The stench of sour wine, cheap ale, wood smoke, and the expensive perfume of the visiting royal was a suffocating shroud in the dimly lit inn. The ale-soaked floorboards of The Frozen Tankard felt like ice beneath her thin soles, but the chill in her bones was more than the Northern winter. It was a cold that had started the day Nadin turned his back on her and a seven-month-old belly, leaving her to the mercy of the West. Now, as she moved between the rowdy tables of the inn working the tables, tired to her bones, her eyes caught the sparkle of the Princess's jewels. She watched in amusement as the princess tilted her back to laugh. A quick graceful movement and a soft melodic sound. Her throat was bared and draped in jewels that could buy a small village; and beside her lay a heavy coin purse. Maja swallowed hard. In the shadows of the hearth, Gael's quiet whimpers were being drowned out by the roar of drunkards, a sound that made the milk in Maja's breast ache with a heavy, useless throb. She was a Ssyelma—eight daughters deep in a lineage of pride—now reduced to a ghost in a threadbare tunic, scavenging for scraps in a land that hated her blood. Her eyes remained locked on the Princess's purse as she navigated her way towards the table; a shimmering heartbeat of gold against the grime of the North. To anyone else,it was jewelry; to Maja, it was a ticket out of the freezing hell of the Niihtne. She didn't care about the laws of men or the ancient feuds of her father. As she reached for the silk, her fingers didn't tremble with guilt; they burned with the feral, jagged hunger of a mother who had already buried her heart in the mud of Nadin's betrayal and refused to bury her daughter next to it.
"Just one", she told herself. "Just enough to get Gael through the month."
With the practiced grace of a predator born of necessity, Maja's hand darted towards the silk purse resting on the velvet bench. Her fingers brushed the cold, hard edges of coin and gemstone. With the quick sliver of unnoticed movement, she settled the purse in her pocket and grabbed the empty trays and glasses off the Princess's table. The weight of the stolen purse in her pocket felt heavier than the year-and-a-half-old daughter she had tucked into a pile of grain sacks in the kitchen.
Every time a Chraoptelan trader laughed or a soldier slammed a fist on the wood, Maja's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs—not out of fear for her own life, but for Gael's. She had once known the warmth of a hearth, but tonight, she was merely a shadow with nimble fingers, waiting to vanish into the snow.
Just as she turned the corner into the kitchen, a hand like a vice clamped onto her wrist. The laughter at the royal table died instantly.
"The help in the North is quite bold, isn't it?" The voice was a jagged blade. It belonged to the Princess's lead guard, a man whose eyes held the same predatory glint Maja had seen in the wolves of the Niihtne.He twisted her arm, forcing her to her knees. The brooch she had already hidden skittered across the floor, its silver glinting like an accusation under the torchlight. The room exploded into a chorus of gasps and jeers.From the kitchen, a thin, sharp wail pierced the silence—Gael was awake.
"Please," Maja gasped, the word tasting like ash. She looked toward the kitchen door, her eyes wide with a terror that had nothing to do with the shackles waiting for her. She struggled hard against the guard. Obviously agitated, the guard threw her onto the center table, scattering flagons of ale.
The Princess stood up. She didn't just want her jewelry back; she wanted an example. She stood over Maja, the silk of her gown brushing against the filth of the inn floor. "A Ssyelma," the Princess sneered, lifting Maja's chin with the tip of a fan made of ivory and bone. "My father says your people are like weeds—leave one alone, and ten more sprout in the garden. This one has already sprouted a seedling." She gestured to the kitchen, where a guard emerged holding a squirming, crying Gael by the scruff of her tunic.
"No!" Maja shrieked, lunging forward. The lead guard slammed his boot into Maja's stomach, pinning her to the floor. The air left her lungs in a wheeze, her vision blurring into red. "My daughter. Please, she has nothing to do with this."
"A thief and a breeder of more thieves," the guard spat.
"In the Iron Reach, we don't just prune the weed," the Princess whispered, leaning down. "We burn the roots. Executioner, take the child first. Let the mother watch. It is a mercy to the world."
The room held its breath. The guard raised a heavy, blunt axe. Maja tried to scream, but only a choked, bloody sound escaped her throat.
