A week after her father’s killers had escaped, Aelif sat by the hearth in her bedchamber. She gazed at her reflection in her sword as it glinted in the firelight. Once, it had been her father’s sword, and now hers. It was a bitter feeling. Most warriors await the day to inherit their father’s weapons, to carry their courage and legacy. But what legacy was Aelif to carry?

A leader who had started an unending war? Who had unleashed the fury of draugar across their land over some prophecy a seer had said? 

Or someone who was known to the clan as an unruly, unjust ruler, a warrior who was once great. Someone who had turned into a cowardly man, who had forced his friends, his sons and daughters and clan to partake in his mission. 

The Seidha slaughter was something none of them had truly agreed with, but the clan would follow their foolish leader to the ends of Alheim. As Wolves would. 

And that was where he was now, wasn’t it? Alheim. How could he not be? 

She’d watched him slaughter the Seidha clan all those years ago from atop her horse. Joryck had wanted her to see what a true battle looked like, what it could create—orphans, turmoil, blood and death. He wanted to show her the consequences of starting something with bloodshed, to leave something in the hands of the Old God Ayvor—The God of War.

That was before he had changed. Before, when he killed out of necessity and not fear. But the Seidha slaughter had turned him weak. He was always so scared of draugar and necromancers, like a child whimpering at a milkmaid’s tales.

“Cock-sucker,” she muttered to herself. 

And now he’d gotten himself murdered. And she’d been too stupid to keep his killer captured. 

A knock at her chamber door pulled her from her thoughts. The wooden door opened just a smidge, and a muzzle peeked in. 

“Who’s there?” Aelif stood, setting her sword down on the wooden stool. She peered down at the muzzle in her doorway, seeing bits of copper fur from a black nose. “Is that...?”

“Are you decent?” Featherless asked from behind the barely opened door.

Aelif smirked. “No...”

“Perfect!” Featherless barged in, swinging the door wide open. Her face was glowing with happiness—a large smile spread into a grin—but then the smile turned disappointed. “Oh,” she said coldly, scanning Aelif’s fully-clothed body. “You’re a liar.” 

Aelif chuckled, dark and throaty, standing near the hearth. “Happy to see you, raven-girl. Your clan is still here, then?” 

“Aye,” Featherless said, sitting on the edge of Aelif’s bed at the opposite side of the room, her fox nuzzling against her legs. 

“I thought your Raven King had already decided to flee,” Aelif said instead, a tinge of regret in her voice. Perhaps if her father had not failed the alliance, he wouldn’t be dead.

“Ah.” Featherless grinned, a glint in her eyes as if she was about to say a secret. “Gilly told me that, after some convincing, Samas has decided Queen Aelif is much more forthcoming and reasonable than the Dead King. His words, not mine, mind you.” She raised her hands in defense, before continuing, “He’s confident that, perhaps after the funeral, some negotiations can be worked out.”

Aelif chuckled again, rubbing her neck with her hand. “The alliance will not protect my father now, but perhaps I can save my clan. And...”

Featherless stood from the bedside. “And?”

“Would you stay?” Aelif asked, her eyes focused on the hearth and not on Featherless. “If there was an alliance, I mean. We could use your skills with a bow.” 

“Well,” Featherless strode closer to her, leaning down in front of Aelif to make their eyes meet. “I couldn’t leave a defenseless wolf-girl to the draugar, now could I?”

Aelif scoffed, smiling. “Your jests never cease, do they?”

“Nay, never.” Featherless straightened up, her eyes shifting to the weapons displayed on the wall. “I have unfinished business with the necromancer, anyway.”

Aelif was about to ask what business, but Featherless’ face had turned so solemn, she decided against it. Instead, she examined her. She was dressed in all black—a funeral tradition—wearing tight-fitted trousers and laced leather boots that reached up to her knees. Covering her torso was a short-sleeved navy tunic, form-fitted to her body by a black leather lace-up top. 

Over her ensemble, she wore her usual hooded black cloak, lined with some type of dark-gray fur, like from a snow bear or a saber-toothed lynx. Her thick black hair was half up, fitted into a ponytail down the back, the ends stopping just above her shoulder. She looked... intimidating. And beautiful. 

Aelif watched as the light from the hearth danced along the raven-girl’s skin, casting soft shadows and a warm glow, but then Featherless turned suddenly, her ice-blue eyes scanning her up and down.

“You look like a warrior,” Featherless said, her voice low. “Your father would be proud.”

For the funeral, Aelif had worn her father’s armor from when he was a younger boy, just starting out his battles for the High Queen. It was iron and tarnished, dented in some spots, but underneath she had worn all black cotton, and her father’s fur-lined cloak, pelts taken from wolves he had killed in duels for the throne. 

“And you look beautiful, raven-girl,” Aelif said, repaying the compliment, a small smirk on her lips.

Featherless grinned, flushing softly, her softly fanged teeth showing once again. 

“Beautiful only for a funeral, what a pity,” she said, turning and striding for the exit. She opened the door, the old iron hinges creaking. Her fox darted out first, and then she turned, holding her elbow out toward her. 

Low and soft, she asked, “Shall we, wolf-girl?”