WIND HOWLED, SWEEPING fast up the mountain-side. Vhalla stood on a painfully familiar rooftop, side by side with the crown prince. Aldrik was fixated on something below, muttering to himself over and over.
“No, no, this is wrong. No!”
Vhalla took a masochistic look at what commanded his attention with such horror. She knew what she’d find. Her own body bounced off the rooftop, flying into the open air. She watched as the Vhalla that lived in Aldrik’s memory struggled to right herself in the wind. She saw the moment her power began to come to her, as she twisted and turned unnaturally and out of control.
Aldrik cursed loudly, pulling at his hair and storming down the Tower. Only a guest in his memory, she followed along at his side without trying, watching the prince’s actions play out before her.
He sprinted as fast as his long legs could carry him, bursting out of a dark hall and into a lavish parlor. Unlatching a window, Aldrik strained his neck out, looking for her. Vhalla wondered if somehow his magic called to hers through their Bond, even then, as her body smashed against the side of the building.
The prince pointed toward a pennon, burning away the supports in such a way that the pole it was supported by fell in her path. Her body hit it too violently for her to have any hope of catching herself. A futile and unexpectedly ill-thought gesture.
Another gale swept up the mountain, and Vhalla watched as her body unnaturally—magically—began to slow. The wind kept her from dying in its embrace. Vhalla knew that she would live, but this Aldrik clearly feared otherwise. His heartbeat reverberated in her ears as he was on the run again.
The prince skidded around a tight corner, pushing open a window and jumping over the sill into the small interior courtyard where she’d landed. Vhalla saw her body, bruised, bloody, broken and unnaturally bent at sickening angles.
“N-no . . .” Aldrik couldn’t take another step as the sight of her tripped him. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Vhalla felt him mustering his strength, retreating emotionally into the sheltered safe-haven of his stony, battlefield shell. Training clicked in. Instinct clicked in. And the horrified, guilt-crippled man became the Fire Lord. Through his memory, Vhalla felt it happen.
“Breathe, breathe, you frustrating girl,” Aldrik knelt at the side of Vhalla’s body, putting a hand at her neck.
The noise of relief was almost a whimper, and the prince was on the move again. Vhalla watched as Aldrik scooped her up. She watched as he began running again, blood darkening his fine jacket.
“I miscalculated,” he admonished himself, cursing. “I miscalculated.”
This was an Aldrik no one had seen before, Vhalla suspected. How the man acted when no one was around, when he thought himself alone. She bore witness to the words he spoke when he thought no one would ever be there to listen.
“Hang in there. Let me save something, make it, instead of break it.” His hands tightened around her.
Aldrik burst through a door that clicked locked behind him. Vhalla saw the flame bulbs line the hall, and she knew they were now in the Tower. He ran upward, his long strides carrying them higher.
He finally stopped at a door with the broken moon engraved onto its surface. Aldrik kicked at the door with his boot.
“Victor,” he called. “Victor, now!”
The door opened to a disheveled and confused Minister of Sorcery still wearing his sleeping gown.
“My prince, do you have any idea—” Victor stopped himself the moment he saw the frantic prince and his burden.
“She needs help,” Aldrik panted. “Help her. I need you to help her.”
“Come.” Victor swept past him and began leading him down a familiar path. “Is that Vhalla Yarl? What happened?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Aldrik attempted.
Victor stopped short and stared Aldrik down. “You do not knock on my door at ungodly hours of the night with a bloody mess—literally—and tell me this ‘doesn’t matter’. I expect an explanation!”
Aldrik scowled, and the minister rolled his eyes as they began to nearly run down the hall again. The prince held his tongue until they were in the room Vhalla knew all too well. He gently set her body down onto the bed.
“She’s a Windwalker,” Aldrik whispered, finally.
“What?” Victor hissed, turning away from her corpse-like form. “Have you lost your mind?”
“No,” Aldrik said sharply. She heard the princely inflection slip into his tone. “I have not, she was Awoken tonight.”