Chapter Text
Queen Signe sat very straight on the high-backed chair at the head of the council table. At first glance, she looked as she always did, her red hair braided and pinned in a coil atop her head, her crown polished, her dark blue gown spotless.
But Birgitte noticed the small things.
The faint tremor in the queen’s hands when she lifted her goblet. The shadows beneath her eyes, poorly concealed by powder. The fine lines at the corners of her mouth that had not been there a year ago.
Dánmarh was wearing its queen thin.
“I rode through the outer provinces on my way to the palace,” Lord Steen said, his voice carrying through the chamber. “Fields that should be gold this time of year lie bare. Granaries are empty. People are boiling roots and bark.” He hesitated visibly, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “In some villages, children will not make it through another winter.”
Concerned murmurs rippled around the long table. Some council members leaned closer, others shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
Birgitte straightened as the queen’s gaze drifted to her.
Clearing her throat, she began to recount what she had already told their ruler upon her return from the south:
“King Chrone has agreed to send grain and dried legumes before winter sets in. In return, Dánmarh will provide timber from the northern forests.”
A few heads nodded.
It was a necessary bargain. One that might keep the poorest breathing until spring – if nothing else went wrong. Earlier this year, an earthquake had choked the mountain road that carried half the kingdom’s trade. It could happen again.
Lady Lindenkrone was the first to break the long silence that followed.
“We could share,” she said. Her eyes swept the table pointedly, lingering on rings heavy with gemstones and paunches straining the seams of tunics. “Ration properly. Ensure the common folk are fed.”
Birgitte heard a low groan from somewhere down the table – Lord Hjort, she thought, who had made his opinion of Lindenkrone’s “sentimentality” well known in the past.
“Giving up a meal,” Lady Lindenkrone continued, undeterred, “would hardly cause any of our houses to fall into ruin. Our cellars are full. Our tables overflow. We have more than enough.”
Several councilors bristled. Others flushed. Birgitte suspected it was not the truth itself that angered them, but the fact that Lady Lindenkrone had dared to name it.
She felt the familiar urge to speak rise in her chest. But while she sympathized with Lady Lindenkrone – deeply – she also knew how this would end. Those in power did not surrender comfort willingly. Not unless it was demanded of them.
Birgitte’s gaze flicked to Queen Signe. For a brief moment, she wondered if she might be desperate enough to force the issue. But before the queen could speak, a gentle cough cut through the chamber.
The room fell silent, all eyes turning to the woman who had made the sound.
Lady Benedikte Nedergaard sat poised, pale hands folded before her, her dark hair falling in a smooth curtain down her back.
“There are other matters we must address,” she said. “Matters of security.”
Birgitte felt a familiar tightening in her chest. She already knew the subject the woman meant to steer them toward.
“The borderlands,” Lady Nedergaard continued. “Reports have reached me of theft, vandalism, even raids on villages. The borderfolk grow bolder by the day.”
Many council members murmured in agreement, others exhaled as if relieved to be spared further discussion of rationing.
Birgitte suppressed a sigh. She knew that once Lady Nedergaard started speaking, no one would insist that they finished the discussion at hand. Not for the first time, she wondered at the hold the woman seemed to have over the council. Her beauty was undeniable, yes, and her eloquence was captivating, but Birgitte knew that alone could not explain it. There was something about her presence that made resistance feel not just impolite, but somehow futile.
“Just last week,” Benedikte said, “a merchant’s caravan was set upon. Goods stolen. Guards beaten. One man left to die on the road.”
Several gasps cut through the air.
Birgitte kept her face carefully neutral. She had heard reports like these before, and while she did not doubt that they were true, she also knew what life was like at the edge of the kingdom. If hunger stalked the streets of the capital, the borderfolk – cast out, unwelcome wherever they went – felt its bite tenfold.
“They are desperate,” Birgitte said, unable to hold her tongue as Lady Nedergaard drew breath to continue. “Driven by fear and necessity, not malice.”
“Tell that to the man’s widow,” Benedikte snapped, all softness vanishing from her voice. “Tell it to his children, who will grow up without a father because a group of foreigners could not afford to show mercy!”
Silence followed, heavy and suffocating.
Birgitte pressed her lips together as no one came to her aid. Not Lady Lindenkrone. Not Lord Steen. Faces turned away, eyes fixed on the table or empty goblets.
She said nothing more as Lady Nedergaard, sensing victory, continued her tirade. Ever since she had gained her seat on the council five years ago – through her marriage to Lord Thorsen – Birgitte had listened to these speeches again and again. Every failing harvest, every unrest, every unexplained ill was laid neatly at the borderfolk’s feet.
“They are strangers to our land, who weaken our very foundations,” Lady Nedergaard concluded. “Their presence is a threat to stability. Especially in a time like this, when our kingdom already teeters on the brink. If we do not act decisively, they will drag the rest of Dánmarh down with them.”
Strangers to our land.
The irony of her words did not escape Birgitte.
