But Vhalla didn’t know if she could feel peaceful, she didn’t know if she could sit easily in her saddle and prattle on about this or that. Every shift in her armor reminded her why she was there. She was a soldier now, property of the crown.

“How long has it been since you’ve been out of the city?” Fritz asked. The Southerner had other plans than to let her sit silently and wallow in her misfortune.

“It’s been a while,” Vhalla finally replied.

“Really?” he seemed genuinely surprised. “How often do you go home?”

“The last time I went home ...” Vhalla’s words trailed off, thinking of a farmhouse amid a field of golden wheat. She’d sent a letter to her father just a few days ago, trying to get word to him faster than rumors could fly. The thought put a lump in her throat, as though she’d somehow tarnished the happy memories her family had made in their home with her sorcery and crimes. “For my coming of age, I think?”

“What?” Fritz was aghast. “Fifteen? It’s been three years since you went home? My mother and sisters would have my skin if I didn’t come home for three years.” Fritz laughed his infectious laugh.

Vhalla cracked a smile. “You have sisters?” As an only child she sometimes wondered what it’d be like to have a sibling.

“Four of them,” Larel chimed in from Fritz’s right. She seemed to be much more comfortable on the horse now that it was barely moving. “And you should see them all together. Thank the Mother they’re not all sorcerers or it would be the Charem family against the world.”

“You’ve met them?” Vhalla’s curiosity compelled her to ask.

“Once.” Larel nodded.

“How long have you known each other?”

The two exchanged a look before turning back to Vhalla.

“Seven years,” Larel said.

“Eight years,” Fritz proclaimed.

They both glared at each other.

“No, it’s seven. You came the year after my coming of age.” Larel counted on her fingers.

“No, eight, I just turned thirteen,” Fritz argued.

“Yes, you turned thirteen, but after we met.”

“You two remind me of an old friend and me,” Vhalla mused softly.

“Who?” Fritz asked, oblivious to the sorrow that laced her words.

“His name was Sareem.” She fussed with Lightning’s mane.

“Is he at the palace?” Fritz tilted his head.

“He died on the Night of Fire and Wind.” Vhalla was momentarily assaulted by her nightly visions of her friend’s battered and broken body. It was her fault. She’d been too slow and he’d been waiting for her.

“I’m sorry, Vhal. Was he someone special?” Fritz asked, pulling Vhalla from her self-inflicted mental abuse.