“Please, I understand,” Vhalla breathed and was too tired to be as strong as she wanted to be.

Prince Baldair sighed and reached out, placing a large palm on the top of her head. Vhalla tensed at the momentary foreign touch.

“I thought maybe he’d changed.” The prince’s voice was soft. “But then I overheard a conversation between him and Father. Aldrik swore that he would be the one to make you obligated to gain victory. That you would be mindlessly obedient to him above all else and that he had you under his command without question. That the sandstorm was an example of this—and I realized he’d never relinquish the control he has on people.”

“Prince Baldair, I am very tired,” she whispered. The notes on the Emperor’s table returned to her, the mention of reports being given. Had she been a puppet for Aldrik and his father the whole time? Paying the greatest actor in the world with her emotions?

“I do agree with them—Aldrik and my father. You are smart, Vhalla. Please, just see him for what he is?” Prince Baldair searched her.

Vhalla closed her eyes, wanting nothing more than to cower. “I appreciate your concern, my prince.” It was all she could say in the end.

He sighed heavily. “Rest well, Vhalla.” Prince Baldair stood.

She relied only on the sounds of his departure.

Vhalla shivered, despite the room being warm. Of course, the day she realized she was hopelessly in love with a man was also the day she would be given additional proof of his being a rather twisted ass. At least, if one considered Prince Baldair’s word as proof. Vhalla laughed, and coughed from the state of her lungs.

Had Aldrik not warned her of all this? Hadn’t he said on multiple occasions that he was not a good man? Vhalla sighed again and wondered if it was even fair of her to hold it against him. All their meetings had been an excuse to test her abilities. She was foolish for thinking they—she—meant otherwise. Vhalla took a delicate breath and fought against tears until exhaustion claimed her.

“VHAAAAAAAL ...” Fritz sung softly. “Vhaaaaaaallaaaaaaaaa.”

A finger poked at her cheek. She groaned, rolling away from the source.

“Let her sleep,” Larel scolded.

“But she’s slept the whole day, and it’s our first real night in the Crossroads,” Fritz whined.

“You two are so loud,” Vhalla cursed softly.

“One of us is,” Larel corrected with an offended note.

“Vhal, don’t you want to wake up?” Fritz crawled into bed with her.

“No.” She didn’t feel like it in the slightest. After Aldrik and Prince Baldair that morning, and the Emperor’s proclamations and demands, she had half a mind to spend the rest of her life in bed.

“What’s wrong, Vhal? The world is celebrating you right now, you need to celebrate with them.” Fritz grabbed her with both arms, sitting her up.

Larel took the opportunity of Vhalla being upright to coax two elixirs down Vhalla’s throat.

“So, we’re all going out.” Fritz crawled around the bed, situating himself in front of her.

“Out?”

“He got the idea from your friends in the Golden Guard.” Larel sat on the edge of the bed. It wasn’t a large piece of furniture, and they were all crowded around each other. “They’re going out to celebrate their first full night in the Crossroads. Apparently there’s to be some celebration in the Windwalker’s honor.”

“In my honor?” Vhalla blinked.

“Yes, in yours.” Larel beamed. “You saved hundreds of lives—understand that.”

Vhalla nodded mutely.

“We want you to come.” Fritz grabbed her hands.

“We?” Vhalla looked to Larel. She couldn’t imagine Larel partying in the streets.

“I’ve nothing else to do,” the woman laughed lightly. “And the Windwalker they are honoring happens to be my protégé. It’d be a shame if I didn’t at least have one drink in her honor.”

“Will you come with us?” Fritz asked again.

“I ...” Vhalla sighed, looking at the setting sun through her curtains. She thought of Aldrik and the Emperor once more, conspiring in that opulent palace of a building. A small spark of anger flared in her, and Vhalla gripped Fritz’s fingers. “I’d love to.”

“Are you sure you feel well enough?” Larel sensed something was wrong, but the other woman seemed to be mistaking Vhalla’s wild emotions over the prince for physical pain caused by her injuries.

“I’ve felt worse.” Vhalla put on a brave smile. “Who knows, perhaps the company could do me good?”

It would have been more convincing if she didn’t dissolve into a coughing fit. But Fritz was her champion for the evening, linking elbows with her and helping Vhalla into the hall and down the stairs. Larel must have agreed with the assessment because she didn’t object.

Once her body was moving, Vhalla found she felt better, proving her physical wounds were superficial. They likely had refrained from forcing any potions down her throat when she was unconscious; but now that the clerics’ concoctions were working, her body was rebounding quickly. No one was waiting for her outside the inn this time, and for that she was thankful. Vhalla didn’t want any more attention.