The Witch and the Wolf

Only after the sun had once again risen did the stranger return. Fresh bandages were tucked under her elbow, and in her hands she carried that same wooden platter, this time loaded up with fruits and bread of varied freshness. Ilya watched her warily as she dragged the wooden chair from the fireplace and set it beside the bed. It was too small for her large frame, and it groaned under her weight as she sat heavily upon it.

Ilya didn’t know this woman, but she swore her stern expression hinted at some embarrassment.

Is she sorry about her outburst last night? Ilya wondered as the woman placed the food at the end of the bed, once again frustratingly out of reach.

The stranger was in no rush to break the silence. Her keen amber eyes observed with interest the witch who was stuck in bed. The stranger swallowed a few times, and the movement made the scar across her throat bob up and down.

Is she trying to say something, but doesn’t know how to start? This hesitation delayed Ilya getting her hands on that plate of food, and the thought of waiting for this strange woman to make up her mind ignited a brave spark within her. Ilya cleared her throat meaningfully, and placed her hands neatly over her chest.

“Good morning.”

A short, single nod was offered in reply.

Really? She had set her up to break her silence, but not even a ‘good morning to you, too?’ What was wrong with this god?

“My name is Ilya Finalwind, and it seems that you have well and truly saved my life.”

The stranger only nodded again. Ilya sighed and gestured toward the woman.

“May I know the name of the one who saved me?”

By Ilya’s estimation, a question so simple did not justify the amount of time that passed in silence between them. It harkened her back to her days as a young girl, when a Sister would knowingly call upon a sleeping student in class to rouse and embarrass them.

The stranger seemingly came to an internal resolution and finally looked her in the eyes. Her amber irises glinted through the early morning shadows that cast about the room. “Jarret Atomo.” Her voice was just as rough and unsure as it had been the previous day.

The Lord did not wish to boast her title? That was a first. Hosts were usually eager to run their mouths about the gods they housed. In fact, in most cases it was the Lords themselves who spoke with the voice of their Host, eager to be adored and praised by the humans of Foundation. Ilya tucked this oddity away to be inquired of later. She did not want to press Jarret too hard… yet.

“Lovely. Jarret, thank you for your assistance. I believed I would not live to see another day, but now I have seen two. It is thanks to your kindness.” Ilya glanced toward her stomach. She could feel, with every beat of her heart, an echo that throbbed through her wounds. The sensation made her skin crawl, but she did her best to drown out the awareness of her own body. What better way to do that than the surely stimulating conversation she would receive from asking more questions. “I assume by your attire that you are an adventurer of some kind? Perhaps a hunter? Is this your home? Are we near a town? Do you live alone?”

Jarret shook her head, which didn’t clear up anything.

“’No’, you weren’t an adventurer, ‘no’ this isn’t your home, ‘no’ we are not near a town, or ‘no’ you do not live alone?”

Jarret grimaced, giving Ilya another flash of her jagged teeth. They were curved and thick, yet somehow did not feel out of place in Jarret’s mouth. A predator’s maw suited this woman, Ilya mused as she stared at them. She wondered if they were a gift from her Lord.

“Chatty for a girl who almost died.” Her voice was flat.

“I do not know you.” Ilya frowned. “I would like to know who my savior is.”

Jarret considered this, then shrugged, conceding the point. “I am a… traveler, who sometimes takes jobs as an adventurer for funds.” She spoke as if she resented it, each word carefully picked to not to reveal anything she did not want to. “I do not work with any guilds.” Jarret prepared the bandages before lifting part of the wool blanket shrouding Ilya’s leg as she continued. “This building was abandoned, so it belongs to no one. We are in a town called Lustre, but the residents that remain are few. I travel… alone.”

Ilya raised a brow. It surprised her to learn that she had been resting in a town, as she hadn’t heard any noise from the window but the ambient sounds of nature. There had been no passing horses or carriages, no children laughing or mothers scolding or men hollering.

“What happened to the townspeople?”

“The Lords of Briers and Roses took root here,” Jarret stated bluntly.

