She needed answers.

THE LINE FOR hopefuls seeking an audience with Lord Ophain was long, wrapping around the center of the Crossroads and snaking down the main market and out of sight. Vhalla wondered how many people Lord Ophain could possibly see in one day. She watched the steady flow of people entering and leaving the lavish hotel, which had a front dominated by three large, circular windows.

It reminded her of the day her father had brought her to the palace seeking to trade his place in the Palace Guard following the War of the Crystal Caverns for an apprenticeship for his daughter. That day, Vhalla had felt much the same as the commoners’ faces appeared now as they anticipated meeting the Lord of the West: excited, hopeful, and enthralled with avid anticipation. She slid down the lamppost to sit on the base, kicking it lightly with her heels.

She was older now, more versed in the world. Lord Ophain’s advisors were hard at work prepping every person. By the time people were brought before the Ophain, he’d already been told what his council thought the best decision was and echoed it after the person had their moment to speak. Leadership, Vhalla had learned, was about illusions. The people were happy because they felt their voice was heard by their lord, but their fate was decided before they even stepped foot in the same room as he.

She’d come with the mission of asking questions, but now Vhalla wasn’t sure how she’d go about it. Certainly, she could just stroll in, and he’d make time for her. She was Vhalla Yarl, Duchess in the West, Lady of the Southern Court, Hero of the North, and the Windwalker. Her name had become such an unnecessary mouthful.

But doing so would draw attention to herself. It would shed the thin veil of anonymity that she’d attempted to don by coming West rather than the East or South. Beyond that, her questions weren’t going to have short answers, which would mean she’d take time from all the excited Westerners who were patiently waiting their turn.

The sun drifted lazily through the sky and finally forced Vhalla off her perch, but it wasn’t enough to deter the determined people out of their place in line. Vhalla found a shaded nook and adjusted her satchel. It made a soft clinking sound as she sat. Vhalla scowled at the gold as she pulled her notebook from the bag.

She had discovered that by raising her to ladyship, Aldrik had gifted her an incomprehensible quantity of wealth. They didn’t even bother counting how much gold she took out from the Imperial Bank; she had enough for ten lifetimes. Her fingers ghosted over the black notebook she’d been using to keep her records of Aldrik’s memories and histories.

What was she doing?

The question crept upon her regularly. She had severed ties with everything and everyone that had brought her to the North. She would always hold the friends she had made along the way dear to her heart, but she had come into so much coin that she could go back East and rebuild her family’s home, make sure they had enough hands to help her father and his aging joints with the harvest every year, with still enough left over to never worry about drought or blight. She had enough to buy a ship and sail away. She had the option to go anywhere and do anything she wanted now. She didn’t have to return South.

Vhalla stood.

The one place she wanted to go was to the place she could no longer be. It was a place surrounded by lies and treachery. It was a place so warm that even the heat of the Waste’s sun would seem cold in comparison.

The Crossroads had become quiet with the afternoon heat. Fewer people were being taken inside and fewer new folk were willing to line up in the sun to wait.

Aware of this, a well-dressed nobleman walked to the center of the square before the hotel, tapping a cane on the ground for attention. “The Lord Ophain has taken to rest out the midday heat. Audiences will resume in the evening.” The man tapped his cane again over the disapproving mumbling that ripped through the crowd. “Do not hold the line, we will form a new system upon your return.”

Vhalla watched as the people begrudgingly gave up their coveted spots. She wondered how many would come back and how they would be re-sorted. Many seemed discouraged enough that she’d bet they wouldn’t return. She overheard speculation that the Lord of the West was likely done for the day.

Realizing this was her opportunity, she strolled over to the hotel, easing past the few guards and excusing herself up the steps. No one questioned her in the small shuffle of the last nobles leaving. A group went out, and Vhalla slipped in.

It only took a moment to figure out which room the lord was in. His voice made the walls hum with its velvety tones.

“Excuse me,” hotel staff stopped her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I am here for an audience with Lord Ophain,” Vhalla stated imperiously, like a noble would. It was a mantle that didn’t quite fit.

“He’s in the middle of a conversation right now. You should come back later with everyone else.” The woman looked Vhalla up and down.

“He’ll want to talk to me. I suspect I outrank the man he’s talking with now.”

“Do you?” she was skeptical. But not so skeptical to ignore the fact that if Vhalla’s words were true, she’d need to defer to the higher ranked guest. “What is your title?”

“Duchess of the West,” Vhalla replied, using the title Lord Ophain had placed upon her.

The woman paused a moment, trying to process why a non-Westerner would have such a title. She squinted and leaned slightly to get a better look at Vhalla’s face under her hood. The woman’s eyes went wide in surprise. “You must be . . . You’re—”