A heavy weight settles in my chest. Breto watches me and pats my leg. “My wife, rest her soul, was a medic. She was the best at what she did. My little girls, well, of course, wanted to follow in her footsteps. They were thirteen when they began their training. They took right after her, they did. Not like me. I’m just a brute who was good at chopping wood. One day, eight years ago, we learned of a mass slaughter by the river near the North Kingdom’s perimeter. We heard some Verdanians were still alive there, but barely. The ones who survived were limbless, screaming, bleeding out…” He clears his throat.

“My wife just couldn’t stand the thought. Her and the little ones set off to help. They even got a written safe passage from the Prince! Can you believe that? Prince Lachlan… What a man.”

I smile, remembering my old friend. What a man, indeed.

“But Baellileans don’t care about permission, do they? My wife and my daughters were killed trying to help wounded Verdanians. Baellilean troops considered their aid a breach of our truce, fighting for their enemy, or something like that. Only, they weren’t fighting. They weren’t taking sides. But that’s war, Braizen. That is the cost of kingdoms.”

I stop breathing. “Breto,” I whisper.

He holds out a hand. “I don’t need anyone's sympathy. Truly. As much as I miss them, as much as I still love them, I have healed. The Idunns took me in. I drank that blasted tea. I work every day, and each time the sun sets, I feel lighter. Like somehow, my girls are still with me. Yes, I can feel them. Say it's the trees. Call me a lunatic; I don’t mind. They’re here, and they don’t want me to be angry forever.”

Without waiting for a response, Breto stands, salutes me with his empty bottle, and makes his way back to the dancers. I don’t dare call after him, and anyway, I don’t think I can. A giant lump sits in my throat, and I know I might break into sobs if I try to expel it. He joins Torr on the dance floor with a broad smile that exudes a carefree spirit. I watch him blankly for a time, and then I feel it. Her stare. Her.

She’s watching me, and I can see from her expression that she heard the entire conversation. A single tear drips down her cheek. She sits near the lavender thickets, her legs curled to the side, her hair uncoiling over one shoulder. I'd paint this image if I knew a damn thing about art—the fair snow maiden who comes alive in the trees.

I walk toward her, but her face doesn’t change. Only when my toes nearly touch hers does her gaze flicker.

“What happened to his family isn’t your fault,” she says.