Ilya remembered the strong smell of roses from when she had first awoken in this bed - she had thought it might be from a garden outside. The scent was less intense today. She shivered; it brought to mind the Twin Lords, and the neighboring Lord of Wolves. The Sisterhood of Everfrost had been careful to stay outside of their and the Lord of Wolves territories as they had searched for Lord Winter’s bedchamber. The Twin Lords, Lord Briers and Roses, were wicked pretenders to the Lord of Spring’s power and sought to usurp Foundation’s throne. Their combined godly power was not nearly on the same level as a core aspect of the world like the seasons, but the twins did a convincing enough job mimicking Spring’s power that they easily fooled humans living far from the capital into worshiping Briers and Roses as Spring. The difference, of course, was that the sisters would require fuel to spread their influence and gain power - and the most potent fuel for all magic was blood.

“Are they…?” Ilya gulped.

Jarret shook her head. “They have been… taken care of.”

“Their Hosts were killed? They were returned to the Shadowkeep, then?”

“No.” Blunt, mysterious and unhelpful. Ilya’s patience wore thin. How could she get information if this god was so unwilling to elaborate upon simple points?

She chewed her lip, and decided it would be more productive to cut to the heart of her questions. “I… don’t want to offend you again, but, I couldn’t help but notice that you are… a Host, yes?”

Jarret’s muscles tensed, and her eyes snapped to Ilya. “…Yes. How could you tell?” She placed a gloved hand over her right forearm, where Ilya guessed the mark of a Lord was branded upon her.

“I did not see your mark, you hid it from me well.” Ilya sighed and placed a steadying hand over her own chest. “…My Lord rejected me, but from his caress I… know what the gods feel like. The magic that surrounds you is dense, Jarret. It is quite obvious to me that you are a Host.”

Jarret frowned, and lapsed once more into contemplative silence. Ilya took the opportunity to continue her line of questioning.

“So, why would an adventurer — one who is a Host at that, help someone like me? Lords do not have a record of blessing humans who do not worship them, and most humans don’t want anything to do with…” Ilya trailed off, hoping Jarret would understand without further explanation.

Jarret’s resting frown deepened, but she did not storm out of the room like before. Perhaps it’s a sign of progress, Ilya thought.

“I said: I’m not an adventurer,” Jarret grumbled. “Wouldn’t want anything to do with, what?” she demanded flatly.

“You know what. You’ve… seen every inch of me.” A blush dusted Ilya’s pale cheeks. She raised her hands toward Jarret. Her pale skin was deep blue and purple on her hands, the shade darkening closer to the tips and the further from her heart. Damning and undeniable proof of her relationship to magic, and to the Sisterhood of Everfrost. “A witch. I have been persecuted my whole life by the people of Foundation for my hands alone.”

Jarret stared for a long moment, expression unreadable as she examined Ilya’s hands. When the silence stretched so long as to be unbearable, she finally shifted her eyes back to Ilya’s face. “You don’t remember what you said in the cave?”

Ilya blinked in confusion. How would Jarret know about the curses she spat from her deathbed? There was no one there to witness her words except her Sisters and… the beast.

Her eyes widened. Jarret was a god. Was it possible that she had been the beast that witnessed her final, deeply personal and desperately embarrassing moments? Ilya’s face reddened as she recalled the specifics of the nonsense she had spat out in the throes of anger and pain. Should she pretend she didn’t know what Jarret was talking about?

Before she could decide how to spare her own ego, Jarret continued. “You didn’t want to die,” she shifted, using her long arm to add another log to the fire. “That’s why.”

“It sounds… noble when you say it.” Ilya shook her head. Her will to live had damned her to a life without her husband, to an existence without purpose. “Then, is it possible that you were- are… the beast who killed Sister Nika?”

Jarret nodded once. “’Lot more than her,” she mumbled. “You were the only survivor.” She flexed her thick hands, and Ilya remembered the beast’s massive claw - Jarret’s claw - rending her Sister’s head from her body as easily as if she had been picking an overripe apple. Ilya’s stomach churned, and she decided not to ask for any more details about the death her savior had wrought upon her family. Instead, she placed one of her hands over the wound in her abdomen.

“I suppose I should be grateful for that. But, how am I alive? My Lord’s punishment should have prevented any healing from undoing his cold judgment - even from a god.”

The other woman worked her jaw, obviously annoyed and reluctant to answer.

“Is one of your gifts the power to heal destruction from the otherworld?” Ilya pressed. “Was I… chosen to be saved by the one you serve-?”

A CRACK suddenly split the air between them, and Jarret held up the now broken arm rest of the chair. She huffed, then tossed it into the fire with the other kindling.

“I do not serve any Lord.” Jarret grit on the words as they passed between her lips. Ilya tilted her head, confusion obvious. “But, you’re a chosen Host?”

