“To win you your war.” She didn’t even bother with the nonsense of atoning for her crimes. Serien—Vhalla—wondered if he had decided her fate the moment he laid eyes on the whirlwind.

“Yes, very good.” He began walking once more. “They said you were smart.”

There was a predatory glint to his eyes that had Serien’s hands balling into fists.

“Do you know who ‘they’ are?” the Emperor asked.

“Who?” She tried to stand to her fullest height so that he had less of a distance from which to look down at her.

“My eldest son.” The gauntlet was thrown.

Serien’s blood boiled. That’s what this was about. “He is very smart, my lord.”

“Usually,” the Emperor murmured as he inspected her from head to toe. She already knew she wouldn’t measure up. “Speaking of him, our two groups will merge again after the pass, during the final leg of the trip.”

Serien struggled to keep her face neutral; she was sure she failed. The Emperor continued to stare her down. “Is that why you called me here, my lord? To tell me that?”

The Emperor chuckled in amusement at her bold front. “No, I simply wanted to thank you for your attentiveness. It is good to know that when you focus on your duty that you are, indeed, not useless.”

“Thank you.” She took a step away, feigning the dismissal that wasn’t in his voice.

“Oh, and Miss Yarl.” She paused. “I recommend you keep that focus where it should be, on making it to the front and giving me my victory. I will not tolerate your entertaining girlish fantasies or misplaced notions.”

Serien clenched her hands into fists so tightly that the straps on her gauntlets threatened to break. She grit her teeth and set her jaw. She heard his threats loud and clear.

“Do you understand me?” The Emperor’s voice was deathly quiet.

“Perfectly.”

The conversation lingered with Serien as she stormed through camp back to her hideaway. It played on repeat through her mind as she struggled to find a position comfortable enough to sleep in. And, when she did fall asleep, the Emperor greeted her in her dreams...

The Emperor sat next to her. No, not her. Vhalla pulled herself away from Aldrik’s dream form. His face was hard, and fire lit his eyes. She followed the line of his attention and saw herself, part ethereal and part concrete, in an all too familiar cage. She was huddled and shaking, blood dripping from the back of her head along her jaw and onto the floor. The strength that sparked in her brown eyes was a shadow play, it lacked true substance behind it. That much was apparent, not only to her, but to the man whose memory she was occupying.