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‘Seems as though the villager that shot at you was terrified to see that the king had sent his envoys to retrieve him for tax evasion,’ Percival, Areanel’s twin, laughed. He approached, dragging a dwarven male by the collar of his neck, forcing him to kneel.

Areanel rolled her eyes at the name—envoys. Something the commoners had begun to call the General and her cadre. ‘Why do they insist on calling us that?’ She scowled at the male before her.

‘Y-you are the Great Elven King, Aerileas’s messengers—his envoys,’ the male stammered pathetically.

Percival snickered, gloved hand rising to cover his mouth. Areanel sent him a withering glare. ‘It was a rhetorical question,’ she deadpanned. ‘Did you find anything?’ she questioned Percival, completely disregarding the dwarven male’s presence.

Percival shook his head in answer. ‘He’s not here.’

Areanel rolled her neck, loosening the tense knot at her nape. A cracking sound popped, and she sighed in relief. ‘Contain the fire. Secure the prisoner. Search the rubble. Tell Sevain to start relocating the villagers.’

‘As you say, sissy.’ Percival gave her a mocking bow before turning on his heel and strutting off, no doubt to relay her orders.

‘Please, my lady,’ the dwarven male begged. Areanel had forgotten he was even there. ‘This village is a safe haven for outcasts. You will find all sorts of different creatures here, from elves, humans and sprites to dwarves, faeries and nymphs. We come and go as we please. We live in peace. Most of us are traders. If you allow us to go to Cal Cathlar, we—’

‘Trying to run, are we?’ Areanel taunted. Did this male honestly think her father would allow them to escape to Cal Cathlar? The king would sooner fall on his sword than let the newly governed state gain the upper hand.

The corners of her lips threatened to pull into a sly smile. Maybe she could use him for her own advantage. What had Percival said? He was hiding from her father?

‘I assure you, my lady, I had every intention of paying my dues. I am a faithful servant. Always.’ His posturing was beginning to annoy Areanel.

Huffing, she crossed her arms, unimpressed. ‘You are faithful to my father? I find that hard to believe.’ A calm, assuring presence brushed against Areanel’s mind, and from the corner of her eye, she watched as a pure white coat of fur—like freshly fallen snow—inched menacingly closer.

‘Please, my lady,’ the man whimpered as Winter—far larger than an average wolf—towered over him. ‘Please, I beg of you, my lady!’

Teeth, too large to be natural, snapped and snarled at the side of the cowering male’s face, and Areanel laughed. ‘Winter is right.’ She stroked her bonded wolf’s flank, the fur soft beneath her fingers. ‘I should carve your tongue out for calling me that.’

My lady. The title had every one of her nerves bristling. Maybe her brother Silas was right to call her a beast? It was as though her hackles raised at the way this male addressed her. She had earned her moniker—fought tooth and nail for it. Most thought that because she was a mother that she had gone soft. No. Maybe at one point, but not after her son had been taken from her.

Areanel’s heart had hardened, and she would rather die than let this—or any—male patronise her.

Slowly, she unsheathed her curved blade from her side. Bringing the tip to rest just beneath his chin, Areanel applied a small amount of pressure—not enough to break the skin, but enough for him to know exactly what she would do if he were to move.

‘General.’ The rigid set of her jaw and clipped tone were a clear indicator that this male was walking a fine line towards death. All that stood in his way was her. ‘You will call me General. I earned that title,’ she hissed in his face. ‘Do you understand?’

His throat bobbed in a gulp, and he trembled. ‘Yes, General.’

‘Good.’ Areanel released her hold on him. Playfully twirling her blade between her fingers, she leaned her weight onto Winter’s side, posture languid, relaxed—a stark contrast to her derisive tone. ‘Now that’s out of the way, I would like to know what you know.’

‘Know? My la—’ He quickly corrected himself when Winter let out a low, threatening snarl. ‘I don’t understand, General.’

‘You cannot have slipped away from the city without help.’ Cocking her head to the side, she stared at the male curiously. ‘And I have it on good authority that this village is not just known for its trading. You haven’t heard anything about that, have you?’

‘I-I…’ he stammered.

‘Think about your answer very carefully. Unfortunately for you, I am less merciful than my brother Percival. If you lie to me, I will cut out more than just your tongue. I came across an interesting piece of information; care to give me some clarity, since you have been hiding within this community for some time now?’

‘How did you—’ the fool blubbered.

‘Know that?’ The corners of Areanel’s mouth lifted into a sinister smile. ‘Well now, there’s not much that can be hidden from my spies.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper on the last word as she leaned further into his space.

The male’s ruddy cheeks reddened, his eyes darting to the trees surrounding them before landing on Winter, who stood tall and mountainous at the General’s back. ‘And you won’t have your wolf kill me?’ he asked, voice a pathetic quiver.

Areanel tilted her head, gaze searching the dwarven male’s face. She noted the way his eyes crinkled at the corners and wondered what he could have in his life that made him so happy. ‘It’s a misconception,’ she said. ‘They were gifted to me by the Elvadora—the gods. Many think I control my wolves—they are my soul-bonded, after all—but I don’t. Winter here is more ferocious than her brothers. If she wants to devour you as her next meal, I have no say in that. But…’ Areanel paused, making a show of pretending to think. ‘I can suggest she doesn’t.’

‘Please!’ the male begged.

Areanel wondered if he was praying to the Elvadora. But which one? The God of Life, Edre—begging for his life and mercy from the gentle god? Or was he accepting his fate, ready to meet Andas, the God of Death? Areanel doubted that either god would listen to him. Why would they? They had never answered her prayers. Never listened to her. Even when she begged for them to take her older brother Silas’s pain when his disease threatened to swallow him whole. Or when she pleaded for the gods to show mercy when her eldest brother Ivan had been killed in battle.