Jarret’s scowl deepened. “Is that all you see? A body? Am I not human to you?”

Ilya was baffled. That was the entire point of being Host to a Lord — to transcend mortality and become something greater. Clearly, Jarret did not agree. Ilya chose her words slowly, like a chastised child. “I apologize, Jarret, but I do not understand why you’re so angry when I speak to you with the deference that your status demands.” Ilya picked at the wool blanket, averting her eyes.

“I am not a god. I am a prison,” Jarret spat. “My body is the bars of their cage, to prevent them from hurting anyone else.”

Ilya blinked. “W-wait. You mean, I am literally speaking only to Jarret, the human woman, and not with the Lord with whom she is wed?”

Jarret laughed dryly. “I don’t let them speak through me. They do not control me.”

“That’s impossible,” the line between Ilya’s brows continued to deepen. She was getting a headache. “Even the weakest of the Shadowkeep’s Lords is infinitely more powerful than any mere human!”

“And who told you that, Ilya Finalwind?”

“…My mother.” The flash of a warm smile, then of cold eyes.

Jarret nodded once, as if she already figured that was the case. “Your mother, the fanatical cultist, who has never been a Host.”

“Cultist-!” Ilya bit her tongue to leash her anger. She took a deep breath, then exhaled, forcing calm in her voice as she started over. “My mother is a devout follower of the teachings of the Lord of Winter. What does it matter if she hasn’t been chosen? She’s studied the word of the gods, she has communed with them all her life. This is what they’ve decreed, and history proves these teachings true — no Host is master of their Lord.”

Jarret clicked her tongue. “How powerful do you think these beings actually are if they can’t even enter Foundation without a human’s help?”

Ilya rolled her eyes. “The Lords don’t need mortals. Their contracts are part of their promised gifts, in return for sharing our bodies with them.”

“If they don’t need mortals, why hasn’t one ever manifested into Foundation on its own?”

Ilya grew quiet as she considered the point. Jarret continued.

“The truth, Ilya, is that the human spirit is the most powerful force that exists. More powerful than blood. The Lords crave it, but they cannot use it if we are unwilling to give in to them.”

Ilya touched her stomach again, the stark memories of her encounter with Lord Winter too fresh in her mind to give this woman’s words any credence. “Jarret. The gods, they’re… enormous. They are too vast for mortals to comprehend, let alone master.”

Jarret watched Ilya, calculating. “You were a sacrifice.”

Ilya shook her head. “I am a willing bride. I was… found lacking by my Lord. Thus, I was punished. Pain is my penance, and I only live by the grace of you, my savior.”

It was Jarret’s turn to shake her head. “You’re wrong.”

“Please… I am forever in your debt and can never repay your kindness. I respect you, Jarret, as a Host. But you don’t understand what you speak of.”

“Ilya.” Jarret had kept a physical distance between them throughout their conversation, but now she laid a heavy hand upon the bed in an effort to make Ilya look at her. Her amber eyes were shockingly soft. It made Ilya’s heart flip pleasantly. “You were not unworthy. You were unwilling. That is why the monster fled from you.”

Ilya shook her head vigorously. “No, no. That’s not- that isn’t true. I’ve lived my whole life-” Fat tears fell from her eyes, unbidden. Why in Cold’s name was she crying? She covered her face, afraid to bare her shame to this stranger who surely thought of her as a stupid sheep, a foolish cultist.

This stranger who saved her life, despite all of that.

A heavy hand gripped Ilya’s shoulder, but she refused to look at Jarret again. She did not want to see pity in her savior’s eyes.

“You are not weak, Ilya Finalwind. Your desire to live is human. Your desire to live is what made your Lord flee from you. He was afraid of your desires, and knew you could shackle him to your will.”

The determination in Jarret’s voice made Ilya open one eye and peek at her. Instead of the pity she dreaded, she saw in this stranger something no one had ever given her before: anger. For her. A rage boiled behind those amber eyes, and for a cursed beat of weakness Ilya thought maybe she had been wronged.

Ilya wiped her eyes and let Jarret’s words settle in her stomach. She did not know what to make of them — they felt so raw and large and dangerous. So, she decided to put them aside for later contemplation. Now that her life had been given back to her by Jarret, she would have time to unpack them and decide if they were truth or mere dogma.

Jarret wordlessly handed Ilya the plate of food, finally, and let the witch tear into the half-stale bread and overripe fruits as her tears continued to fall.

