Air Awakens

“What would’ve happened if I hadn’t been a Windwalker?” Her words quieted the air.

“I will not indulge such nonsense.” He brushed off the question.

“Do not toy with me anymore,” she spoke slowly. “What would have happened?” Vhalla asked again.

He stared at her a long moment. “If things were not as they are and you were not a Windwalker, then you would have fallen to your death.” Prince Aldrik shrugged as though the thought had crossed his mind, and he couldn’t have been troubled to care.

“You bastard.” The words were out before she even had time to consider them, but after spoken she hardly regretted them.

“What did you say?” Prince Aldrik snarled.

“You, my prince,” she sneered in kind. “You are a self-centered, egotistical, self-absorbed, narrow-sighted, vain, self-important,” she felt her anger finally reach its boiling point, “conceited bastard!” Vhalla cried out.

The window next to them shattered, flooding the room with a gale peppered with shards of glass. She hardly seemed to notice as the minister braced himself against the wind. The prince stood motionless, staring at her darkly from behind a thin screen of flame that broke the wind and protected him from the shattered glass.

“Calm down,” he growled.

“You can’t tell me what to do anymore!” she screamed.

“I can tell you whatever I want. I am your prince!” he shouted and the thin fire that protected him lashed outward.

Vhalla raised her hands to shield herself from the flame. The fire passed over her palms and face as little more than heat—but it broke her concentration. The wind died down and, with it, Vhalla collapsed to the floor, her energy spent.

The prince looked down at her, a stone mask across his features, judgment burning in his eyes. “Stay there,” he spoke slowly. “Stay on the floor where you belong. You are like a pathetic little worm who only wants to sit in the dirt when I was prepared to give you a chance to grow wings and fly.”

“My prince,” the minister said firmly, but was easily ignored.

“I chose you, and you threw it away,” Prince Aldrik snarled.

Vhalla stared up at him. This was the prince she had expected. Not the mysterious intellectual phantom, and certainly not the awkwardly kind man who had first entered her room.

“So stay there, with the filth you so happily chose.”

He stormed out of the room. Vhalla’s face stung, and she swallowed hard. The minister hovered uncomfortably.

“Leave, please,” she whispered. Ignoring her wishes, the minister knelt by her side. “Don’t,” she said, staring at the shattered glass from the window. “Just...leave.” She had no right to command him but there was nothing in her left to care about that fact.

“Vhalla,” he said softly.

It was too kind for what she felt. She wanted nothing more than for him to scream at her and leave too. Or throw her out the window and finish what the prince had started.

“Go,” she demanded. He stayed. “I said leave!”

Finally, with an audible sigh, the minister stood and left.

Vhalla never heard his footsteps walking away from her door. She knew that he stood right outside as she collapsed among the broken glass and cried out, sobbing, until she had nothing left to feel and the darkness took her again.



VHALLA TWITCHED HER fingers. There was a bug on her that was intent on disturbing her sleep. When it refused to go away, she twisted in the opposite direction; it frustratingly followed her hand. Almost fully awake, she tried to withdraw and heard a low shhh-ing noise come from the bedside.

Cracking her eyes open, she realized that she was back in the bed. It irked her that they had lifted her off the floor and placed her back among the soft pillows and blankets. She would’ve rather spent the night on the ground. Thinking of what she said to the prince’s face, she groaned.

“Does it hurt?” a faint voice whispered next to her.

Vhalla turned back. It was the Western woman, Larel. She was changing the bandages on Vhalla’s arm.

“What do you care?” Vhalla remembered what the prince had said. Larel was to spy on her and report to him. The Westerner before her fraternized with the enemy.

“I care very much,” Larel replied easily. “Does it hurt?”

“Why?” Vhalla continued to ignore her question. Everything hurt. But she wasn’t certain what was physical and what was emotional.

“Because you are to be my protégé.” The sorceress had a flat way of talking, thick with a Western accent.

“I don’t want to be your protégé.” Vhalla looked away in childish protest.

“Very well,” the woman said lightly. “We can change that after you’re healed.”

“What?” She turned her head back slowly to the dark-haired woman. The movement was accompanied by a deep ache in her shoulders.

“After you’ve healed, you’ll meet others in the Tower,” Larel explained. “If you do not wish for me to mentor you, then you can have your pick of a new mentor, someone you are more comfortable with.”

Vhalla stared at the bruises and scratches on her flesh. It was true, she was a mess. Underneath the bandages her skin was a grotesque rainbow of red, yellow, purple, and blue. Wounds were so prevalent she could not even catch sight of the natural yellow tint of her skin.