Jorgen, the man she’d hated and feared, was dead. The battered face chewing mud would no longer grin at her, was in fact already hardening into some useless relic. Yet serial images of his ashen face invaded her mind: the hungry manner in which he’d always watched her, the way his eyes roved from bench to rafter and back to her when conjuring his stories, his rancid breath filming her skin, his maniacal fury as he’d slashed at Rune’s neck. For every one of her fourteen summers and winters, it seemed, he’d been a thorn to her. And while the prick under her ribs had been removed, the wound throbbed hot. Her chest heaved. She felt distinctly different; she was different. Blood pulsed through her veins, strong and eager. Was this how the warrior felt—keenly alive and ready for the next kill? Did one kill beget another and then another? She felt linked to the world; her heightened senses tasted the sea, inhaled the wind, fingered the mud’s grit. Everything around her roared, and she felt strangely calm, master of it all.
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