—

When she finished the meal, Jarret changed Ilya’s bandages. This time, Ilya watched as the woman worked. She felt much stronger than the previous night, and gritted her teeth as her wounds were tended to.

Ilya felt a surprising sensation in her broken leg as Jarret placed a gentle palm upon her shin. The smell of roses became extraordinarily strong, and a gentle warmth radiated through her limb. She watched in wonder as thin vines wove in and out of her skin, sealing the wound shut tight. A light-green, thick liquid oozed from the seams. Jarret used one finger to spread the substance around the laceration and stitches, then quickly covered the wound with new bandages and re-splinted the leg to keep it still.

“What was that?” Ilya asked, breathless. It hadn’t even hurt. In fact, she felt heady, like she had consumed too much alcohol. The scent of roses slowly faded.

Jarret stood to once again tend the fire. “The Lord of Roses has some sway over the processes of the natural world.”

Ilya blinked. “So… the Lord you Host is Lord Roses?”

Jarret did not speak as she added logs and stirred the coals. Ilya thought that, framed by the warm yellows and oranges that flickered across her face, Jarret was quite striking. Her nose, though obviously once broken by the shape of its crook, was long and set at a slight curve, and her jaw was strong and thick.

“I was chosen to Host the Lord of Wolves.”

Ilya’s mouth dropped open. “Are… are you saying that you are Host to not one, but two gods?” She coughed to cover her shock. “I know you do not respect my Sisterhood, but, please, do not make an ass of me, Jarret.”

The larger woman turned her head and fixed Ilya with a stare. Flames danced in her amber eyes, and her expression reminded Ilya of the beast who watched her final moments.

“I would not lie to you, Ilya.”

“You can’t expect me to believe you.” Jarret’s expression did not change. So, she did expect that. Ilya rolled her eyes, then waved a hand at Jarret. “Show me, then.”

“What?”

“The two brands you must bear are proof. Show them to me, and I will have no choice but to believe what you say.”

Jarret hesitated.

“…It is not two.”

“Please.” Ilya scoffed. “One god is a great burden upon the soul, two would be unbearable. Any more and your soul would be completely devoured just to sustain them upon Foundation.”

“The Twin Lords.”

“Lord Briers and Lord Roses?”

Jarret nodded. “Three.”

Ilya couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that burst out of her chest. “You’re ridiculous!”

Jarret did not defend herself again. Instead, Jarret began to untie the dark leather bracers which covered her wrists, and next came her belt and breastplate. She rolled up the right sleeve of her loose cotton shirt. The mark was an abstract collection of black, hatched lines that, when looked at together, mimicked the shape of the open maw of a beast. It appeared as a tattoo, but deeper, blacker, as if the ink absorbed any light that dared pierce it.

Jarret touched the mark with the index finger of her left hand. “Wolves.”

Ilya nodded.

Jarret turned her back to Ilya, then pulled her tunic over her head, revealing another mark that rested upon her right shoulder blade. Ilya frowned as she tried to get a good look at it, but Jarret was too tall.

“If you want me to see it, you’ll need to sit. I’m not allowed to rise, remember?”

Jarret huffed, but did as Ilya suggested. Her weight made the bed sink slightly, and Ilya winced as she was jostled. The mark of Roses was similar in its abstract nature as Wolves’, but the intricate lines came together in an impression of a thicket of thorns and flowers. It was also twice as large as the mark of Lord Wolves. Twin brands, intertwined to create a single image. Briers and Roses.

Ilya raised her hand slowly, but hesitated.

“It is just a brand. It won’t harm you.”

Ilya gulped, unsure how Jarret had known she was going to touch the mark of the Twin Lords when her back was to her, but this two hundred pound woman could also move quiet as a cat. With every passing moment, Ilya became less surprised the more she learned of her savior.

Reverently, Ilya traced the jagged lines of Jarret’s brands. “It’s true… you really do host three gods.” Her hand fell back to the blanket, and she stared at Jarret’s bare back, which was also covered in a cascade of jagged scars. It was easy to tell Jarret was physically large, but her wide shoulders and broad back made her almost twice as thick as rail-thin Ilya.

She quickly looked at the wall and cleared her throat. “Th-thank you, Jarret. I believe you. You can get dressed.”

She didn’t watch as Jarret did so.

When her belt and bracers had been retied, Jarret faced Ilya once again. “The eldest of this village has agreed to take you in while you recover,” Jarret said flatly. “I leave in the morning.”

