She braced herself for the cold when she swung her door open. Her room lacked a hearth for a fire, but there were no windows so no wind blew through the chamber. She collected two candles and returned to the hall to light them from one of the torches lining the walls.

The meager light brightened the tiny chamber and the warm glow chased away some of the chill, although it was all in the perception. The half-burned candles could hardly provide enough warmth to make a difference. But still, they cheered her and made her feel a little warmer.

’Twas cold enough that she decided to leave her clothing on. All she did was remove her boots and then she donned her one luxury. A pair of wool stockings that Sarah had darned for her.

She sighed as the soft, warm material slid over her feet. She flexed her toes and then climbed beneath the furs on her bed.

Her eyes closed immediately but she didn’t fall asleep. Her mind was too occupied with all that had transpired in the last fortnight.

If she were honest with herself, she’d admit to more than just passing trepidation. She was afraid of her future. Afraid for the future of her clan.

No matter that she’d always dressed as a man and indulged in swordplay while other girls dreamed of marriage and children. She harbored secret girlish dreams of her own. She imagined beautiful dresses and a warrior with no equal falling to one knee in front of her to pledge his undying love and loyalty.

She smiled dreamily and snuggled deeper into the covers. Aye, ’twas a nice fantasy. Her warrior wouldn’t only love her beyond reason. He’d accept her faults and he’d be proud of her accomplishments in warfare. He’d boast to his men that his wife was a warrior. A warrior princess with unrivaled beauty and accomplishment.

They’d fight side by side and then return to the keep where she’d dress in fine gowns gifted to her by her husband. She’d serve him a fine meal directed by her own hand. Then they’d sit by the fire and sip fine ale before retiring to their chamber where he’d hold her and whisper words of love to her.

“You’re an idiot,” she muttered, self-loathing suddenly consuming her. No man would ever accept one such as her. A man wanted someone like Keeley. All soft and gentle with traits acceptable to a gentle lady. Like healing. Or needlework. Or a woman who could run a keep and always have a fine meal on the table.

All Rionna could do was cause injuries that required women of Keeley’s skill to patch them up and send them back into battle. Rionna had neither a gentle touch nor womanly softness.