Page 101 of White Raven

I’d never had a thrall treat me with disdain, as though I was the one below her status.

“You do not speak to me in such a way. I may not be a friend here, but I am still the White Raven.”

“Respect?” She scoffed, shaking her head. “Your kind doesn’t deserve respect.”

“Excuse me?” I blinked at her in shock. I knew many Day Ravens who were prejudiced against the Night Ravens, but it was disconcerting to hear it against us. “What did we do?”

She puffed up, anger shooting from her gaze.

“My boy was caught by your kind . . . turned into a thrall . . . and was murdered by your king.” She spat at my feet. I froze up, spotting the pain through her anger.

“I am truly sorry for your son, but don’t you do the same to us? Are we not someone’s sons and daughters?”

“What would you know about that?” she sneered. “You know nothing of true pain and loss.” She motioned around. “Look around you. You are in the queen’s rooms. Even your prison is gilded.”

A nice bed didn’t make up for the fact I was being forced to marry and carry the heir of my enemy against my will. However, I knew she wouldn’t see that as a sacrifice.

“I will do my duty for my king, but don’t expect me to be pleasant to you, girl.” She sneered. “We should have a Night Raven as our queen. Not you.” She slammed out of the door, the lock clicking over soon after.

I stood in the middle of the room, feeling so utterly alone and lost. I didn’t belong here, but being back home didn’t sit as comfortably as before. I had learned too much, seen too many things that no longer fit in the narrative I was taught.

I was starting to think I didn’t belong anywhere.

The room was stifling yet my arms wrapped around each other, guarding against the chill growing in my chest.

Several minutes later, a knock came on the door, interrupting my solitude. The door unlocked, and a cluster of women in red apron-style dresses over gray tunics with black ravens embroidered on the front bustled in bearing buckets of hot water. They hustled to the privy, filling the tub with water, before fluttering around me, undoing the dirty, knotted braids in my hair and tugging at the blue apron dress.

“Huginn-Muninn!” one exclaimed. “Look at her hair . . . it’s like the moonlight!”

A tall woman appearing to be the eldest out of the group, which still didn’t give her more than a handful of years over me, clapped her hands at the other girls and they quickly snapped to attention, shoving me to the bath, stripping me of clothing like they were plucking a turkey and setting me in a simmering pot. The steaming water wrapped around me as I lowered myself in the tub, resigning myself to the act since I understood this was not a fight I could win. When a king gave orders, no one could overrule them.

Like a puppet on a string, they drew up my arms and moved me around, scouring away the dirt and blood. I had no control over myself. Nothing about me was private, like I wasn’t anything more than an object.

The handmaidens’ thick northern accents were a little hard to follow, but I understood they were whispering about the oddity of my pale skin, my silvery hair and light eyes.

A young girl of maybe thirteen, with curly, auburn hair, moved to the side of the tub, lifting my hair away from my back.

“Huginn . . .” She breathed when I leaned forward for her to wash, her hand touching the tattoo between my shoulder blades. “The Helm of Awe. It’s so beautiful. Did it hurt to put there? I heard that spot it so sensitive when you put pressu⁠—”

“Sassa!” the eldest snapped, her head shaking, like she shouldn’t be interacting with me.

“Sorry Meya.” She put her head down, addressing the one in charge. They returned to being aghast at the infected wound in my bicep where the Jackal cut into it, the bruises and lacerations marring me after all the struggles I had been through. Very un-queenly.

Oddly, it was those things I felt proud of: Not my light hair or my blue-grey eyes, but the war wounds. It made me feel strong, like I was no longer that fragile White Raven who trained with wooden swords and fictitious attacks overseen by my father and Yanric.

I had killed men. I had saved a Northerner’s life. I fought against thieves, abductors, and cannibals.

And survived.

Sassa’s cloth paused at my throat, her mouth dropping open again, her eyes widening.

“Huginn-Muninn . . .” she whisper-hissed, like I wouldn’t hear her. “That’s his mark.” She turned to the rest. “She has the hersir’s mark.”

“Stop being silly, Sassa,” Meya, the lead handmaiden, chided from her position on the other side of me.

“Look!”

“Huginn jævel Muninn . . .” A girl who had to be Sassa’s sister, judging by the same heart-shaped face and curls, clasped her mouth, intrigue and excitement widening her eyes. It was obvious she was a few years older, with a curvier figure.