Ilya’s heart sank. She wasn’t ready to part from her savior. “W-wait, Jarret. You can’t just…” Ilya’s voice hitched as Jarret’s eyes narrowed.

“Your life is your own, Ilya.”

The witch scoffed and shook her head. “I owe you my life, Jarret Atomo.” She would say it as many times as she must to make her understand. “I shall never be able to repay what you have done for me.”

Jarret shook her head. “You owe me nothing. I killed your… family.”

Ilya winced. “Well… yes…” She considered this. “What were you doing at the ritual site? Seeking another god to… imprison?” She used Jarret’s own words, though the idea was still alien.

Jarret nodded. “Your Sisters carried the stench of him. I followed, but…”

“You found me instead.” Ilya laughed dryly. “You missed most of the Sisterhood. They left long before you arrived — as soon as the ritual failed. They will try again once my mother has another girl she believes is ready to wed Lord Winter.” The words stung her heart as she spoke them. But why? Ilya had been… unfit to wed her Lord. It was only natural that the Sisterhood of Everfrost would continue their mission regardless of her. She did not deserve his attention. She had failed. But the idea of someone else wedding her Lord broke her heart.

Jarret was silent, but her eyes grew distant.

“…Are you speaking with the Lords?”

Jarret blinked. “They are wary of Winter. Will your Sisters find him a Host soon?”

“Of course. One day he will tread upon Foundation, and the Eternal Spring will finally end. It is only natural.” The gospel spilled from her mouth, memorized and easy.

Jarret considered her words while Ilya chewed on them, examining their flavor. Did she truly believe that, still? After all she went through, and despite Jarret’s words? Ilya did not wish to die, but she also desired to serve the Lord of Winter. It was all she knew.

The beginnings of a plot formed in her mind, and Ilya cast her eyes down, shyly. “If you wish to stop Lord Winter, I… will help you find the rest of my Sisters, Jarret. I know everything about them — how they move, their magic, their migration pattern…”

Jarret’s eyes grew hard, and before she could flat-out reject Ilya’s offer again, the witch talked faster. “Please, allow me to travel with you, Jarret. I would be honored to learn from one of your status. Perhaps I was… misguided by my mother’s teachings. It is clear to me that you bear a heavy burden, and I would help lighten it for you however I can.”

“No.” As simple as that, her heartfelt plea was denied.

Ilya frowned, irritation with this woman’s stubbornness growing. “But, why? A powerful witch in your service is a great boon! You are in search of different gods... Why not chase mine? If you wiped out the entire Sisterhood, it would severely dampen the Lord of Winter’s ability to find a Host.”

“My prey is not Winter. So long as he remains in the Shadowkeep, he is no threat.”

Ilya huffed, crossing her arms petulantly. “Then, what in Foundation are you in such a hurry to do? What is so important that you must now abandon me before I am well enough to follow?”

Jarret’s fingers tightened into a fist. Besides the strain, the rest of her body was completely still. Her voice came out low and serious. “Lord Spring plans to form a bridge between the Shadowkeep and Foundation.” A knuckle cracked, and Jarret’s fist opened, fingers flexing. “He must be stopped.”

“A Bridge…? Stopped? How do you plan to do that?”

“I will kill Ramos and devour the Lord of Spring.”

A ridiculously blunt, comically simple plan. The failed sacrifice could not fathom how Jarret could suggest stopping the will of the Lord of Spring with such a straight face. He sat upon the head of King Ramos, spreading prosperity and eternal bounty to all of Foundation. It was not easy to get an audience with such an important god, let alone defeat him in some kind of… grudge match.

“You claim that the gods seek a way to make our two realms one?” Ilya imagined what Foundation would be like if the gods were able to manifest freely upon it. It would be utter chaos. She did not want to live in a world ruled by the many gods of the Shadowkeep — they were too violent and unpredictable. Only the steady hand of Lord Winter would make for a proper ruler upon Foundation.

Though… now she had a new fascination. Jarret’s existence was hard to ignore. She said she would not lie to Ilya… which meant that everything she had said thus far was either true, or Jarret believed them to be the truth. Perhaps the gods inside Jarret were manipulating her to believe such foolish ideas. Their minds were ancient, and their goals were unknowable. Why would a god willingly reveal such a plot to a mortal who had such a deep drive to imprison them? Did they not fear this incredible woman would easily thwart them?

