“Sareem, Sareem, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She placed a hand on the cheek that wasn’t crushed and oozing. “I...” She hiccupped, snot dripping from her nose. “I didn’t want this. Oh, Mother, I-I-I’ll never keep anything from you again, Sareem. See, see I came, so wake up now, Sareem. Please, please.” Her stomach hurt from her sobbing and her shoulders ached, as though all the nightmares that she had endured threatened to tear apart her body. Vhalla leaned back on her feet, not caring who or what else she sat on, and stared hopelessly back at Aldrik.

“Aldrik, how do I save him?” she asked, tears staining her soot-covered cheeks.

“Vhalla...” he said faintly, taking a step closer.

“How do I save him?” She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.

“You can’t do that.” He shook his head. There was a sorrowful kindness under each word.

“I saved you.” She took a shaky breath. “How do I save him?”

“It doesn’t work that way.” He knelt down next to her, putting a hand on her back. “You can’t fix this.”

“Then why have magic?” she screamed at the prince as her tears forced their way out again. Aldrik spread his fingers across her back.

“Because,” he said very softly, his voice strained and tense. Aldrik glanced over his shoulder, careful to move only his eyes and not his whole head. “You need to get down.”

Vhalla hiccupped. As the words registered in her brain as not making any sense his hand was pushing her down forcefully into the bloody carnage of her friend. Aldrik ducked too as a quiet swoosh cut through the air above their heads.

He pushed off her back and spun upward, his hands alive with fire and Vhalla heard a woman’s laugh.

VHALLA TURNED TO look at their attacker. The silver embellishments on the woman’s arms glittered in the firelight. She wore base leather armor overlaid with a strange piece of clothing over her shoulders and chest, like a rectangular pennon with a hole cut in the center for the head. Embroidered upon it was a foreign script that Vhalla had never seen before. At the woman’s waist was a large belt, an empty sword sheath hanging off of it.

“Well, well, this makes things easy,” the woman spoke, her voice barely audible from behind the faceless mask. If the green skin wasn’t enough, the attacker’s accent was proof that she was one of the jugglers. “I never expected the mighty Crown Prince Aldrik to come running all by his lonesome. It’s too noble for the man who torches babes in their beds.”

The woman rounded them slightly. To the couple’s backs were piles of rubble, to their side was an inferno, and before them was a sword-wielding Northerner. Vhalla knew nothing of combat, yet she was able to see that they were not in a good position.

Aldrik was silent. He stood straight and tense, his hands clenched in fists, fire crackling and hissing around them. It trailed up his arms and singed the bottoms of his rolled sleeves.

“Vhalla,” the prince said roughly. The other woman raised her eyebrow and glanced over to her. “Go, get out of here.”

“What about Roan?” she asked weakly.

“Go, that is an order.” Even though flames raged around her, Vhalla suddenly felt cold.

“It’s rude to leave a party early,” the woman chimed in.

“Here I was merely trying to spare you the embarrassment of dying a pathetic death with an audience,” Aldrik lashed out.

The woman growled and lunged.

Aldrik stepped to the side, the Northerner ducked below his flaming punch and twisted, shifting her weight to bring her sword up. Aldrik jumped back, the tip of the blade missing him by a hair’s breath. She pursued with a back-handed slash, targeting his opposite shoulder. Aldrik spun around her side, grabbing the arm holding the weapon. Flames burned brightly, licking up the woman’s skin.

At first, Vhalla thought her immune to the flame. But as she watched the flesh changed color before her eyes, it dawned on her that the green color was actually a fire-resistant paint. She stared in shock as the woman’s mask was thrown off during a vigorous spin to land a sword hit into Aldrik’s side. He cried out, losing his balance and stumbling. Vhalla struggled to find her feet and escape the rubble.

“Vhalla, go!” he grunted.

As the woman raised her sword arm again, Aldrik reached up and grabbed the dark bare skin with his hands. Fire seared across her flesh and she cried out as it began to ripple and bubble under the heat. Her agony rose to a torturous scream unimpeded by any mask, and she dropped the sword. She twisted and fought with her free hand, but Aldrik held fast.

He stood slowly and released his right hand from her arm, which had almost burned away to the bone. Taking advantage of her shocked state, Aldrik pressed his palm to the woman’s face and her body seized. It jerked and contorted as flames licked around her eyes, boiling them in their sockets. Her throat swelled with the internal blaze, and she finally went limp. Aldrik tossed the charred corpse aside and looked to Vhalla.

Vhalla stared on in horror, her hands were over her ears, trying to block out the echo of the Northerner’s last desperate noises before death. She stared at the charred corpse. That was what they were fighting in the North? Certainly her skin had been slightly darker than a Westerner’s, and her hair curlier than a Southerner’s. But she had been human. She had been no more or less than Vhalla, and Aldrik had killed her.

Her eyes swung up to the man who had both saved her life and burnt a person alive. He had killed this woman and countless others. Aldrik took a step forward, and Vhalla took a step back. She swallowed. Why were they fighting these people at all?

Aldrik laughed darkly. “What did you think I was?” he snarled. “Did you think I went to war and read books?” Vhalla took another step back. “You ran head-first into my daily hell. Would it not be more convenient if weapons of death and torture could not talk back?” Vhalla forced herself not to tremble as she looked at him. He glared at her; the orange of the fire reflecting in the black mirrors of his eyes.

With all the bravery she possessed, Vhalla crossed the distance between them; he straightened and looked down at her, imposing. Vhalla swallowed hard and tried to muster her last scrap of confidence. There would be time later to ask him about the real reasons behind the war. For now, they needed to go home.

She grabbed his hand, praying it didn’t burst into flames at her touch. It didn’t.

“Quit being stupid, Aldrik. Let’s go.” His features barely softened, but it was more than enough to know she had made herself clear. Whatever this man was, he wasn’t a monster. Vhalla took a step back, turning to grab Roan and start the gory trek home.

With stunning clarity, she heard the distinct twang of a bowstring piercing the air. Vhalla moved instinctively in front of her prince.

She screamed a noise worse than any she had never made before as the arrow pierced her shoulder.

“Vhalla!” he roared as she fell to her knees.

She gasped for air, she gasped to make a sound. The pain seared through every nerve in her body, across every synapse in her mind. It seized her muscles and forced her to blink dizzying blackness from the edges of her sight. His hands were supporting her but his attention was elsewhere. Vhalla turned her head to try to see what he saw. But when she caught sight of the arrow sticking out of her body she instantly struggled with consciousness.

“My, isn’t this charming?” Vhalla tilted her head over her other shoulder to see the source of the voice. Her vision was becoming tunneled and she willed her eyes to focus.

There were three of them.

“It’s the jugglers,” she murmured.