vision, flashing by faster than she could count. An old fear stirred within her. Memories leaked through the tight wall she’d wrapped around them. The Sorrow of Rain.

It was the last thought she had. Something hooked her foot and she crashed into the ground. Pebbles on the road lodged into her flesh as she skidded. Footsteps approached. She struggled from the ground. Everything hurt. She wiped blood from her lips with a shaky hand.

A scream escaped her as a hand grabbed her by the leg and dragged her closer. She kicked with her free leg. It thumped hard against flesh, extracting pained grunt. The hand released her leg and she scrambled to her feet, trying to run, more afraid than ever.

She choked as the collar of her dress was snapped tight against her throat. Fabric ripped. She reached for her belt knife and drew it as she gave in to the force pulling her backwards. Hilda turned, knife in hand and stabbed with all her strength. The tip of her blade cut along a man’s throat.

His hand released her and slapped to the right side of his neck where blood squirted from between his fingers. There were three more staring at her in shock. She tried to run but they recovered too quickly. Hands grasped both of her arms. She struggled in their grip, but it was useless. The third man plucked the knife from her fingers.

The two holding her forced her into an alleyway and slammed her against its wall. Passersbys watched her struggle, watched the man holding his throat fall to his knees in the growing puddle of blood around his feet. Yet they did nothing. They pretended not to notice, just like she had.

She stopped struggling, realizing the futility of it. The man not holding her, grabbed her by the chin and turned her head to the left and right. “This Marc’s bitch?” he asked the others.

“Yeah I told you she lived over here. She was with him down under.”

The man holding her chin nodded and ran a finger down her lips. Revulsion welled in Hilda and she fought the men holding her. A hand slapped her face. She didn’t stop. It hit her again. She struggled. When it came again she bit the fingers, relishing the snap of bone and taste of iron. She let the men holding her carry her weight and lifted both feet. She kicked out with all her strength. Her boots slammed into the man’s chest with an audible snap. He crashed into the wooden wall behind him. The flimsy structure shuddered and groaned. Wood snapped and the whole building collapsed. Splinters flew and bits of wood rained down.

The men holding her tensed. She tried to break free. Fists slammed into her from both sides, beating her into the ground. the blows blasted the air from her lungs, cutting off her screams. She curled into a ball as they kicked her.

Hands grabbed her and dragged her deeper into the alley. Faces watched from the opening. Faces of stress, pain, anger, worry, and loss crowded her sight. Suffering was like a sirens song. She reached out to them. They turned from her.

The man she kicked into the shattered building wheezed as he rose to his feet. His hateful eyes turned to her as he followed them. Hilda felt too weak to fight, her entire body throbbing in pain. The men dragging her chucked her against a wall and left her sitting. The man she kicked knelt before her.

“Marc let my daughter be killed. I followed him to that square and watched my Kira die.” The man choked. His hand fell to the axe at his side. “Don’t worry too much. We need you alive to tell him he has no fucking right to decide who lives or dies. I can’t get to him myself and his little bitch of a niece is always surrounded by his men. But you.” He pulled at her dress. “You’ll do just fine.”

He began to tear at her clothes. When she struggled, the other two held her down. A groan sounded from deeper in the alley. The man paused his pawing at her chest to glance in its direction. Hilda followed his gaze. A balding man with bug eyes and grey stubble shifted on the ground. Vomit crusted his black woolen jacket and dried blood caked the side of his face.

As he rose to his knees, his eyes locked onto Hilda. His eyes hardened as he stood. “Enough.” His voice was strong, and commanding, at odds with his appearance. His hand rested on the head of the axe at his hip. Its edge was coated in red.

The man tearing at her clothes laughed and stood. “Go home and sleep it off. No need to get yourself involved here.”

The newcomer pulled his axe from his belt. “I thought I told ye to sod off boy.”

One of the men by Hilda spoke up. “We’re getting back at Marc for-”

“I fewking heard ye the first time. If ye want vengeance, then ye should know I helped hang them.”

Her attacker drew his axe and his friends followed suit. “You looking to die?”

The man didn’t answer.

Hilda mustered her strength and tackled the legs of the man nearest her. He fell with a cry, smacking his head into the dirt. She scrambled up his back as he thrashed under her. She wrapped her hands around his face and dug her fingers into his eyes. They caved with a wet pop. His screams drowned out the struggle of the other three men. He shook under her and she dug deeper into his skull until he fell limp beneath her. Hilda forced her eyes closed, unable to handle any more.

She heard the swoosh of axes through the air, the sickening crack of bone, the dull thump of fists. Violence echoed in the confines of the alley. Boots scraped against the dirt. One man fell to the ground. The sounds of choking. Then silence.

Hilda opened her eyes. The man from the alley straddled the man she had kicked, his hands wrapped around his throat. Fresh blood speckled his face, likely from the man lying face down with an axe wedged in his neck. The bug-eyed man rose to his feet on shaky legs, his victim’s shaking stilled forever. He walked toward her. She flinched as he reached out to her.

With surprising gentleness, he pulled her fingers from the man’s eye sockets. Hilda gasped for breath, finding it hard to breathe. She scooted back against the wall of the alley and pulled at the torn fabric of her dress, trying to keep out the chill that already numbed her skin.

The man took his jacket off and offered it to her. She shook her head. He shrugged and placed it in front of her. Then he fell to the ground at her side, leaning against the wall.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“Sorry that men are beasts.”

Hilda shivered. “Thanks for being decent. You got a name?”

He nodded. “Ye can call me Billy.”

“Hilda.” She paused. “Were you actually at the executions?”

He didn’t answer.

“I’m Sorry-”

He interrupted her. “Aye, I was there. Yesterday was the day I lost me faith in the Thorne name. Came here looking for a fitting end to an old soldier.” He turned to her. “Unfortunately, all the boys out here are fewking milksops.”

Hilda curled her legs to her chest, breath frosting in the air. She turned to look at the man next to her. She recognized the look in his eyes. It was a mirror of her husband when he first came home. The look of a man broken by circumstance. The thought of Lissa called to her but she couldn’t turn her back on him.

Her skin crawled at the touch, but she forced herself to place her hand on his. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Sorry this is a world of beasts.”

He grinned humorlessly, revealing shattered teeth that more resembled fangs. “Aye, lass. So am I,” he said, “Can I help ye get home?”

Hilda frowned. “I don’t have one,” she whispered. The cold overcame her, and she put on Billy’s coat. She put her hand back on his.

Billy paused a long moment. “What about that Marc fellow they mentioned?”

She scowled. “Don’t remind me.” She tried to pull her hand away, but he grabbed her. A shot of fear ran down her spine.

“They said he has the power over life and death. Sounds like an important bastard. I’d like to meet him.”

Hilda paled. “What do you want?”

Billy’s eyes took on an intensity few men could match. “A soldier never retires he only drowns. Drink or blood.” He paused. “Or memories.”