“They do not ‘seek’ a way - the way is known to Spring. He has slowly enacted his plot over centuries, and within our lives the final pieces will be placed.” Jarret squinted into the fire, then added, “…if Wolves, Briers and Roses can be believed, that is.”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Do you trust the counsel of the gods you have trapped within your body?”

Jarret glanced at Ilya, and for a moment pain, despair, and rage threatened to overtake her stoic facade. “…I trust that Wolves delights in my misery. Seeing me fail to stop such a tragedy would be his ultimate reward.”

Ilya shifted in her bed, and Jarret shot her a frown that made her freeze. “Sorry, it’s just… my ass is going numb from laying on my back for so long.”

Jarret crossed the room in two long steps. She loomed over Ilya and carefully repositioned her to a new and more comfortable position. Their faces were so close that Ilya felt Jarret’s breath tickle her neck. Her strong hands were exceedingly gentle.

When the pillow was sufficiently fluffed and her body had been propped up comfortably, Jarret raised a brow to ask if that was better. Ilya silently nodded her thanks. She didn’t trust her voice after being so close, after being held so carefully, after her nose was filled with the smell of earth and iron that clung to Jarret’s large frame.

The women separated, and Jarret returned the chair, positioned so she was still facing Ilya. They watched each other for a long moment. Ilya gathered her wits and broke the silence first.

“I travel light. I know how to live off the land. I would be a great help to you on your adventure-”

Jarret interrupted Ilya’s begging with a loud, long sigh. She scratched the back of her head in irritation, mussing her already messy, short hair. “This is no adventure, Ilya. It is my curse.”

“Do you not adventure in search of a way to stop the suffering of humanity?” Jarret warily nodded. “Then, my Lady - your goal is the same as mine. Please.”

Jarret stared at Ilya, expression unreadable. Ilya cast her eyes down, the picture of a demure housewife asking her husband for a new dress. “I have no purpose, Jarret. I am wont to return to my Sisters, but… I fear they will never accept me after my failure to Host the Lord of Winter. I beg you - allow me to travel alongside you and learn what it is to be free. I will be no burden, only a tool for your use.”

Jarret’s expression darkened, and she stood slowly from the chair. Her movements were rigid, as she exerted a large amount of control over her temper. She stopped near Ilya’s bed, and without looking at her, spoke.

“Goodnight, Ilya.”

She exited the room before Ilya could protest any further. The door shut with a soft ‘click’.

Ilya slumped in defeat.

—

Jarret returned to her the next day. And the day after. A week passed, and Jarret continued to bring Ilya food and change her bandages and use the healing magic of Lord Roses upon her leg. She acted as if their prior conversation never happened. Each day Ilya tried again to plead her case, but Jarret simply huffed in annoyance. She no longer entertained the idea. Ilya was sure that begging like a child would eventually break down the stern Host, but her theory proved wrong — Jarret was made of truly extraordinary stuff. She ignored not only Ilya’s pleading eyes, but also her wavering voice and fat tears, each strategically unleashed at the perfect moment.

The beast was cold-hearted to the witch’s advances.

Ilya had, however, been given permission to practice walking once more. She tenderly placed her broken leg upon the wood floor, and to her shock it did not ache nearly as much as she had expected as she bore part of her weight upon it. The injury had been so traumatic that she believed she would never walk again. Yet she slowly hopped and hobbled about the small room under the watchful eye of Jarret. Whenever she stumbled or lost her balance, a steady, wide hand caught her. Jarret had brought her a sturdy, simple walking stick, which eased the exercise considerably.

Jarret made no promise that Ilya would ever be able to walk without aid again, but Ilya did not mind. Walking with a cane was much better than rotting away forgotten in an abandoned cave, and she said as much to Jarret. It earned Ilya the music of Jarret’s soft chuckling, and the sound followed her into her dreams that evening.

On the eighth morning, Ilya woke to a cold fireplace. She found a loaf of wrapped bread on the floor next to her bed, but there were no other signs of Jarret. Ilya dressed as quickly as she could with her limited mobility, then hobbled her way to the door with her cane.

Had she left without her? Had Jarret abandoned Ilya to her an empty life after all? Panic seized her chest as she threw her weight against the wood with her shoulder. She didn’t know what she would do if she had been left behind, abandoned to her own fate once again. Ilya didn’t know what to do with a life - she had only just started to remember how to live.

