Aldrik was suddenly as startled as she was. His eyes lost some of their intensity to surprise and confusion, as if his mouth had spoken before his brain could process his previous demand of her. “I told you there were things I wanted to work on with you.”

“Right.” Vhalla nodded. He’d been so distant she’d almost forgotten.

“You should go,” he murmured as his hands relaxed their hold on her. Aldrik stepped away. “Before too many wake up.”

Vhalla nodded. “Again, I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she said softly, shock at their actions beginning to settle in.

“It is fine,” he said gently. “We can speak properly later.” Vhalla nodded. Aldrik walked over to the flap of his tent and looked about. “It seems clear.” He stepped aside and she stepped out.

Vhalla heard the canvas close abruptly behind her, and she walked away, only looking forward. There were a few more people up and moving about, but none paid her any mind. The sky was painted with oranges and blues; dawn drew close.

She dressed in her armor outside of her tent, so as not to wake Larel. Her skin tingled as she slipped the chainmail over her woolen clothes, and Vhalla reminded herself to breathe. A dream had sent her into a blind panic, running to the crown prince.

Why?

Vhalla’s fingers faltered on the latches of her armor. The memory of their dance at the gala rushed back to her with stunning clarity. He’d held her then also and, like this morning, she’d never wanted it to end. She pressed a hand over her eyes, blocking out the dawn with a groan.

She came from nothing, and she was no one. She had no business spending any time with the crown prince, the man who would be her future Emperor. He didn’t have time to waste on people like her. Elecia’s words cemented themselves further in her consciousness.

“Vhalla?”

She hadn’t even heard Larel stir.

“Morning.” Vhalla finished dressing quickly.

“Are you all right?”

It was annoying how Larel missed nothing. “I’m fine.” Vhalla began breaking down the tent.

“Was it another dream?” Larel asked.

“Enough, Larel,” Vhalla sighed and straightened. The Western woman was silent. Vhalla should’ve been too, but there was an aching feeling in Vhalla’s stomach that put nastiness in her blood. “Why are you always pestering me? It’s none of your concern what I dream or don’t dream, what I eat or what I don’t eat.”

Larel’s face was expressionless.

“Just leave me alone for once.” Vhalla grabbed her pack and stormed off, leaving the rest of the tent for Larel.

She hated herself for those words. It wasn’t Larel’s fault. The class Vhalla was born into, the Night of Fire and Wind, the prince’s confusing and frustrating hot and cold attitude toward Vhalla. Larel had no control over any of it. Vhalla had just taken her frustrations out on someone who wasn’t expecting it.

Vhalla marched alone. She found a random corner of the host to fall in with away from Elecia, Aldrik, Fritz, Larel, and the Golden Guard. Fritz noticed instantly and was about to ride over to her when Larel stopped him. They found themselves engaged in a heated conversation that Vhalla tried to ignore. They were clearly talking about her.

When the march finished for the day, Vhalla had imagined every possible thing Larel, Fritz, and Aldrik could’ve said about her. Some of the things she felt guilty for even thinking they would utter, but somehow it still seemed plausible. Vhalla’s shoulders hunched, and her head dipped. She suddenly felt so tired.

“Vhalla.” Her head snapped up, turning to look up at the dark prince who had materialized at her side. “After everyone is settled, come and we’ll begin work.”

He still didn’t specify what work, and Vhalla felt odd under his studying assessment. After drifting through camp, waiting for Larel and Fritz to be away to strip her armor so she could avoid any odd confrontations, Vhalla finally dragged her feet to Aldrik’s tent. She came in the same woolen clothing she’d worn in the morning—that she’d been wearing for days.

The flap of his tent was open, and Vhalla paused politely in the entryway.

“My prince?” she asked softly. “Am I too early?”

He was sitting at the small table marking a piece of paper before him. His armor was propped on its stand opposite the entry, and he sat in tan pants and a white cotton shirt. “No, you are fine, Vhalla.” He glanced at her briefly. “Close it behind you.” He motioned to a tie on the inside that held up the flap, and she obliged.

Vhalla was momentarily overcome from the last time she had been in his space. She quickly crossed and situated herself on a pillow opposite him. Tilting her head, Vhalla assessed the prince, trying to figure out what was different.

“What is it?” he asked without looking up from whatever he was doing.

“You’re not wearing any black,” she realized.

Aldrik paused and considered his attire. “I suppose I am not.” He finished what he was working on and folded it twice, placing it aside.

“It’s strange,” she said thoughtfully.

“Is it?” Aldrik rested his elbow on the table, his cheek on his fist.

“You’re always in black,” she explained.

“Not true.” He shook his head.