“There is something very powerful hidden in the North. The longer it sits unattended, the greater the likelihood of it falling into the wrong hands or being used against our forces, should the Northern clans understand what they possess.”

Vhalla wondered how this was supposed to help her. “What is it?” Curiosity won the war of her emotions.

“It’s an ancient weapon from a different time, a time when magic was wilder and more divine.” He paused, mulling over his next words. “It is an axe that is said to be able to sever anything, even a soul.”

“Why would such a thing exist?” Vhalla struggled to think of a reason.

“Well, the latest records of it read as much fact as fiction.” The minister rubbed his goatee in thought.

“How are you sure it’s real?”

“I have it on very good faith it is.” The minister returned to the point, “I need you to retrieve it and bring it back here.” He tapped his desk.

“But if it’s so dangerous ...” Vhalla mused aloud. She felt like she was missing an important piece of information, but the minister was uninterested in imparting it to her.

“As I said, we want to keep it from the wrong hands. Beyond that, it would make the wielder nearly invincible.” Minister Victor let that hang and Vhalla was smart enough to piece together what he was trying to tell her. If the wielder was nearly invincible, and she managed to find it, then perhaps she could make it out of the North alive. “Will you help me with this, Vhalla?”

She hesitated for one last, long moment. Vhalla stared into the minister’s icy blue eyes, the eyes of the man who had kidnapped her when they had first met. But they were also the eyes of a man who had harbored her, healed her, and protected her when the world was ready to tear her limb from limb. The Tower was a mysterious place, but she knew sincerity when she saw it.

“Of course, minister,” Vhalla said obediently.

The Tower took care of its own.

VHALLA DID NOT sleep that night. She stayed awake, fighting through the uneasy hours with a book that she quickly realized she’d never finish. Closing it with a soft sigh, Vhalla tucked it away in her wardrobe as the sky began to lighten.

Two large panes of glass acted as both windows and doors, opening to the railed strip of stone that served as her secondary gateway to the world—what would generously be called a balcony. The beginnings of a bad winter flowed into the city at the end of each breeze. Vhalla let the chill numb her cheeks as she watched the edge of the horizon slowly turn crimson with the Mother Sun’s waking.

A knock on her door pulled Vhalla’s attentions inside. Larel had told her that she’d be bringing Vhalla’s armor and helping her clip it on for the first time. Vhalla took a deep breath, trying to muster up the scraps of courage she had scavenged the night before.

The air vanished from her lungs with a soft choking noise at the person who awaited her.

His hair was as black as midnight. His eyes were crafted from piercing darkness and were perched upon high cheekbones carved from flawless alabaster skin. He wore meticulously crafted and finely pressed clothes—not a single stitch out of place. He was the opposite of the haggard woman whose clothes hung more limply with each day. But it was only expected as he was the crown prince.

Vhalla stood helplessly before him, and he seemed just as lost at the sight of her. Neither spoke.

Vhalla realized, very self-consciously, that this was the first time he’d seen her since she cut her hair. Short hair or no, could he even bear the sight of her any longer?

“I have your armor.” His low voice resonated smoothly across her restless mind.

Vhalla heard the demand in the statement, moving aside so he could maneuver a small wooden armor stand into her room.

The sound of the door shutting behind him sent a nervous shiver up her spine. The last time Vhalla had been alone with the prince was the day of her verdict. The last time she’d seen him she was being escorted out of a courtroom by two armed guards, her sentence having been read—a sentence that gave the prince the ability to kill her should she disobey.

But Aldrik wouldn’t kill her. The way he looked at her revealed that certainty. He couldn’t kill her, if the magical force—the Bond—between them was real.

“Where’s Larel?” Vhalla wanted to smash her face against the wall. That was what she decided to say?

“I thought I might help you.” It was awkward, everything between them felt awkward. It was as though five years, not five days, had passed.

Everything had changed.

“I can’t deny you, my prince.” Vhalla brought her hands together, fidgeting.

Instead of his usual scolding of her restless tic, the prince took her fingers in his.

“Why the formality?” he asked softly, slipping the gloves onto her hands.

“Because ...” The words stuck in her throat.

“Just Aldrik is fine,” the prince reminded her.

She nodded mutely, still working through the knot of syllables behind her lips. With both gloves on, Aldrik passed her a chainmail tunic. Its sleeves were full, extending to the top of her gloves. Vhalla was surprised to find it had a hood fashioned of tiny links. Her hair fell just above where it pooled at the back of her neck. The weight of his stare brought her eyes to his, and Vhalla’s hand fell from where it played with the ends of her hair.

“You had it cut.” His hands paused on the armor.

“I cut it,” she corrected, staring at a corner of the room. It felt as though she was on trial all over again.

“I like it,” Aldrik said after what seemed like an eternity.

“You do?” Her mouth fell open in dumb shock.

“Long or short ... suits you.” The prince gave a small shrug.

Vhalla didn’t point out the fact that he had just contradicted himself. Her insides were in turmoil, and she suddenly felt like crying. He liked it? What about her was left to like?

The armor she slipped into was crafted out of small scales of black steel. It hung to mid-thigh and had shoulder coverings that only minimally hindered her movement. Her heart raced with conflicted emotion as she watched the prince’s long fingers demonstrate the locations of latches up the front of the armor.

“It is just the greaves and gauntlets then.” Aldrik motioned to the remaining pieces on the stand. She nodded silently. The prince hovered for a long moment before making for the door. “I need to prepare myself.”

“Aldrik.” Vhalla’s barely trembling hand clasped his coat sleeve before she even realized it had moved.

“Vhalla?” He stopped all movement in an instant, and his eyes searched hers.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

Pain flashed across the prince’s face, riding on the wave of realization of what her words meant. “You can.” Aldrik turned slowly, as though she was a wild animal, easily spooked. One warm hand encompassed hers; it was a delicate touch that seemed to carry the weight of the world in it.

“I-I’m awful at everything, and I—”

“Do you remember what I told you?” he asked as though he could sense her emotions were about to overrun her. “On the last day of your trial?”

“I do.” She remembered her palm pressed firmly against his side, on a spot that had been a lethal wound not more than a year before when he’d come riding into her life during a summer’s thunderstorm. He would have died from that wound if she had not saved him with her sorcery, inadvertently forming the magical Bond that now lived between them.

“Vhalla, I—” A door slammed in the hallway and the sound of footsteps heavy with armor faded down the hall. Aldrik engaged in a staring contest with the door. “I must go.”

She nodded.

“I will see you soon, for the march.”

Which of them was he reassuring?