She burst through the door and out into the cool spring morning. The sky was a brilliant blue, and big puffy clouds drifted lazily across it. The air was still damp from the night, and the grass beneath her feet was bouncy and lush. Sat on her haunches in front of the house was a large, familiar, brooding figure. Jarret was hunched over, her back to Ilya. The sight of the other woman’s choppy hair and broad back was a balm to her nerves. Ilya calmed almost instantly. She gingerly made her way across the yard to her savior.

“I thought you had left without me, my Lady-”

Ilya stopped dead in her tracks, unable to process what she was looking at. Jarret’s head had turned to look up at Ilya, her eyes surprised to see the witch up so early. Blood dribbled down her chin, slopping onto the ground in front of her. A rabbit was held in her hands, very dead, and her sharp teeth were sunk into its flesh.

Jarret reluctantly opened her jaws and dropped the mangled rabbit to the ground, like a dog that had finished playing with a toy. She stood slowly, wiping blood from her mouth with the back of her hand.

“My Lady… what…?”

Jarret didn’t say anything, just stared at Ilya in that way she did sometimes - as if she was listening to something far away.

Her savior was eating animals. Raw.

Was it the doing of Lord Wolves in her mind? Was she compelled to act like an animal? Had she gone to sleep as Jarret, and awoken as the Lord of Wolves?

An even worse thought: had she been doing so the whole time? Was this why Jarret did not eat meals with Ilya?

Ilya let out a shaky breath and looked between the lump of fur, blood and bone that now lay abandoned in the dirt next to her Lady.

“You… you didn’t cook it first?”

Ilya learned, with much coaxing, that Jarret did not need to cook her meat. Something in her body had changed when she had signed her contract with Lord Wolves, and now her ravenous appetites were best sated by the warm blood of a fresh kill. She would eat a cooked meal, but it was not her preference.

Ilya tried to think of a way to prepare a meal the two could share that would satisfy them both.

—

On the tenth day, Ilya slowly stepped outside to an overcast sky. She intended to explore what remained of the town that had been ravaged by the Lord of Briers and Lord of Roses. Jarret had called the town Lustre, and had informed Ilya that it had a prosperous lumber trade before the Twin Lords had declared it their home. Ilya wished to perhaps meet the remaining townspeople, to thank them for their part in her recovery.

As she carefully navigated the wooden steps, a soft WHOOSH caught her attention. Ilya followed the noise and found her Lady, dressed in her full leather armor and wearing a tattered, black traveling cloak. In her thick hands she hefted a sword whose blade was nearly as wide as Ilya was.

She watched, entranced, as Jarret swung the blade through the air. Slowly at first, then picking up speed as she hacked and slashed to test the weight and balance of the weapon. She must have found it satisfactory, for she clipped it to a holster upon her back after only a few minutes of practice.

Ilya was impressed - Jarret had hardly broken a sweat. Her savior was monstrously strong, indeed.

Jarret turned, intent on the path that would see her through the woods and back to the abandoned house she and Ilya had temporarily called home this past week. She spotted the trailing of Ilya’s skirts as the other woman disappeared into the trees. The side of Jarret’s mouth ticked up in a ghost of a smirk.

—

Two weeks passed from their first meeting. Ilya’s wounds were mostly healed, to her shock. The power of Lord Roses was incredible. She still walked with a limp, and her left leg was much weaker than her right, but there was nothing more that could be done about it. Her bone had mended back together, but it ached after too much use. Each step she took sent an echo of pain through her body.

She was relieved that this was the extent of it. Bless the gods in their Keep for her good fortune, and for her Lady’s noble heart.

As Ilya devoured a breakfast of cheeses, fruits and eggs, Jarret bade her to meet her outside when she was finished.

The day was bright and cheerful. The lingering smell of roses had completely vanished from Lustre by that point, and now the air was crisp and clean like after a storm.

Next to Jarret a brown horse pawed the lush grass nervously. It wasn’t a particularly interesting looking animal, with a short coat of dull brown and a single white fleck down its snout. Its legs were long and sturdy, and it had new shoes upon its hooves. On its back was a blanket and saddle, as well as bags that appeared full of supplies. Its tail was long and sleek, and its pointed ears twitched, listening all around for any sign of danger. Ilya wasn’t sure if any natural predators to horses lived in these woods - nothing larger than a bear, if she remembered correctly the Sisterhood’s warnings concerning the dangers of travel.

