Chapter 39.
923 Words
The weaving room, usually a sanctuary of humming looms and the sweet scent of dried chamomile, felt cold the moment Rhiannon stepped through the door. Sora wasn't at her usual bench. She was standing by the high narrow window, her fingers tight around a small, crumpled scrap of parchment. A mountain-hawk, its feathers ruffled from a hard flight, sat on a nearby perch, tearing at a piece of raw meat.
Rhiannon’s heart, still humming with the peaceful memory of Malphas’s fur against her skin, gave a sharp, discordant tug. The panic she had managed to silence on the mountain peaks came rushing back, a low-frequency buzz at the base of her skull.
"Sora?"
Sora turned. The playful shimmer in her hair charms was gone, replaced by a hard, metallic stillness. Her eyes, usually warm and teasing, were as sharp as flint.
"The wind from the south has turned foul, Rhia," Sora said. Her voice didn't shake; it moved with a clipped, military precision that Rhiannon hadn't heard before.
She held out the parchment. Rhiannon didn't need to read the cramped script to know what it said. The air in the room seemed to thin.
"Hunters," Sora continued, stepping away from the window. "Just vultures. Mercenaries and 'collectors' who have heard whispers of a Blue Flame residing in the Nightshade peaks. They’re prowling the foothills, questioning the mountain-folk, offering gold for a sighting of a fairy with clipped wings."
The panic hit Rhiannon like a physical blow to the stomach. Her vision blurred, the walls of the weaving room suddenly feeling like they were closing in. Her hands flew to her throat, her fingers tracing the jagged brand beneath her collar.
"They're coming for me," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I brought them to your mountain. I have to leave. I have to-"
"Stop."
The word was a whip-crack. Sora didn't move to comfort her; she didn't offer a hug or a soothing word. Instead, she walked to a heavy iron-bound chest in the corner and threw it open.
"You are not going anywhere, and you are not spiraling," Sora commanded, her voice ringing with the authority of a woman who had survived a hundred winters. "Panic is a luxury for those who don't have to fight. You? You’ve already been through the fire. Now, you’re going to be the one who burns."
Sora pulled something from the chest- a glint of moonlight trapped in leather. She walked over to Rhiannon, her face a mask of grim determination.
"Sit," she ordered.
Rhiannon sat, her legs trembling so violently she almost missed the stool. Sora knelt before her, pushing back the heavy fabric of Rhiannon’s training leathers to expose her thigh.
"This isn't an ornament, and it isn't a gift for a fairy," Sora said, her fingers moving with deft, practiced speed.
She began to wrap a strap of dark, reinforced leather around Rhiannon’s upper thigh. Woven into the leather was a sheath, and within that sheath sat a small, wicked-looking dagger. The hilt was wrapped in silver wire, and the blade- exposed for a brief second, was etched with the jagged runes of the North.
"Silvered steel," Sora murmured as she tightened the buckle. "It won't just draw blood; it will sear the magic out of anyone who tries to lay a hand on you. It’s concealed, Rhia. It’s the bite they won't see coming."
The weight of the weapon against her skin was cold, heavy, and undeniably real. It was a different kind of "anchor" than Fenris’s hand or Malphas’s fur. This was an anchor of iron.
"Look at me," Sora said, her hands gripping Rhiannon’s knees to steady her.
Rhiannon looked. The "big sister" who had taught her how to braid her hair and drink mountain tea was gone. In her place was a Valkyrie of the Nightshade, a woman who knew that peace was a fragile thing bought with blood.
"Fenris is a shield," Sora said firmly. "Malphas is a storm. But they cannot be in every shadow with you. There will come a moment- perhaps tomorrow, perhaps a month from now, where it is just you and a man who thinks you are a prize to be caged. In that moment, I don't want you to remember your trauma. I want you to remember this weight on your leg."
Sora stood up, her jaw set.
"The foothills are high, and the wolves are hungry, but the word is out. Our peace is no longer a secret. You are going to go back to the ring with Fenris, and you are going to train until your hands bleed. Because the next time someone reaches for you, Rhiannon, you aren't going to flinch."
Sora reached out and tucked a stray lock of blue hair behind Rhiannon’s ear, the gesture finally softening into her usual affection.
"You’re going to make them regret they ever heard your name."
Rhiannon looked down at the hidden silver hilt pressed against her skin. The static in her head was still there, but it was being drowned out by a new, sharp rhythm. It was the sound of a blade being drawn.
"I'm ready," Rhiannon whispered.
"Good," Sora replied, turning back to the window as the hawk took flight once more. "Then let them come. They have no idea what kind of storm is waiting for them on this mountain."
- Writer
