I stayed perfectly still. Kiva rarely talked about Korovi. All I knew was her mother had been forced to leave while pregnant with her, shamed by scandal for breaking their most sacred laws. Which was probably why the captain had looked like she’d rather walk barefoot on glass than return to Korovi for aid.

Kiva ran a cloth along the length of black gold. “A Miska warrior of my age without a named sword would be a disgrace.” Her lips twitched into a small smile. “Of course, I’m already a disgrace, and in Korovi, I’d never have been a Miska warrior.”

The Mirkova line was an ancient one, a powerful one. Kiva’s grandmother practically ruled the snow kingdom, and as a noble, Captain Mirkova was forbidden to marry. Believed to be daughters of the goddess, Lokane, noble women in Korovi had children by chosen suitors outside of marriage, then devoted their lives to the goddess as priestesses or leaders in the government. The two roles were so intertwined, it was nearly impossible to tell where one began and the other ended.

As a noble, Kiva would never have been allowed to join the Miska, a unit of all-female warriors known for their unparalleled swordsmanship.

I sat up, asking carefully, “All this because your mother married?”

Kiva snorted. “All this because she married a Northman from beyond the Cut, and for barely a day.”

“Before they forced her to leave?”

“Before they killed him.”

I recoiled. “You’ve never told me this.”

“It’s not really mine to tell,” she said softly. “But I think I needed to.”

Sliding off the bed, I came to sit cross-legged before her. Her sword lay between us, a ripple of night against my bright carpet.

“We can name it?” I suggested. “Not for the reasons they would, but in spite of them. Maybe something from the old language. Don’t the Northmen still speak it?”

She nodded, the shadows in her eyes receding. “My mother tried to teach me. I don’t know much.” Her brow furrowed before a grin spread across her lips.

“I’ll name it Sinvarra.” The old-language word was like a growl in her throat. “It means spite.”

Ten

Caliza had organized most of my packing. She’d even supervised the removal of clothes from my closet, ensuring no one so much as touched the armoire drawer hiding the egg. The morning of my departure, all I had to do was wrap the egg in as many blankets as I could find and settle it gently into a trunk.

The idea of taking it on such a long journey, deep into enemy territory, made my stomach turn. But Caliza had been right. I was our best bet.