The image of Jarret’s mouth covered in blood popped into her mind. Perhaps the horse was afraid of her Lady? Could animals sense the Lords?

“What is this, my Lady?” Ilya asked as she slowly made her way over to the beast. “Don’t tell me you’re no longer satisfied with eating rabbits?”

Jarret rolled her eyes. “Did you want to walk?”

“…He’s for me?”

“I’m not going to carry you, and your injury will slow us down.”

Ilya’s heart swelled — Her Lady was not going to abandon her, after all. Jarret had heard the pleas of this failure of a bride she had rescued and had acquired a solution. Ilya could follow her Lady wherever the road led her, now. She couldn’t help her grin.

She limped closer to the animal and held a hand up, tentatively. She had never ridden an animal before. Were all horses so large? The witch’s chest was at level with its haunches. The horse dipped his neck gracefully and nuzzled his large head into her waiting hand. She scratched the soft fur slowly.

“What is his name?”

“…I didn’t ask.” Jarret scratched her neck. “He’s yours, now. You decide.”

“…Thank you, my lady. You have made me so happy.”

Jarret blinked in surprise, then quickly turned away from Ilya and her new companion to finish loading the animal with their supplies.

“…You’re welcome, Ilya.”

For a while Ilya stood there simply appreciating the beast. He seemed to enjoy the scratching of her nails, and so she obliged him as she tried to think of a name. It had to be heroic, or dashing, or solemn to represent this great boon from her Lady.

“Can you mount him?” Jarret was watching her, arms crossed.

Ilya tried. She gripped the side of the saddle with both hands, planted her good leg into the stirrup and pulled herself with all her might. No luck. She tried again, this time with an attempt to swing her bad leg over the great beast as momentum, but she couldn’t get the cursed limb high enough to swing it over the saddle. It had looked so easy whenever she had watched travelers mount their horses.

After a few embarrassing attempts, she threw up her hands in defeat. “I apologize, my Lady. After all the trouble you went through to acquire such a magnificent beast, too…” It was impossible to hide how red her face had become from both embarrassment and exertion.

“It was no trouble. The people of Lustre gave him to me as thanks. Now, I give him to you.” Jarret considered Ilya for a moment, taking in the sweat that had built up on her brow from her efforts, and the red that dusted her pale ears and cheeks.

Then, she took a knee before Ilya and held out both arms toward the smaller woman, beckoning her to enter her embrace. The sight took Ilya’s breath.

Carefully, Ilya stepped forward, and Jarret lifted her easily in a bridal carry. Ilya’s heart was racing as Jarret settled her into the saddle. Her grip upon the reins and horn was iron, her knuckles turning white as she tried to find her balance. The horse snorted once, obviously not impressed with her lack of experience.

“I-I don’t know if I can do this, Jarret!” Ilya’s voice shook. Jarret’s eyes narrowed, obviously less impressed than the horse.

“You just got on.”

“Yes, and that’s quite enough, I think!”

“Ilya.”

“What if I fall? I could break my other leg!”

“Then don’t fall.”

“My Lady!”

Jarret rolled her eyes again, then held out a hand. “Give me the reins. I’ll lead. Focus on your balance.”

Ilya’s hands shook as she did as she was told. Without the reins, she plastered both hands upon the saddle horn and prayed she would not fall off once the beast beneath her began to walk.

“You learn quickly or you’re left behind.”

It was a bucket of ice over her flushed cheeks. Ilya nodded once, chastened. She would not fail in so simple a task that her Lady had set for her.

Jarret pulled her thick, black traveling cloak about her wide shoulders, then led the horse through the thick forest.

Ilya watched her Lady’s back as they traveled, her confident strides long and purposeful - but silent as a predator’s. The horse followed her willingly. Perhaps he realized he had nothing to fear from her?

Ilya focused on keeping her balance, and found it was not too difficult at this pace, though her legs quickly began to ache and her stomach strained from holding herself aloft upon the lumbering animal. She quietly swore to herself that she would learn to ride without assistance. She would find a way to be useful to Jarret - no, to become invaluable to her Lady. She would serve her faithfully, dutifully, and provide her with anything she desired. Ilya would learn from Jarret’s strength and study how she had become powerful enough to leash not one, but three gods.

Then, when she had learned all she could from her Lady, Ilya would finally summon the Everfrost to Foundation. She would prove Jarret’s assessment true - that she was no failure - and she would force the Lord of Winter to accept her as his strong and capable bride.