“I did.” She was already annoyed with this discussion. Despite what the soldiers thought of her, the last thing that she wanted to do was re-hash her murders. “If there is nothing else ...” She turned her back on the man, pretending to be interested in picking up the scattered papers. Just the limited words he said had brought the horrified faces back to her mind.

“H-he would’ve been twenty-two,” the man rambled. “He had dark hair, like us; he was of the West.”

She picked up a paper, continuing to ignore him; the man didn’t seem to get the hint.

“He married when he was young, a Northern bride.” Something twisted in his voice.

“I am afraid I do not know who you are talking about,” she said, returning a handful of papers to the table.

“My son.” The man gave a twisted cry and lunged for her. The dagger dug into her side, just above her hip.

There was a man’s cry that was one of the most horrifying awful sounds Vhalla had ever been forced to hear, and she screamed with him. She began to fight against the mental prison which confined her. She didn’t want to see anymore.

She felt the poison, a sickening dizzying feeling washed over her almost immediately. She looked at the man in shock as he took a step back. Her hand reached out for his face and soon he was aflame, his features twisting before they burned away.

Her feet began to stumble and give out. She placed her hand on the dagger. Removing it would prompt blood loss, keeping it in continued to inject more of the searing poison into her veins. She cried out, leaning against the table. With a shaky hand, she grabbed for the dagger, making her decision as she pulled out the wavy blade. It bit into the flesh again as she ripped it from her side.

Her hand was pressed against the gaping wound. A soldier rushed in. “About time,” she wanted to say, but her jaw was clenched taut, blood soaking through the thin shirt she wore and oozing between her fingers. Her vision began to blur and she shifted her power inward, feeling the fire burn through her veins as she tried to purge the poison.

Vhalla woke with a cry, her hand on her hip. She tossed aside the blankets, looking at her body. Vhalla lifted her tunic, seeing only smooth unmarred skin where she expected blood. She raised her hand to her forehead and wiped away cold sweat.

She felt sick. Her brain eased itself back into place as she struggled to find her breath. Vhalla tried to tell herself that it was just a dream, that it had only been a dream. But she had felt every minute of it. She had heard Aldrik’s voice.