Growing up in a clan full of ruthless killers, Ailsa knew the sting of a dagger, the bruising jab of a hammer. But no blade was as sharp as the knife-edge of their words. They were the only weapons the world could wield against her—and so the world wielded them often.
“The Aelderwood is going to eat you alive one day, Ailsa.” Nikros sauntered into her apothecary only minutes after she’d set down her basket. His patronizing advice as unwanted as his presence.
The butcher’s son had been particularly smothering the past few days, breathing down her neck ever since her father left with her sisters and the other shieldmages. Nikros was built like a mountain, towering with not an ounce of warmth in any crevasse of his stocky frame. The sides of his head were shaved, forming a pale strip of hair that ran down the center of his skull. But Ailsa always found his eyes to be the coldest part about him—dark as the bottom of a lake and twice as suffocating.
She twisted the pestle against the mortar if only to keep her hands from wringing his neck. There were very few places on this fjord that belonged to her, and this shop was her arena. If he anticipated a battle, she’d make sure he suffered the loss. “Just because I cannot breathe doesn’t mean I cannot fight as good as any man this side of the fjord, Nikros. You know my father raised me in the ways of the warrior, as everyone in this clan is taught.”
Her fingers were still stained black with kohl, unable to bring herself to wash the last remnant of her sisters’ skin from her fingertips. The darkness bled into the grooves of her callouses, where just that morning, she had painted the marks of Tyr upon their faces, the sacred markings blessed their flesh with good fortune in battle, and a swift death should the god of war demand their sacrifice. She had watched, along with the rest of their clan, as the warriors staggered into the longships and slipped away into the foggy morning, drawing north up the river to meet the king’s army near the border of the sea.
Ailsa could not join her family in battle. She was not born a fighter but a healer. She saved lives; she didn’t take them—a balance her family heavily outweighed on a moral scale. Marrin and Lochare, her two older sisters, had been throwing axes before they could read, clearly destined to join the ranks of the great warriors their clan was known to produce. Her people’s offensive magic and ability to best any fight with spell or sword made them an invaluable asset to the king, and her clan was given much in terms of wealth and influence in return for their shields.
Ailsa had been blessed with her mother’s spirit—steady, tempered, and somewhat controlled. A renowned healer, her mother was able to cure everyone else’s sickness but her own. A sickness she had ultimately passed on to her youngest daughter.
“Still,” he said, pacing the shop as if he were surveying her goods, “the forest wraiths get nasty this close to Yule. You should let me accompany you next time.”
She paused her grinding. “Like you accompanied your jarl?”
A low grumble slipped from his throat, and Ailsa briefly lifted her eyes from her work to cast him a glance. She had an arsenal of weapons of her own, and the first slashed a blow to his pride.
“I discussed this with your father when he was gathering the clans,” he bit out. “I am no warrior. My place is here, protecting the rest of the village until he returns—”
“Tell that to Egrid, Suko, and Sugrid. They wereboys, Nikros! Yet still, they understood the call, the responsibility placed on our people to defend the king’s lands from these savages plowing through our armies unlike we have ever seen in our history.” Her eyes stung as she thought of how the young shieldmages stood during the last meeting of the clans, how they volunteered to fight against an unforeseen enemy to protect a land granted to her ancestors by the gods’ mercy alone. “Even they had more honor growing inside their bones than you. But yours are hollow, barren of anything desirable. You shamed the name of your family and your father, Nikroth, the day you decided to stand for nothing.”
She spat the words like they were laced with hemlock. Nikros rolled his shoulders back, taking a defensive stance. “I am following my jarl’s orders. Your father agreed my place was here.” It took him only two strides to approach her desk, resting the whites of his knuckles on top of the rugged varnish. “We both agreed my place was here withyou.”
Ailsa scoffed. The sharp breath stirred the thistle seeds in her cup. “What are you saying? My father decided you would stay to protect me? Don’t fool yourself. I can look out for myself.”
“No.” His round face shook while his black eyes locked on her face. “We had a different arrangement.”
Dread curdled in her stomach. “No.”
His lips pulled into a crooked smile. “He already promised you to me. We both decided there was a fair chance our armies would follow that of the sea clans, and he didn’t want you to be left alone, husbandless, and lose your status. Without a husband you will lose the support of the clan and the only thing left for you will be this pathetic excuse for a shop. Your family name means nothing now, Ailsa. Through our union—”
“No,” she repeated. Her steps retreated from the workbench, fingers finding the fire poker behind her back. It was still hot from when she stoked the flames just moments before. He’d been pursuing their union for years, but Ailsa knew he didn’t care for her. Not in that way. Nikros was appealed by her blood, not her heart. “My father wouldn’t give me away without my consent, especially to a spineless man like you.”
“I’ve already received your dowry.”
“Keep it. I don’t care.”
“It has been decided. I have witnesses–”
“Fuck your witnesses,” she hissed. “If my father dies on the battlefield then his bargains and his promises die with him.”
Nikros scowled, the only warning she was given before he leaped over her workbench in a stealthy pounce. His meaty hands reached for her shoulders to shake sense into her stubborn body like he had done so many times before when she rejected him. But Ailsa was prepared this time for his unwanted advances.
She swung the iron so swiftly he barely had time to flinch, the orange tip scalding him in the temple and scorching the shaved skin above his ear. Watching that hideous grin fall was almost as satisfying as his wails, but Ailsa wanted to teach him a lesson. She needed to make a point. Twisting her wrist, she sent a blow to the side of his knee, followed by a thrust of her palm to his nose so hard, cartilage cracked against her palm.
He staggered backward, knocking entire shelves off the wall where his weight flailed about, sending vials crashing to the floor. The air was saturated with warm spice and the sound of broken glass, and her footsteps approaching his vulnerable figure crunched the echo of stray shards. A few burns and a broken nose were far less than he deserved. But sometimes, the worst wounds always hid beneath the skin, and she hoped she’d hurt his ego enough to leave a scar.
Ailsa shoved the pole against his throat, crushing his windpipe as she pinned him against the wall. “You cannot protect yourself, much less me. I would rather die than unify with you and leave our clan in the hands of a pathetic excuse for an Ostman.”
He choked on a laugh. His words were raspy as he spoke, “Your mother was only a few years older than yourself when she passed. How much longer will you wait to settle down, to plant your roots, and start a family? You’re running out of time. You know this and your father knew it before he left. Be with me and you can live out the rest of your days in security and comfort, knowing you will be cared for and protected.”
Ailsa answered with a heartless smile of her own. “I’ve been dying my whole life, Nikros. You cannot scare me with my own death, nor will I be intimidated by the number of years marked on my life thread. In fact, I’d use my last breath to tell you exactly what I’m going to tell you now.” She leaned in closer, smelling the foul breath panting from his pale lips. “Fuck off.”
He pushed her away with a mere thought. He was a trained shieldmage—the last shieldmage. He should have joined the rest when the call was placed to defend her homeland. But the magic was wasted on the man before her. He only ever used it on his work—and her. “You’ll regret this, Ailsa. There’s no other man who will take a woman like you and tarnish their family line.”
“Get out,” she muttered, returning to her work as if nothing had ever happened. “And don’t come back, or I’ll have my wolf tear your balls from your shriveled sack and tarnishyourfamily line. I will not show you mercy again.”