Benedikte herself had been raised abroad, far from life in Dánmarh. She had returned only seven years ago, arriving from some distant court with polished manners and an ease with power that suggested she had learned its language elsewhere. Though her lineage traced back to Dánmarh, she was as much a foreigner as the people she now condemned. Perhaps even more so.
Birgitte caught Lady Nedergaard’s gaze for a fleeting moment and saw something colder beneath the polished composure. She had never doubted that the woman disliked her. In fact, she could count the number of times Lady Nedergaard had been genuinely kind to her on one hand. Yet unlike everyone else on the council, Birgitte did not care for the noblewoman’s approval.
Queen Signe raised her hand.
“Thank you, Lady Nedergaard,” she said firmly. “That will be sufficient. I hear your concerns and will arrange for an envoy to be sent to the border to investigate these reports.”
Birgitte felt her shoulders slump as the queen’s gaze moved back to her. She read the expectation there immediately. It seemed she would not have many days to rest before leaving the capital once again.
Bidding her fellow council members farewell and exiting the chamber, Birgitte walked through the palace corridors, unable to shake the weight of the queen’s gaze. She knew it would only be a matter of time before she would be summoned to the royal study and given the task of heading to the border.
The thought made her throat tighten.
Leaving again meant Bent would be alone. She had hoped – perhaps foolishly – that she might have a few quiet days with him. Time to sit by the fire and listen as he told his stories, even when he lost his way halfway through a memory and laughed it off as if it were nothing.
But as usual, there was no time for rest.
She turned down the eastern wing; a quiet path she always took after council meetings, knowing it would grant her some calm. The hum of activity in the main halls fell away, replaced by the echo of her own footsteps. Ahead, the corridor lay empty, bathed in pale afternoon light spilling through the tall windows. For a heartbeat, she was soothed by the gentle warmth and the stillness around her.
Then something moved.
A hooded figure burst from between two marble pillars. Birgitte barely had time to gasp before a knife flashed toward her chest.
She twisted on instinct, the blade skimming past her ribs.
Pain flared as it grazed her arm instead.
She stumbled back, her heel catching in the hem of her gown, and the world lurched. The attacker –whom her mind registered dimly as a man – leapt forward, momentum carrying them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs and fabric.
Her back hit the marble hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Still, she managed to catch his wrist with both hands, her muscles straining as she fought to keep the blade from plunging downward. For a split second, she caught a glimpse of a face beneath the hood: gaunt, dark eyes, skin marked with faint, swirling patterns.
Her eyes widened.
One of the borderfolk.
But why? It made no sense –
The man shifted his weight, forcing the knife closer. It should not have been possible for her to hold him back, and yet she did. It was not just fear lending her strength, she realized.
He was hesitating.
Their gazes locked.
Up close, she could see the desperation etched into his face. Then his jaw clenched, and he put more of his weight behind the blade.
“No,” she whispered, panic surging as its tip sank into the fabric of her dress. “No –”
Something inside her broke open.
Light spilled from her chest, flooding the corridor with a warm, radiant glow. Birgitte gasped as it filled the space between them, stunned by it as much as he was.
Suddenly, she felt him.
Not just his weight or his breath, but the need driving him, the terror coiled tight beneath it. Orders given by someone he feared more than death. A belief that this was the only way.
Her gaze flicked to the knife trembling in his grip, before returning to his face, pale and stricken in the golden light.
“You don’t want to do this,” she said.
It was not a plea, but the truth spoken aloud.
The man froze. His grip on the knife tightened, then loosened again, as if he no longer trusted his own hands. Somehow, she could sense the certainty ebbing from him – like something breaking loose at his center.
The knife slipped from his fingers and clattered against the marble floor. Scrambling to his feet, he staggered back as if waking from a nightmare. For a moment, he looked at her – really looked – then turned and fled, vaulting onto the window ledge and disappearing into the open air beyond without a sound.
Shaking, Birgitte pushed herself upright. The light had vanished as abruptly as it had come, leaving the corridor bathed solely in the rays of the afternoon sun.
Her heart thundered in her ears, her arm burning where the assassin’s blade had grazed her.
She was alive.
Her stomach churned sickeningly.
She was alive for now.
Her hands trembled as she stared at them, half-expecting them to glow again. Magic was forbidden. Outlawed. If anyone had seen –
Her breath caught as she lifted her gaze.
Someone had seen.
Kasper Juul was standing at the far end of the corridor. The queen’s spymaster looked nothing like the composed figure she was used to seeing at court. His face was pale, his eyes wide with something dangerously close to panic.
She scrambled to her feet. “Kasper –”
He crossed the distance between them in long strides, grabbing her shoulders with an intensity that made her startle.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his eyes flicking to the tear in her sleeve and the faint streak of blood she hadn’t noticed until now.
She shook her head.
Kasper glanced toward the open window, then back at her.
“I don’t know what you think you saw,” Birgitte began, her words tumbling over one another in a feeble attempt at excuse, “but I –”
“You need to come with me,” he said sharply, pulling her along with him before she could say anything else. “Now.”