A Whisper of Night

3.1 || SCIROCCA 🍃

"This won't be tolerated!" shrieked Daeron, as Scirocca's blade pricked the skin of his neck. "My father will be furious! My father - "

" - will be embarrassed, no doubt, that his son was defeated by my daughter, despite all his boasting." King Sirok strode from the perimeter of the courtyard, his crown glittering beneath the setting sun. "Now, I believe you have the price of defeat to pay? Scira, let him up. We wouldn't want him to dirty that tunic."

Scirocca stepped back and sheathed her sword. Daeron scrambled to his feet, his hair disheveled and his cheeks burning red.

"Your finest falcons will be expected on the morrow," the King said, "along with the sapphire my daughter has been eyeing and one more favor of her choosing. Thank you, Daeron. You made a valiant attempt."

Lie, Scirocca thought, as her suitor bowed stiffly and stormed from the courtyard. The Heir of Anuta had fought the way he spoke, with too many flourishes for anyone's taste. At this rate, if her father kept making her fight suitors, she wouldn't marry until she was forty.

"Well," King Sirok said. He smiled at his daughter, his hazel eyes almost green. "Let's get you inside."

She followed wordlessly, her fingers fidgeting over the scabbard of her sword. It'd grown heavy over the last few years, weighed down by the eleven jewels her suitors had lost to her. She would barely have room for Daeron's sapphire. Twelve is a holy number, she thought. Maybe I'll be married with the next suitor. The idea was empty though, the shell of a dream long abandoned.

"You should sleep," Sirok said, giving her the semblance of a fatherly smile. "We depart early on the morrow. Go ask your sister how she is, won't you?"

She nodded again, and Sirok strode off, his head held high. Although the crown he wore was as heavy as Scirocca's scabbard, it never seemed to weigh him down. Nor did anything, now that she thought about it. Sirok had never been one to dwell on problems.

"Merocca?" she asked, as she crossed the fourth landing. The climb up the Crown's Tower always stole her breath. When she was little, she'd run up and down the steps twenty times a day to strengthen herself – her thighs were a testament to that. She reached her sister's door. "Are you in there?"

"Go away!" the younger girl shrieked, as Scirocca raised her hand to knock on the door. "I don't want you in here!"

Scirocca sighed – she couldn't blame her sister. Mera's disease had just made a turn for the worse. The last time she'd seen her, she'd looked more dead than living, her translucent skin stretched taut over her jagged bones. The doctors had yet to name the sickness.

"Father and I are leaving tomorrow," she said through the door, although Merocca probably couldn't care less. "We're going to Aitma."

Sirok had been dragging Scirocca to Aitma once a week for the last month. Rumor had it that he was consorting with the alchemists there, arming himself in the case of war.

There's been news from Valchtnalla, he'd told her right after Merocca's fourteenth birthday. His face, so joyous as he sang to Mera, had fallen into a mask of worried ridges. The Lady Regent has been talking of rebellion. Nothing good will come of this, I tell you.

And his word had proven true - none of Scirocca's journeys to Aitma had been close to pleasant.

Scirocca went to bed dreading the trip, but the morning was gentle. A hazy light drifted warmly over the green foothills as a light breeze danced through the stalks of dry grass. Peasants in their fields looked up as Sirok's party rode past, their backs loaded down with their harvests.

They crossed the Yiwyrna River by mid-afternoon. Scorvald – the Lion Queen's realm – was extremely close now, too close for Scirocca's liking.

They entered the Elveswood just as the sun kissed the edge of the ground.

Scirocca loved the forest. The wind seemed to hum through the canopy of branches, as if the woods were singing in a language of their own. The dying sun's light danced as she rode, flaming over the ancient, gnarled roots.

Legend had it that elves lived in the Elveswood many years ago, although they'd gone into hiding with the coming of the humans.

Scirocca didn't believe such stories. If elves were truly as powerful as the stories claimed, they would've stopped the conquerors before they'd even set foot beneath the trees. If there was one thing her training had taught her, it was that mercy had no place in combat.

They made it through the Elveswood at sundown. She could catch a glimpse of the West Windfields to her right as they rode, a sea of dusky gold rippling into the Lion Queen's realm.

They reached Aitma at nightfall. Stars had begun to speckle the inky sky, winking like thousands of silver eyes.

"All hail the King!" came a shout from Aitma's walls as the men approached. Trumpets blared so loudly Scirocca could feel her ears ringing. Her bottom was sore, her throat parched, and her head pounding. Just a few more minutes, and I'll be able to walk again.

Aitma's walls were short, the town within as flat as the grasses without. As they passed beneath the gate, she couldn't help but notice the mass of guards atop the wall. Everyone's uneasy, she thought. There must be twice as many men now as there were the last time we came.

Curious faces peeked out from behind wooden shutters as their procession passed by. Scirocca had heard plenty of the smallfolk's rumors about her father's journeys to Aitma: did he have a lover? Was he planning a war with the Lion Queen?

"Your Majesty!" called the governor, as Aitma Hall came into view. "It is always an honor to host you and your men." Lans Aitma was a short man, with watery eyes and a passion for lewd jokes. He had been married once, but rumor had it that he'd killed his wife after she proved unable to sire any more children.

"Thank you, my governor." Sirok dismounted and two of Aitma's men led his horse to the stables. "I hope we don't disturb you by arriving at such an unearthly hour. My men have had a long journey and they will require rest and food."

"Of course, of course." Lans' eyes flickered through Sirok's soldiers. "There are beds and refreshments ready for them." He grinned at Scirocca. "I see you've brought your lovely daughter."

"Indeed I have," Sirok said.

"I fear I don't have enough prowess with a blade to win her hand," Lans joked, "although I have another sword that fares quite well in bed."

Sirok's men burst into laughter. Scirocca felt heat rise to her face as her father's soldiers leered at her. Lans was grinning, his tongue running over his moist lips.

Say something, she wanted to scream at her father. Tell him to shut up, slap him, show your men that you won't just let his words go unpunished -

But Sirok only laughed. "You wouldn't want to be saying that before your betrothed," he said jovially. "I heard you are to marry the Lady of Wayrn?"

"Yes, yes," Lans said, his gaze finally leaving Scirocca. "In three months, gods be good."

"I congratulate you," Sirok said. "But I need to talk with you now."

"Yes, of course. Your will is my command."

The King and the governor disappeared into the Hall. Lans cast Scirocca one last look as he disappeared, his gaze practically dripping with lust.

And Scirocca stood frozen, the mocking laughter of her own men ringing through her ears.

~ ~ ~

And there's our Princess of Slagvald! I actually really enjoyed writing this chapter. Fun fact: I have Scirocca's arc planned out way more than any of my other protagonists.

If you don't know where any of these locations are, feel free to refer to the chapter of maps. I think it's the second or third one at the end of the book.

So what do you think of Sirok and Scirocca? Do you think Scirocca will get her revenge on Lans?

As usual, please vote and comment - it'd make my day!

Thank you so much for reading!