Third Place: Don't Steal My Wine

Don't Steal My Wine

by Madison Rayon

Third Place

Delaya settled against the trunk of a pecan tree and was doing an excellent job eschewing all thoughts centering around consequence, safety, and shelter from the coming winter. She had slept in a cave hidden by ivy for three nights, but it wouldn’t do for much longer. The air was thick with frost, and she had failed to bring a flint.

From thirty miles away, her plush and warm bed beckoned to her. Delaya pressed her hand against the tamped earth and forced herself to prefer it over blankets and feathers. It was a simple adjustment; one she had to accept for the sake of freedom.

Four days ago, she had been confined to her bedchamber for refusing the Duke of Oakshire. He arrived unannounced to beg for her hand, and she said, quite plainly, “No.” But her father thought that, by locking her away, he was free to make the desired arrangements with or without her consent, and the duke had no qualms with this circumvention.

Well, they can plan all they want, Delaya thought, as she poured a little more wine into her cup. The prospect of spreading her spinster thighs to someone she did not love was enough to eclipse a lifetime of subservience. She had stuffed a bag with provisions and fled into the night without a single thought as to her future.

She sipped slowly. Although she had forgotten a flint, the delectable and spicy wine warmed her all the way to her toes.

In the near distance, a horse whinnied.

Her stomach twisted with dread as she spotted four figures on horseback trotting out of the trees, into the glade of yarrow and aster.

A single glance at their disheveled clothes and plentiful beards was enough to warn her they were Xovalian. She looked at her sketchpad and charcoal, slippers, half-empty bottle of wine, and S.J. Cuthman’s Plant Identification of the Eastern Basin, then back to the silhouettes rapidly gaining definition. She couldn’t possibly gather it all in time.

Delaya stood and darted into the trees, to the hot spring she had discovered two days ago by following the offensive odor of rotting eggs. Sliding down the mud-slick levee, Delaya pressed her back against the moss and bedstraw, withdrawing her dagger. Breathing heavily, she gripped the hilt and waited for them to notice her blanket spread over the grass.

Please keep riding, don’t stop!

Sweat drenched her brow as she considered trying to make it back to the cave, but there was no time. She could hear the clopping of horses, and the heavy thud of boots as the Xovalian men dismounted, speaking to one another in their harsh tongue.

Delaya tried to push herself further into the levee, her feet sinking into pockets of hot water. It wasn’t long before she heard splashing as one, two, three men jumped into the spring around the bend.

“Hello, Dovey,” said a voice above her.

Delaya screamed and fell into the water.

Gulping, she looked up to see a man crouching above her, where the levee jutted over the water. He jumped down the embankment, landing in the spring with surprising grace. She shot to her feet and wielded her dagger. The man looked at it with a grin that made her flush with mortification. The six-inch blade of pearl looked like a child's toy compared to the wide, curved cleaver clutched in his giant hands.

“My name is Delaya Liriel.” She lifted her chin. “The daughter of Lord Erin Liriel. Leave me be, or the King’s soldiers will kill each and every one of you.”

The man, whose face looked like over-baked clay with deep creases running from nose to mouth, laughed, a sound like boulders tumbling inside his portly belly. Amused, he sheathed his cleaver and grabbed Delaya’s wrist. She gasped, her fingers forced open. The puny blade fell into the stream.

Three men rounded the bend, all of them dressed in thick leather and white fur.

Clay Face bellowed something in Xovalian while another man—this one taller and leaner, with a peppering of dark hair across his cheeks—bent to pick up the dagger. Turning it over in his hands with a thoughtful expression, he glanced at Delaya. looking into her eyes as though trying to recall a time they may have crossed paths.

She ground her teeth and lengthened her spine.

“My name is Delaya Liriel,” she repeated, stiffly. “The daughter of Lord Erin Liriel. Leave me be—”

The man lifted his hand to stop her, his eyes pausing on her mouth. She clamped her lips together, wishing the muddy earth would swallow her and spit her out on the other side of the Oura Sea, where the water was green and people lived simply.

