Page 31 of Winter Gods & Serpents

Winter court: eight lords, an Auran commander, three generals. Anything regarding all matter crosses there, if it is done in secret any position of any of those twelve will have you close enough to it. Gabriel Olsen. His past is foible. He is your way into the Winter court. Alaric’s voice beamed inside my head while I marched towards the training grounds.

Despite the many participators, the air shifted silently. A small crowd gathered by the far ledges of the pits and in the balconies of the castle overlooking the courts. A few officials, Samuel, Elias, my uncle, and Reuben among them. Cai positioned aside them, ready to any unwanted move whilst Nia had taken the opportunity of the distraction to visit the Bruma halls, her most recent obsession.

The general, Gabriel, sat in a stool laughing in all his arrogance and confidence, surrounded by other soldiers. “I thought you had changed your mind, princess,” he said, peaking a glance towards the balconies where now my father graced us with his presence.

“No, but you still have time to change yours. Awfully embarrassing, wouldn’t that be? Losing to me?”

A sneer took the place of his crocked smile. “I remember when you were young, how many times they would flog you right in these courts for that character.”

My mood now faltered; flashes of memory send waves of trembles down my body. They would clap—the soldiers would clap and laugh as Renick’s whip hit and marked my skin, as he marked my soul with it too. My attention diverted to where he was standing in the balcony, still the posture of someone who owed me.

“You could never tame an Olympian beast let alone one of their whores, their cunts had mouths of their own. Shame they rest in bones, might have tried to tame one myself,” he bit with an oily grin.

The last words returned my breath and fury, snapping me to reality. I unbuttoned my jacked and hung it neatly to a pole. I unsheathed my brother's sword, the sound of magic tingled in my ear and again Eren’s presence danced around it, feather weigh in my hands while I swung it back and forth a few couple of times.

When my brother was born, the heir to the throne of Isjord, people around the kingdom had brought presents and gifts in his honour, one of the eldest forgers in Isjord had gifted him the silver hilted sword, an elegant beauty carved in vines and intricate designs with a deep blue sapphire at the centre of the hilt. The sword outmatched any jewellery or decoration of kings and queens, but its sharpness and craftiness one of the deadliest, it could cut and slice air itself. The forger had been an Aura himself; he’d claimed no magic laced the weapon, but I could feel the tangy remnants every time I unsheathed it, the ring of the metal heavily unnatural. After the attack, Alaric had brought it to me, it was now mine, it made me feel as if Eren was protecting me himself. I could have sworn every time I wielded it, a hand laid on top of mine giving my swings more strength. A piece of him, my brother, it always went with me.

“First to draw blood,” father called from the balcony. If blood is what he wanted to see blood I would give him.

Incite him. He must put up a fight, you have to look like you struggled otherwise your father will stop the challenge.

“Never tamed an Isjordian hog before either,” I said, stretching my neck. “I’d always thought they had thick brains and writhed under pressure, but it happens they have piss mouths and poor wits.”

His face wrinkled in a heated tension and disdain at my words as he unsheathed his own sword. Gabriel was tall and thrice my weight, to him I was easy prey, but traps did not have to be big to catch a plump mouse.

First attack was his, rough like a grizzly and just as wild. He swung his sword powerfully, the air cut in a whistle, his blade not meeting mine even once. My lightness of foot and nimbleness came to my advantage as his steel repeatedly met nothing but air. He was indeed the grand general my father spoke of; his mastery of the steel was impeccable, he was well trained but relied heavily on his size and weight, something not very smart in the art of fighting.

Duck, evade, incite.

Alaric words made me laugh as I ducked under his hit and said, “Not much in courts, too much in taverns, I see. The White Spade, was it not? Every other day you start with brandy.” I finally halted and caught his blade with mine getting close so only he could hear me. “Then ale, goat stew, but the goat must be of Modr, you said the flesh of mountain goats tastes sweeter. After, you have one last glass of whiskey and onto Iris House for a dive with miss Helga the madame of the brothel, your personal favourite.”

His expression wide and ghastly and mine amused.

Nia had not missed a single detail in her research and neither had Alaric when he suggested my way into winter court. Alaric had made me aware Gabriel was the easiest pride to wound in Winter court, the most hate for foul mouthiness, irked by women who didn’t know their place and the general with most flaws to use in my leverage. He is my way in. Every day Nia kept close watch, following him in and out of taverns, brothels, shops, and all sorts. By today, I knew him to his spiral tail.

He wavered, face completely red, sweat coating his clothing thickly, his eyes lost and dazed while he struggled to stand straight.

“Is there something the matter, Gabriel?” The answer was yes, something was wrong. Nia meticulously placed frost thorn in his food and drinks to weaken him. She slipped through the shadows, her magic aiding to poison him for days. Nia was not only gifted in magic, but in wits too. The generals had weekly health checks from medi and magi healers who might detect it in his system easily, but frost thorn had an alcohol toxin and considering the amount of alcohol the general consumed it would slip by as a glass of salt water in a well. I was not a fool to head onto a duel without armour and with an Isjordian at that, no matter my skills.

I twirled around as if dancing with him avoiding all his blows till he panted breathless and probably dizzy too. Right where I wanted him. His eyes narrowed in confusion, finally stopped underestimating me. An applause to the hog.

Once he has put all his might, threaten.

“Does your wife know of miss Helga and your two bastards in Venzor?” I finally shot, and he staggered back in bewilderment.

His nostrils flaring while he charged forward, and I caught his heavy blow this time. Swiftly sliding my blade down his, sending sparks flying at the friction and in a quick motion I spun around and slammed the back of his knee with my heel causing him to half kneel in the ground. Gasps filled the air, but the show had yet to end.

Provocation causes distraction. Status wins above all in Isjord—harm his position you have threatened his life.

“You bitch, how dare you play dirty with me?” he groaned, holding his knee. He turned, and I waved my sword up, motioning him to stand. I had just started and not yet spent my fun from this game.

“All is fair between hogs and pretty decorations.”

He stood confused and struck again meeting my blade, his blows softer. He halted a moment for air, measuring me and my intentions before striking again. “Let’s hope the Adriatians won’t mind another scar on that face, for I’ll carve it out myself.”

“Hope your wife likes hog ball soup, I shall deliver her some myself as a victory gift. Or she might do that herself when my friend reaches her door along with the news. Aren’t you married to the daughter of Kalius Modr, lovely Freja? What will he have to say to that? You lose your position or your life, decide, end this quick and you might get home before she does.”

His eyes shot wide. “Relying on petty tricks to have your win?”