Istra’s balls, Njordr was cold.
Minona wondered how there were any forests left standing, if it took this much firewood to keep from freezing. Perhaps the locals really did have ice instead of blood in their veins. That would certainly explain their suicidal willingness to wage war throughout the winter – she was not looking forward to having to deal with that come next winter when she had troops to worry about.
Of course, that was assuming that Lady Valerian would still want to be here come next winter. Runeheim was a mess, its leadership was in shambles, and the whole region was crawling with heretics and malefic. It was hardly a promising place to bring the light of the Throne.
But Hrafnakastali… something about the battered old fort was compelling. Fascinating, even. Rennet may be an asshole, but he was still Rogalian and he knew his fortifications. The stairs were slightly irregular and curved in the middle from decades of soldiers’ boots and yet as she climbed she felt she knew them all already.
Minona ran a hand along the parapet, fingers tracing along the broken edge of a stone, remembering how it felt to get pulled inside of it – a rough-carved hand holding hers, the bone beads of that bracelet pressing into her wrist as the fingers slipped away. The sensation kept intruding at inopportune times, oddly intimate.
But now, as before, she shook off the phantom grasp and focused on her task. She looked down on the courtyard, mentally marking out places for an archery range and a training field. They would definitely fit, and with a little room to spare.
There might even be enough room for a bear-sized stable, if Jacqueline could get Mr. Mittens to behave.
