TEARS, ALE, AND BLOOD
“The moment you raise your fist, you have already declared war. The moment you stand in defiance, you have already chosen your enemy. But war is never fought on the battlefield alone, it begins in the silence, in the spaces between words, where no one dares to stand beside you.”
—Láda Veléša, Goddess of Leadership and War
Noël
Iwas here not long ago, buying ale for Winter’s Farewell. My mother taught me from a young age the importance of that day, a time to celebrate surviving the brutal cold and to honor those we lost along the way. In our village, the homes of the fortunate were adorned with early spring flowers, a mark of gratitude after making it through another winter. For mourning families, it was a day of reflection, their homes left bare, the silence louder than any decoration.
Some families hosted feasts, sharing what they had as a symbol of endurance and resilience. My mother believed in the act of giving, and she always made it a point to gift a meal orwarm fabric to those grieving their loved ones, a gesture that spoke to her view that community is a bond stronger than any season. She was always so different from the others in Tárnov, or even the soldiers from other villages who came to train with us at the base.
Our own house would be filled with the smell of freshly baked bread and the ale set out for any weary traveler who might pass by, because my mother believed that even in hardship we must show kindness. She would say that we are all bound by the same cycle of life, death, and renewal. It has been a tradition in our family for many generations.
The familiar musty air of the inn, and the scent of vodka, settles around me. The heavy door closes behind me with a thud, and for a moment, the world outside feels far away. But as I make my way to the bar, Nina’s words haunt the edges of my thoughts.
My mother,afraid. The idea feels wrong. Nina saw something in her, something I didn’t. What did I miss? Why didn’t I press Nina for more?
But what else would she say? Mother barely spoke with anyone.
I slide onto a worn wooden stool, and the bar creaks under my weight as I press my elbows into it. The innkeeper’s wiping down the counter, his back to me and his shoulders hunched as if the air in here weighs him down too.
I catch my reflection in the dusty mirror behind the bar. Hollow eyes, pale skin, my dark hair one big mess. The grief has etched itself into my face so deeply I barely recognize myself.
“An ale, please,” I murmur, my voice rasping from the dryness in my throat.
The innkeeper grunts in acknowledgment, his movements mechanical as he pulls a bottle from the shelf and pours the drink. I stare at the liquid as it sloshes into the cup, golden andbitter. I’ve never been fond of ale. My mother used to say it dulled the mind. But tonight, that’s what I need.
I pay with one silver coin. It’s too much for one cup, but I don’t have less. The innkeeper tosses the change, a few copper coins, onto the bar, and I let them rest where they are. As I sip the drink, the burn spreads down my throat, but it doesn’t take away the pain in my chest. Ale can’t answer the questions running through my mind. It can’t bring my mother back. It can’t erase the fear that something far worse than I know is hiding beneath the surface of Tárnov.
The barmaid moves like a ghost, her eyes flicking to mine as she passes. They’re tired, but in them there’s something like... understanding. She doesn’t ask how I’m doing. She knows. Women in Tárnov always know when to stay silent.
I take another sip as I scan the room. A few men sit in the far corner, their faces dark in shadow. One of them catches my gaze. Commander Barric from the tsar’s court. I remember him from the day I met the tsar. He was standing at a distance, and he even smiled at me then. But now, he holds my eye for a moment too long to be casual, then turns away. A prickle of unease crawls down my spine.
When I set my cup down, the dull thud against the wood barely registers over the pounding in my chest. Everything feels different tonight. Or maybe it’s just me that’s different.
The door creaks behind me.
“Noël, darling, you look sweeter than ever.”
The voice grates on my nerves before I even turn to look at him. Arnold, the commander of the newbies’ troop. If you could even call him a commander. After a few loud steps and a smack to the barmaid’s behind, he leans on the bar, his grin as oily as the smears on the counter. He brushes his hair back in a way he must think looks charming. It doesn’t.
“Did you miss me?” he asks, his voice cloying and irritating. “Even when you’re grieving, you’re a beauty.”
My skin prickles with annoyance, but I don’t let it show. I know what Arnold’s doing—needling me, waiting for me to crack. He’s always been like this, even back when he was my superior. Back when I was just another soldier under his command, working twice as hard for half the respect. He’s the kind of man who thinks power comes from the uniform, not from the person wearing it.
I told my mother everything about him. Every smug remark, every ugly smile, every time he tried to undermine me. I can’t count the nights I’d gone home, ranting about the way he treated me. How he always found a way to turn every little thing into a battle for dominance. She always told me to be careful, to not let his bitterness drag me down. She knew the kind of man he is, maybe better than I do.
He leans closer, his breath hot with the stench of vodka and tobacco. “You’ve been working too hard, Noël.” His eyes rake over me like I’m some prize he’s entitled to. “You should smile more. It wouldn’t hurt to show a little softness now and then. Might even win you a few points with the higher-ups.”
I can’t help the tiny bit of rage that rises in my chest. Smile? Softness? What would he know about surviving in this world with nothing but grit and strength? He’s never had to prove himself like I have, never had to claw his way up from the bottom while everyone told him he didn’t belong.
Because I’m a woman, and women don’t belong in the army.
I turn to face him fully, locking eyes with him and projecting a calm I don’t feel. “I smile when there’s a reason to, Arnold. Your face isn’t one.”
He chuckles. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. You’ve always had that fire. But you know... you’d do a lot better if you stoppedpretending to be one of the men. Femininity suits a woman like you. A pretty face and eyes like a rotten tree.”
I grip the edge of the bar to keep myself grounded. If he weren’t so predictable, I’d laugh at how wrong he is.