"A heavy price for a trinket, Princess Isolde," a voice rang out, cold as a mountain spring.An older woman stepped forward but she wasn't alone. Two of her household guards, wearing the black-and-silver livery of Vaelenridge, flanked her. Her silver hair braided tight like a crown, she was draped in charcoal-coloured wool and furs white as the tundra and her posture straighter than any soldier's. She didn't look like a savior; she looked like a judge. She held up a small, wax-sealed scroll—a trade charter. She didn't look at the guard, or the Princess. Her eyes—dark, intelligent, and oddly weary—were fixed entirely on Maja.
"She is a thief caught in the act!" Isolde barked. "She belongs to the noose!" The guard hesitated, the tip of his blade still hovering inches from Maja's skin. "That woman and the child belong to the House of Vaelenridge," Othella stated, her voice projecting to every corner of the room.
The name Vaelenridge sent a ripple of hushed whispers through the room. The guard's bravado evaporated. He withdrew the dagger, though his gaze remained venomous. "My apologies, Lady Othella. I did not realize she was under your... protection."
"She is my confidential informant," Othella lied, her eyes never wavering. "She was testing your security at my request. It seems your guards are... adequate, if a bit slow."
The room went silent. It was a bold, dangerous lie. If Maja spoke or faltered, the lie would collapse. Othella stepped closer to the table where Maja was pinned. She reached out, not to the Princess, but toward Maja's neck. With a flick of her fingers, she hooked a thin, grimy cord hidden beneath Maja's tunic. She pulled it just enough to reveal a small, tarnished wooden pendant—a Ssyelman crest of a rising crane.
Othella's breath hitched, a tiny sound lost in the roar of the inn. Her eyes met Maja's.
"What is your name, girl?" Othella whispered, her voice suddenly private, intense.
Maja swallowed the copper taste of fear. "Maja," she rasped. "Eighth daughter of the House of Valerius." She leaned in close, her voice a whisper only Maja could hear: "If you want to live, look at her like you're bored, not terrified. Play the part, Ssyelma." Othella then turned back to the Princess. "The brooch is returned. Your pride is intact. But if you insist on blood, I will offer you gold instead. This charter grants your father's merchants tax-free passage through the Northern Straits for five years. That is worth ten thousand silver brooches. Is your 'justice' worth more than your father's treasury?"
The Princess froze. The greed in her eyes began to duel with her pride. Five years of tax-free trade was a fortune.
Othella stepped closer, dropping her voice so only the royals could hear. "Or, you can kill her. And I will personally see to it that every ship flying your flag is boarded and burned before it reaches the harbor. I am a widow, Princess. I have nothing but time and a very long memory."
The Princess snatched the scroll from Othella's hand, her face contorted. She looked at the guard holding Gael and gave a sharp, jerky nod. The guard dropped the baby like she was trash. Maja crawled through the sawdust, her fingers scraping the floor until she reached Gael, pulling the sobbing child into her chest. She looked up at Othella, expecting to see pity. Instead, she saw a woman who had just made a very expensive, very dangerous investment. Othella reached down, offering a gloved hand to Maja. Maja stared at it, her heart still hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked at the woman's face—noted the fine lines of age, the sharpness of her jaw, and the strange, piercing kindness in her eyes that Maja hadn't seen since she left her father's house.
"The child," Maja rasped, her voice breaking. "I won't leave without my daughter."
"I did not ask you to," Othella said softly. "Pick up your bundle, Maja. The carriage is waiting, and the North is no place for a Ssyelma to sleep tonight."
Ten minutes later, Maja found herself pressed into the velvet cushions of a carriage, Gael wrapped tightly in her arms. The heat from the charcoal foot-warmer seeped into her frozen toes, a sensation so foreign it almost felt like pain. Outside, the inn vanished into the swirling white void of the blizzard.
Othella sat across from her, watching the way Maja guarded the baby. "You are wondering why," the older woman said, breaking the silence.
"I am wondering what the price is," Maja countered, her voice hardening. "No one in the North gives for free. Not to my kind."
Othella leaned back, a small, sad smile playing on her lips. "The price is simple, Maja. You will work, you will learn, and you will live. My house is large, and my children... well, my children believe that the Ssyelma and Chraoptelans are nothing but trouble. I am looking for someone to prove them wrong."
"I am a bunch of trouble," Maja eyed the older woman.
Othella only scoffed. "A woman who steals for a child is not a
criminal; she is a lioness."