“Let’s not say any more.” Vhalla held up a hand with a smile. “I would very much like an audience.”

“Of course, of course!” The woman ran off.

Vhalla adjusted her scarf carefully. She liked it when people had to bend over to see her eyes; it meant she knew when she was being identified—one perk of being shorter than most people. Her hands paused on the scarf as a major was led out of the room. Vhalla’s jaw went taut, and howling wind filled her ears.

Major Schnurr was most known for his moustache. But Vhalla knew him for other reasons; he’d made a sport of undermining her and being her appointed executioner if Aldrik hadn’t bought her freedom with his hand in marriage to the Northern princess. The major turned, and Vhalla pursed her lips together. She watched his eyes widen and his lips curl into a snarl.

On his arm, he sported a band of Western Crimson, something many soldiers did to show their pride to their homeland. However, printed upon it was the sun phoenix of the West with a sword clutched in its talons. The symbol was an adjustment on the Western Standard and was notably favored by the Knights of Jadar.

It was a bold display, and Vhalla fearlessly scowled, radiating her disapproval. The Knight was unbothered. If anything, he was amused. Mother, how hadn’t she pegged Schnurr as the rat in the council at the warfront and found a way to kill him in the North? Now he could be a problem.

“Enter,” a deep voice reverberated.

Vhalla turned pointedly on her heel and strode toward a side room to meet the Lord of the West.

Paper screens had been pulled open to a small inner garden that Vhalla had not known existed during her previous visits to this particular hotel. Riding the wind, the scent of roses filled the room. Vhalla nearly lost her step as it assaulted her senses. Her chest ached, and she suddenly struggled to breathe. The Western crimson flowers tangled and grew, oblivious to the power they could command over her.

Aldrik. Her heart ached.

A man’s silhouette contrasted against the brightness of the garden. Lord Ophain wore a sleeveless jerkin atop linen pants that were not unlike hers in cut. However, his were crafted of far finer fabrics. Dyed and embroidered, laden with beads and gems in intricate and bright patterns that reminded Vhalla of the way sun could hit a pool of water lilies.

Lord Ophain turned, and the air became thick with the question his eyes asked. He had supplied the magic shackles that had been used on Vhalla in the North. It seemed irrelevant whether or not he knew that they had been placed upon her wrists. The Lord of the West was clearly unsure how to meet the Windwalker before him.

“Fiarum evantes,” Vhalla enunciated the Western greeting delicately. She held a firm gaze, but her words were soft enough to convey her intent.

“Kotun un nox.” The lord’s shoulders relaxed, and his lips turned upward into a small smile. “It is good to see you again, Lady Yarl.”

“I can honestly say the same, Lord Ci’Dan.” Her mouth eased into a smile of its own, remembering with bittersweet fondness the last time she had seen the man. “And Vhalla is fine.”

“Then I must insist upon the same, just Ophain.” As if sensing her instinct to object, the lord continued, rendering the matter no longer up for discussion, “What a sight you are. You wear the clothes of my people, speak our tongue with adept pronunciation.” He appraised her thoughtfully. “And you are adorned in the mark of my nephew, despite what I hear of his engagement to a Northern bride.”

“I’d like to speak with you.” Vhalla tried to remain focused despite her hand seeking out the watch instinctually at its mention. It must have ended up above her scarf while she was playing with it as she waited.

“I surmised as much.” The lord nodded.

The door opened, and a servant hurriedly delivered a tray of food and the black tea Westerners preferred, served over ice.

Vhalla took the time to compose herself, swearing she was not going to be lost in the intense familiarity of the lord’s endlessly black eyes. “I suppose I should apologize for not arranging time with you in advance.”

“You are one who is always welcome in my presence.” The lord gave her a tired smile that spoke volumes as he motioned at one of the chairs positioned around the table where the food and drink sat.

Taking the offered seat, Vhalla pulled the scarf off her head and became distracted once more with the roses.

“They weren’t always so popular.” Lord Ophain followed her attention out to the garden. “My sister loved them, and she became known for it. Their color, combined with the princess’s favor, made them synonymous with Mhashan.”

“Princess Fiera?” Vhalla asked, making the easy assumption that he wasn’t talking about his two living sisters.

He hummed in affirmation. “Her garden in Norin is one of the most beautiful in the world.”

“It’s why Aldrik has a rose garden, isn’t it?” Vhalla mused softly.

“It is.” She hadn’t been expecting an answer, but Lord Ophain gave her one, and then some. “The Emperor built it for his wife as a welcome present for when she moved to the South, though she never got to see it.”

Vhalla turned her attention inside, meeting the lord’s gaze. “I have some questions for you.”

“And I have questions for you, as well.” Lord Ophain helped himself to some of the tea sweating heavily in the midday heat.