“Who knows?” Gianna shrugged. “I doubt it was even real to begin with. King Jadar is quite the legend in his own right.”

Vhalla pursed her lips, a physical reminder to keep silent. Gianna was as proud as most Westerners she’d ever met. While she was fairly forward-thinking, enough so to not harbor any hate toward Vhalla as a Windwalker, Vhalla didn’t want to push the woman’s kindness by speaking ill of the infamous Western king.

“What happened to the Knight’s rebellion?” Vhalla asked.

“I assume they tired of it.” Gianna clearly had not given it much thought. “After the death of our princess, no one in the West thought much about anything for a while.”

Gianna didn’t speak of the Knights again after that, and Vhalla didn’t ask. She did, however, return the next morning to The Knights’ Code, scouring for any mention of a sword, of the will of Jadar, anything. Two days of tedious translations yielded nothing other than rankling her fraying nerves.

“Gianna,” Vhalla called and stood. The woman appeared from upstairs. “We’re running low on ink. I’m going to buy more.”

“I’ll give you coin.”

“No need.” Vhalla shook her head, grabbing her bag off a peg from behind the desk.

“You could at least let me pay you.” Gianna placed her hands on her hips. “You’ve worked for weeks.”

“I have gold.” Vhalla patted her bag. “And I used all the ink for personal reasons.”

“Can’t argue with either,” Gianna said lightly.

Vhalla slipped out of the store and onto the dusty street, adjusting her hood to hide her Eastern brown hair. It was average by many Eastern standards, but practically golden compared to the black hair of Westerners. The Crossroads held all peoples, sizes, and shapes. But the past few times Vhalla had been to the market she was beginning to notice more soldiers returning home from the warfront, and the last thing she wanted to be was recognized.

Sidestepping around carts and tiptoeing over bile from the prior night’s revelries, Vhalla made her way to the main markets. Pennons fluttered overhead, and Vhalla made it a point to ignore them. For every two of the West, there was one of the Empire. And for every two of the Empire, there was one black pennon bearing a silver wing—a silver wing that matched the one on the watch around her neck, a silver wing that had somehow become synonymous with the Windwalker.

Stories travelled as fast as the wind, and Vhalla had listened in on conversation after conversation about the Windwalker. A woman given shape on the Night of Fire and Wind, partly her own air, partly flames of the crown prince. A woman who brought Shaldan to its knees and made fire rain from the sky during the North’s last stand.

It was fascinating to Vhalla. She had learned long ago that rumors and reputation could be crafted as easily as armor. But underneath it all, she was still very mortal. A mortal who bled if she was cut too deep, a mortal afflicted with life’s great curse: death.

“Are you closing shop?” Vhalla arrived at her preferred sundries store, only to find the owner locking the door.

“For the day.” The man nodded, recognizing one of his common patrons.

“May I get ink?”

“I’m afraid it’s already late—”

“Two silver for it,” Vhalla interjected.

The man’s keys paused in the lock before turning the opposite direction. “Be quick about it.”

That wasn’t hard. Vhalla knew exactly where his writing supplies were stored and raided them liberally. Within a minute, her bag was two ink blocks heavier and two silver coins lighter.

“Why are you closing so early?” Vhalla hovered, curiosity getting the better of her.

“You haven’t heard?”

Vhalla shook her head no.

“Lord Ci’Dan is coming ahead of the Imperial army. He’ll be holding audiences open to the public.” The man started toward the center of the Crossroads, and Vhalla fell into step alongside him. He eyed her up and down, taking an extra step ahead. “But nobles will be given priority, then land owners, then merchants, then Westerners . . .” The man accounted for her brown eyes. “I doubt there will be time for others.”

Vhalla’s lips twitched with the makings of a smirk. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t cut your place or try to go against convention.”

She walked with the merchant. Soon, they walked alongside half the Crossroads as the masses poured into the sunlight at the center of the world. Vhalla adjusted her scarf once more and found a perch atop one of the pedestals bearing a lamppost. She waited with the rest of the crowd, and then watched as a group of nobles trotted in to all the cries and the pomp and circumstance the Crossroads could muster.

Atop the largest War-strider was a man with short-cut black hair, graying at the ears, and a closely cropped beard along his chin. He was an older image of a royal she knew well; the family resemblance between him and Aldrik was uncanny. Vhalla gripped the lamppost tighter, the only one not screaming the Ci’Dan name.

Aldrik had told her to seek out his uncle if he died in the North because he trusted the man to see to her well-being. Aldrik had told her she would be safer with his uncle than anyone else because Lord Ophain knew the movements of the Knights of Jadar. Her chest ached at the memory, but Vhalla ignored the pain. She needed to know if it was true.