Page 154 of Spring Guardians & Songbirds

A hand wrapped around my wrist when I caught a leaflet. One of my guards held me tightly while he pried the paper from my hand. “It is time to return to the castle, Princess.”

He stilled, his whole body raking with a tremble. “My paper,” I said, holding a hand up at him while the other held the dagger etched just a little inch on his gut. Once the crumpled leaflet was tucked in nicely between my breasts, I pulled the blade back and wiped it on his sleeve. “Touch me again. I haven't gutted an ice block in ages. Dying to see your heart melt in my hand.”

Sure, father would be made aware of every single detail of my adventures and my findings, but there was very little I cared about and very little he could do, really.

In the privacy of my chambers, I smoothed the crinkled paper and sat by the fireplace while I took in every word of madness inked in it.

It took me a moment to process that I’d really read what I did. The grave talks about not believing and losing faith. The punishment and the odd nonsensical detail of being a non-believer. The use of kingdom funds to enrich Isjord with temples. Nothing made sense. Why was father looking to force and make his people into believers?

I’d chewed half of my fingernails off before deciding to throw my cloak on and make way to a side of the castle that had probably fermented under dust. There was something I needed to confirm.

Another set of guards waiting for me outside my room and the first thing that struck me was how idiotic father must think me to be. The two were not even remotely Isjordian.

“Umbra?” I asked with a raised brow, and the two tensed. “No, let me guess. Empaths.” When I clapped my hands together, one flinched. Adriatians and that was certain.

“Not sure what you are talking about, Your Highness.”

“Sure you don’t,” I said, strutting down the corridors and onto the piercing chill of the winter night.

Whispers began itching my ears as the two guards argued with one another when they noticed where I was heading.

“You are not meant to leave the main castle quarters of the castle at this hour,” one said.

“As you see, I am. And what will you do?” By this point, I don’t think I cared.

None made a move to stop me when I reached my destination. Just as I'd expected, there were lit torches and snowless paths instead of cobwebs and dead prayers in the old forgotten gates of the castle temple. The altar path was squeaky clean, all statues of guardians were freed of their cobweb scarves and mossy coats. Now you could vividly see the deception, not only feel it lingering in the dirty air filled with prayers of the wicked.

A hooded figure stood kneeled before a gilded stone dais where a tall figure of Krig sat. When I was young, I’d come here and paint moustaches on him with charcoal and a faint grey line above his upper lip was still visible. Should have given him nose hair instead, he still looked handsome with facial hair.

The smell of mint and trickery hit me first before the thick taste of dark magic. “Changed faith so soon, Mel dear?” I asked, kneeling beside her. Two fingers to my brow and two to my heart, I murmured the holy greeting to Krig. I might have added a vulgar word at the end since Alaric had taught me to personalise my prayers to feel closer to our faith. If there was one god I held the most grudge against, it had to be him. The one who claimed to see all yet let my father call all cruelty alive in his name.

She pushed the hood back. “What brings you to faith again?”

Fishing the flyer from my corset, I gave it to her. “Father. Isn’t he just inspiring?”

Her temple twitched just the slightest. “He is. To restore faith in a forgotten land is a great act on his part. A rewardable one.”

A town of clowns this place was. “It is. A grand one, actually. But who would have thought? My father, a believer?”

“Say what you want to say, Snowlin.”

I plucked the flyer back from her. “Your hair is terrible and clothes in that colour wash you out entirely. You have to stop letting a five-year-old dress you in the morning and your gardener shear your locks, sweet lamb.” Gesturing the holy greeting again to Krig, I stood. “If father wants the attention of the divine, he ought to stop playing god in the first place. They don’t bode well with human competition.” Fader had been robbed of a lover he could have easily replaced and stomped around like a child, throwing tantrums that have cost the realm millions. Imagine if they were stolen respect.

“He doesn’t want their attention. He doesn’t need divine attention. Not when he commands it the same as them.”

That made me stop. My eyes drifted to the flyer. How had I not noticed? The priest. The preaching. Aurora. Ruining Numengarth. There was no mention of Krig, no mention of Hodr. They were not the pieces of greed—they were the ladder to his position amongst gods. Claim Numengarth as his realm. He did want to become god. By proxy. He was making Krig his proxy.

He’d lost his damn mind.

I turned to her. “You and your aunt were inseparable from one another. Why did you choose to stay in Isjord after your mother died when you could have become the Grand Maiden’s second?”

“I’d already made one choice. To stay and serve your father.”

My attention perked. “But you soon betrayed him, and he hung you. For betrayal. Because you betrayed him. See where I’m going with this?”

Her stare turned cold, the old foxy mask slipping on. Or perhaps off. You never knew with this one. “A slip from my behalf. I deserve the punishment I got.”

That made me snort and then blast with laughter. “Oh, hen, you’re insane. Truly.”