discouraged enough that she’d bet they wouldn’t return. She overheard speculation that the Lord of the West was likely done for the day.
Realizing this was her opportunity, she strolled over to the hotel, easing past the few guards and excusing herself up the steps. No one questioned her in the small shuffle of the last nobles leaving. A group went out, and Vhalla slipped in.
It only took a moment to figure out which room the lord was in. His voice made the walls hum with its velvety tones.
“Excuse me,” hotel staff stopped her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I am here for an audience with Lord Ophain,” Vhalla stated imperiously, like a noble would. It was a mantle that didn’t quite fit.
“He’s in the middle of a conversation right now. You should come back later with everyone else.” The woman looked Vhalla up and down.
“He’ll want to talk to me. I suspect I outrank the man he’s talking with now.”
“Do you?” she was skeptical. But not so skeptical to ignore the fact that if Vhalla’s words were true, she’d need to defer to the higher ranked guest. “What is your title?”
“Duchess of the West,” Vhalla replied, using the title Lord Ophain had placed upon her.
The woman paused a moment, trying to process why a non-Westerner would have such a title. She squinted and leaned slightly to get a better look at Vhalla’s face under her hood. The woman’s eyes went wide in surprise. “You must be . . . You’re—”
“Let’s not say any more.” Vhalla held up a hand with a smile. “I would very much like an audience.”
“Of course, of course!” The woman ran off.
Vhalla adjusted her scarf carefully. She liked it when people had to bend over to see her eyes; it meant she knew when she was being identified—one perk of being shorter than most people. Her hands paused on the scarf as a major was led out of the room. Vhalla’s jaw went taut, and howling wind filled her ears.
Major Schnurr was most known for his moustache. But Vhalla knew him for other reasons; he’d made a sport of undermining her and being her appointed executioner if Aldrik hadn’t bought her freedom with his hand in marriage to the Northern princess. The major turned, and Vhalla pursed her lips together. She watched his eyes widen and his lips curl into a snarl.
On his arm, he sported a band of Western Crimson, something many soldiers did to show their pride to their homeland. However, printed upon it was the sun phoenix of the West with a sword clutched in its talons. The symbol was an adjustment on the Western Standard and was notably favored by the Knights of Jadar.
It was a bold display, and Vhalla fearlessly scowled, radiating her disapproval. The Knight was unbothered. If anything, he was amused. Mother, how hadn’t she pegged Schnurr as the rat in the council at the warfront and found a way to kill him in the North? Now he could be a problem.
“Enter,” a deep voice reverberated.
Vhalla turned pointedly on her heel and strode toward a side room to meet the Lord of the West.
Paper screens had been pulled open to a small inner garden that Vhalla had not known existed during her previous visits to this particular hotel. Riding the wind, the scent of roses filled the room. Vhalla nearly lost her step as it assaulted her senses. Her chest ached, and she suddenly struggled to breathe. The Western crimson flowers tangled and grew, oblivious to the power they could command over her.
Aldrik. Her heart ached.
A man’s silhouette contrasted against the brightness of the garden. Lord Ophain wore a sleeveless jerkin atop linen pants that were not unlike hers in cut. However, his were crafted of far finer fabrics. Dyed and embroidered, laden with beads and gems in intricate and bright patterns that reminded Vhalla of the way sun could hit a pool of water lilies.
Lord Ophain turned, and the air became thick with the question his eyes asked. He had supplied the magic shackles that had been used on Vhalla in the North. It seemed irrelevant whether or not he knew that they had been placed upon her wrists. The Lord of the West was clearly unsure how to meet the Windwalker before him.
“Fiarum evantes,” Vhalla enunciated the Western greeting delicately. She held a firm gaze, but her words were soft enough to convey her intent.
“Kotun un nox.” The lord’s shoulders relaxed, and his lips turned upward into