She eyed him and the scary-looking men behind him. They didn’t seem to be bad and she was so tired and hungry. Tempest took his hand and flung herself into his arms. Wasting no time, he picked Tempest up as if she weighed nothing at all and tucked her against his chest.
Then the man who had first spied Tempest nodded sagely. “My wife just made a fresh pot of soup. I’ll bring some of that, too.”
She yawned and blinked slowly, the world blurring into utter darkness.
Tempest
13 Years Later
In the blink of an eye everything was gone—the fire, the forest, the screaming, the village—but the smell of smoke lingered upon the air, as if it had somehow managed to travel through Tempest’s dream into the realm of consciousness. It always started the same. The acrid, foul, suffocating scent of smoke choking her.
Her eyes snapped open and she swung up into a sitting position on her bed, rubbing away the sheen of sweat that had covered her forehead. But the smoke wasn’t a remnant of her memory—it was a signal that breakfast was being prepared in the barracks’ kitchen. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn’t think she could eat a bite.
Even now, after dreaming about it for what felt like the millionth time, Tempest still couldn’t shake the horror of watching her mum die. It never got easier. She glanced around the long rectangular room, eyeing the peacefully sleeping Hounds in the barracks.
Lucky bastards.
Every Hound had his own share of horrors that kept him up at night, but she was the only one who screamed in her sleep, and on occasion wandered from room to room in a panic, scratching at the walls trying to escape a nightmare that only existed in her mind.
Despite being wide awake, she lay back down and closed her eyes. Her heart began to slow as the effects of the dream wore off, and Tempest forced herself to relax. She couldn’t change the past, but she could control her future.
Today was the most important day of her life.
She clenched and unclenched her hands in an attempt to calm the nerves that vibrated like a strummed violin in her chest. There wasn’t anything more she could do. Tempest had trained all her life for this and she wouldn’t let a little thing like a nightmare pull her focus from what was most important.
Today her future began.
Today, Tempest would face the Trial, and with it, her fate as the first female Hound would be decided.
Tempest
Tempest’s stomach was a lurching, sickening mess of nerves, excitement, and hunger. She'd barely eaten the night before in anticipation of today.
Tempest's belly released an irate growl.
She regretted it now; the idea of keeping down any food before her Trial seemed impossible despite the emptiness inside her.
But she had to eat. Tempest needed all the strength she could get, but first thing was first. She needed to prepare. Food could come later.
She sniffed her armpit and her nose wrinkled. Scratch that, she needed to bathe first.
Tempest whistled as she stretched and got out of bed, the cool stones seeping through her thick woolen socks. The sound came out as shaky as she felt at first, but by the time she’d padded over to the wash basin, her voice evened out and her whistle became tuneful. The melody had stuck with her since she was a child. She didn’t know the melody’s origin—perhaps it had been one of her mum’s almost-forgotten lullabies?
What would her mum think of Tempest’s decision to join the Hounds? Was she making the right choice? The memory of her mum’s cries echoed through her mind, causing Tempest’s eyes to sting with the threat of tears. She pushed away the memory and took a fortifying breath.
No one had been there to protect her mother from the miscreant. If there had been a Hound there, surely things would have turned out differently. Tempest liked to think that her mum would be proud of the woman her daughter had become; eighteen years old, fully grown, strong and healthy, and ready to take on the world as a Hound.
She hoped her mother would be proud of her.
In truth, it wasn’t just her mum’s lullabies Tempest barely remembered, although she could recall her mother’s lifeless form inside the burning cottage, Tempest could not recall what her mother’s face looked like, nor the touch of her hand, nor the sound of her voice.
Only the sound she’d made as she screamed.
As if on cue, the soul-wrenching scream began again in her mind.
“Just stop it, Tempest!” she uttered, disgusted with herself.
She lifted her head and stared at her distorted reflection in the warped mirror that hung above the wash basin. Now was most certainly not the morning to engage in such dark, macabre thoughts. Tempest scrubbed herself extra hard with the rough-woven washcloth, as if its soap-laden scratchy fibers could somehow wipe her mind clean as well as her body. She knew the only thing that could ultimately stop her dwelling on her dream was to focus on the upcoming Trial. Her rebellious stomach lurched again as goosebumps pebbled along her arms from the cool air.
The outcome of today would decide her future.
Tempest ghosted her way back to her cot and paused at the foot of the bed, staring at the garment bag holding her ceremonial garb from the king. She reached out a hand but paused, not wanting to see what he’d chosen.
“Go on now, girlie,” Maxim’s deep voice rumbled softly from her left.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and received a sunny smile that twisted the scar across his lips into a gruesome picture—well gruesome to most, anyway. To Tempest, he was one of the dearest men. He slapped a meaty hand against his thigh, which was the size of a tree trunk. Maxim leaned closer, his bed groaning underneath his huge form.
“Don’t be shy now. Open it,” he urged.
Tempest steeled her nerves. She was made of sterner stuff than this. It was only an outfit.
From a king who hates you.
She ignored the thought and untied the bag. Her breath seized as she got an eyeful of the garment she was expected to wear.
Dotae, no.
Quickly, she swiped the bundle from her cot and darted behind the screen her uncles had built for her. They didn’t care for modesty, but they cared for her to be modest. Again, she peeked at the ceremonial garb in the bag. How in the hell did the king expect her to fight in such a thing?
Under ordinary circumstances, Tempest would don a form-fitting, pale grey shirt made of stiff, thick linen, with bony doe-skin breeches and matching over-the-knee leather boots. Then she’d lace on an armored bodice, guards for her lower arms, elbows, and shoulders, and a belt laden with loops of leather to hold various bags and weapons. The sheath for her favorite dagger would be tied around her right thigh. Lastly, she’d braid her hair and equip herself with a sword, a dagger, her mother’s beloved bow, and a fresh quiver of arrows.
Simple. Practical.
But today was not a normal day.
No, today Tempest’s outfit was far more stately. Decorative. Fashionable, as her best friend Juniper, a maid from the castle, had told her. More womanly.
Tempest wrinkled her nose at the additions to her armor.
“It can’t be that bad, girlie,” Maxim called.
“It can,” she muttered, frowning at the sad excuse for armor.
Carefully, she lifted the raven-feathered bodice that attached around her neck with a gilded, silver buckle. Tempest twisted the piece back and forth. Where was the damned back to the thing?