She was not alone.

A man sat hunched over an open ledger and seemed to be deeply engrossed in the notes he was taking. Vhalla’s blood ran cold, and she took a step back. This was not supposed to happen. Out of all the people in the world she was not meant to meet this man clad in black, with his slicked back hair and dark eyes.

Vhalla was debating how best to make her escape when his pen stopped and his chin slowly rose. His eyes widened, and his brow furrowed as his lips parted slightly in shock. The deep, rich voice that broke the silence made her teeth grind.

“Are you real?” Prince Aldrik whispered in obvious surprise.

WITH ANNOYANCE, VHALLA wiped the confusion off her face.

“Of course I’m real, and I was just leaving.” She turned, starting for the door.

“Wait!” He was on his feet, papers scattering across the floor. She looked back at his clumsy and haphazard movement. “Wait.”

“Is that an order, my prince?” Vhalla focused her gaze on the door handle. A quiet anger rose in her.

“Yes. No. No, it is not. If you want to go then go; but please, just—wait.” He sighed and ran a hand over his hair, adjusting his long double-breasted coat.

“Why?” she demanded. Vhalla half-turned toward him, her hand still on the door handle.

“Because,” he cleared his throat, attempting to continue with more conviction, “I want to talk to you.”

“And if I don’t want to talk to you?” she sighed.

“Then go.” He stood, his posture slack. When she made no motion in his direction, he knelt and began to pick up his papers.

Vhalla stood in limbo, watching this strange, frustrating, and infuriating man on the floor, collecting his scattered parchment. With another soft sigh, the apprentice within got the better of her, and Vhalla walked over to kneel across from her prince, collecting a few papers within reach and holding them out expectantly.

He looked up at her and took the papers from her hands, his jaw slightly slack and lips parted.

She waited for a moment. Receiving nothing she stood and turned for the door, frustrated. What had she expected? He was a prince, and—if the palace gossip was to be believed—he never thought of anyone beyond himself.

“I am sorry.” It was so soft she barely heard it over the rustling of the trees. Vhalla held the halfway open door. Surely she’d only imagined it, she took another step. “Vhalla, I am sorry.”

She turned slowly, looking back at him, one foot outside, one foot in. The words sunk into her, and she waited to see if they could be enough to soothe the anger she felt toward the black-clad man.

“I should not have lashed out at you, magically or verbally, as I did,” he continued. There was a spark in his eyes that was pleading with her for something she didn’t know if she could give. “I was eager—and foolish. I did not think of how it would affect you.”

Vhalla took a step back in, closing the door behind her and leaning against it for much needed support.

“I am certain you have heard all of the stories about me.” Prince Aldrik rested his folio on the bench behind him. Vhalla wondered why he seemed unable to meet her eyes. “I assure you, they are all true. I am not exactly versed in, in...” He paused, looking for words.

“In creating real relationships with people?” Vhalla finished spitefully. If he wanted to cast her from the palace for her lack of proper decorum, he would have already. She had no idea why he didn’t. But Vhalla was ready to find out and wash her hands of royalty.

“I have hurt you with my words—and actions. I know that. And, it likely means nothing to you to say that I did not intend to.” He sighed, looking away.

“They say you are the silver-tongued prince.” Her voice was fainter than she would’ve liked. “You already spoke me onto a ledge. How can I believe you now?”

“Because there are things you do not know about us,” Prince Aldrik responded cryptically.

Vhalla shook her head, there was no “us” between them. “You could’ve thrown me to my death and— what’s worse—you didn’t even care.” Her voice broke, and she took a deep breath. Vhalla clenched her jaw; she had been the one who suffered. He had no right to look so pained.

“You are wrong. I did care. I knew you were a Windwalker, so I never realized the possibility of you dying.” The prince took a small step toward her. Vhalla glared at the toes of his boots as though they had offended her.

“Fine,” she started, trying to turn his logic back on him. “Even if you knew my Affinity—which not even the minister himself seemed to know—how did you know the fall wouldn’t kill me, that’d I’d be strong enough?”

“Because air cannot hurt Windwalkers, like fire cannot hurt Firebearers,” he pointed out.

“It seems we know almost nothing about Windwalkers. You didn’t know that fall wouldn’t kill me.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“I knew you would not die, because you saved my life.” The prince’s voice was slow and deliberate, as if he struggled to speak. Her arms dropped to her side. “When I first arrived home, I was going to die. The... weapon that pierced my flesh was laced with a strong poison. Were it not for an immunity I have built up over many years, it would have killed me halfway home. The clerics did not know what to do, so they called on the library and the Tower for any clues as to an antidote or course of treatment.