“A whirlwind?” Vhalla asked softly.

The prince nodded. “The wind was insane. It ripped those Northerners into tiny bits.”

Vhalla stared at him blankly. “Wait, that’s why...” She was putting the pieces together.

“You really don’t remember?” he asked, stunned.

“I don’t remember anything,” she told him honestly.

“Vhalla, you summoned a wind storm. It was almost as big as the entire square nearby,” the prince explained.

“Did I really hurt Aldrik?” She stared in horror.

Prince Baldair raised his eyebrows. Vhalla’s hands went to her mouth and she realized her mistake.

“He lets you call him by name?” The prince chuckled softly. Before she could attempt to answer he continued, “Aldrik was a little battered by this or that in the wind, I think more than he confessed to me after. But he doesn’t blame you. The wind did not hurt him like it did the Northerners.” Vhalla let out a breath. “I could only make it to you when the gale stopped.” The prince ran a hand through his hair.

“My brother was clinging to you with all his might. As though you were... I don’t know what...” Prince Baldair shifted, as if the memory made him uncomfortable. Vhalla stared him in shock, and he chuckled uneasily. “Jaw open, eyes wide,” Baldair summarized at the expression she was giving him. “That must’ve been my face when I saw him holding you like that.”

Vhalla looked down at her bruised hands and wondered if Aldrik would ever want to touch her again. “Why are you here?” she asked. The prince hadn’t come only to tell her all this. Another cleric could just as easily have tended to her.

“Because I owed my brother, and he called in a favor,” Baldair answered honestly. A frown crossed her face; she was a burden to them. The prince shook his head, as if reading her mind. “Because I was worried about the beautiful, charming woman I had danced with.”

“Why didn’t he come?” She tried to keep the pain from sneaking into her voice.

“There’s a war council occurring right now to discuss the safety of the city. He had to be there.” Vhalla nodded mutely. The prince wrapped some clean gauze around the fresh wound at the back of her head. “Why didn’t you fight them off with your magic?”

“I tried...” She choked on nothing in her throat, suddenly overwhelmed. She felt more deserted by her sorcery than by anyone else failing her. “But my magic... it isn’t... I don’t know why it didn’t work.”

“That’s okay, Vhalla. You’ll be safe now.” He mumbled, knowing that words were not about to fix it. Prince Baldair shifted her burlap to inspect her shoulder. “This one is bad. It’s going to hurt,” the prince said apologetically.

Vhalla laughed and he looked at her queerly. “What doesn’t hurt?” she asked bitterly.

His brow furrowed again. “Lie down,” he instructed.

Vhalla obliged. She stared at the ceiling as the prince found a tall bottle of clear liquid.

“Do you want something to bite on?”

Vhalla shook her head.

He uncorked the bottle and poured its contents through the wound. She hissed and arched her back. Vhalla gripped at her clothes, forcing herself to stay still with slow deep breaths.

“You’re a lot tougher than you look.” The prince put the bottle aside.

“Am I?” she asked, looking back at the ceiling as he changed to a jar of creamy salve. “I don’t feel tough.”

The prince shrugged and dipped his fingers into the salve, applying it liberally to the wound. She winced at the pressure.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

Vhalla shook her head. “You and Aldrik.” She noted her use of Aldrik’s name made him glance at her weirdly. “Do you get along?” Talking kept her mind away from the pain.

“We—” the prince sighed, “—we have a strange relationship.”

Vhalla glanced at him; she could gather that much on her own.

Before she could follow up, he turned the conversation on her. “And you? You and Aldrik clearly get along. What’s your relationship exactly?”

Vhalla stiffened and not from his fingers probing her wound. She stared at nothing. The funny part was Vhalla didn’t know how to classify her relationship with the crown prince.

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully.

He glanced at her as he threaded a needle before leaning over her. Golden hair fell in front of the prince’s face, and his eyes had none of the laughter she’d seen in them before. Vhalla wasn’t sure if she’d ever met this Prince Baldair. He looked exhausted.

“That’s it? You don’t know?” he mumbled, stitching up her wound.

“That’s it.” She kept from shrugging. “How often do you know what your brother is thinking?” The corner of Vhalla’s mouth tugged upward by a fraction, and the prince actually chuckled.

“I just knew you were going to be amusing.” He shook his head and motioned for her to sit so he could stich up the back.

“How did you learn how to do this?” she asked, finding conversation easier than expected, given the circumstances. It was something about Prince Baldair, the same easiness she felt in his room.

“My brother played with spell-books, I played with swords. One gives you paper cuts, the other removes your fingers. I saw so many clerics that I learned the basics.” Baldair held out her arm and wrapped the wound closed. “Careful. Don’t rip your stitches.”