“What are you doing out here, Delaya Liriel?” Asked the man who picked up her knife, in the common tongue.

“This is my father’s estate,” she lied, twisting her arm away from Clay Face.

“Enough, Anders.”

Anders let go reluctantly, his beady eyes oiling down Delaya’s body. She was drenched from the rising steam, her brother’s wool breeches clinging to her thighs, a cotton tunic plastered across her chest.

She might as well have been naked.

“This is not your father’s land.” The man tucked her knife inside his leather vest. “You have gone miles beyond your father’s land. This is Xovalian soil.”

“I’m engaged to the Duke of Oakshire,” she said. “And I demand to know who you are!”

He lifted his brows. “Valentin, my lady.” He bowed low enough for the tip of his nose to touch the water, and this caused a rumble of hilarity to pass through the circle of men.

Delaya’s cheeks burned.

Valentin stood, grabbed her arm, and pushed her back up the slippery bank. He tied her to the pecan tree where she had been reading, and the men scattered to make camp at the edge of the glade. Valentin ordered Anders to search the general area, then knelt in front of Delaya, glancing at the items on her blanket.

“Your men stole my wine,” she said virulently, surprised to realize how much this fact upset her.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” He tilted his ear to his shoulder. “Your grape juice?”

She glared at him. “Yes, that’s what I’m worried about. If you’re going to kidnap me, then I at least deserve my wine.”

He shrugged, reaching into his vest to pull out her dagger. “Where did you get this?”

Delaya shook her head, flabbergasted. “Why does it matter? I would like it back.”

He turned it over in his hands for a moment, then tucked it away. “Are you a Nivishkan spy?”

“A spy?” Delaya nearly choked, then burst a laugh. “Of course I’m not a spy! I already told you; I’m Delaya—”

“Liriel, daughter of Lord Erin Liriel, fiancée to the Duke of Oakshire,” he finished. “So I’ve heard. Aren’t you a little old to be a fiancée? What are you, twenty, twenty-one?”

Before Delaya could even begin to imagine a suitable rebuttal, one of the men shouted something from the trees.

Great, they found my cave!

Valentin untied her from the tree. Clearing his throat gruffly, he led her towards Anders, who pushed aside the curtain of ivy and blackberry brambles. Her captor nudged her inside. Her coat lay strewn over the earth, alongside a small satchel of her remaining provisions: one apple, a small hunk of hard cheese, and bread that could crack teeth. Her money, of which there was a decent amount, weighed down Anders' palm. She felt the hard lumps in her tunic with a sigh of relief, thankful that she had the sagacity to sew golden nuggets stolen from Father’s safe along the hem.

Valentin reached for the deck of cards on her jacket, and Delaya drew a sharp breath.

“Please, don’t. Nobody can touch them but me.”

He frowned, running his filthy fingers over the wooden box.

“You tell fortunes?” He asked.

She didn’t reply.

“Do you live here? You don’t have many possessions, but you have, say—” taking the money satchel from Anders, he bounced it a few times in his palm, wearing a thoughtful expression. “Three hundred blatva?”

Anders said something and Valentin nodded. Leading them back to the pecan tree, he tied her up again. He had the grace to return her wine (what was left of it, anyway) and ten minutes later the Xovalian gang was sitting around the campfire, carrying on as though nothing unusual had happened.

Darkness tumbled down.

In the time she was alone, Delaya had some time to think. Despite everything, the idea of going home still frightened her more than being held prisoner. She also considered that Valentin and his men might be able to offer her something, by way of transportation. Traveling on foot would only get her so far, and her internal compass had already led her astray.

After some time, Valentin returned to her with a bowl of stew.

“I cannot eat if I am restrained—”

“You are not a patient woman,” he interjected, walking around the tree to free her wrists. She accepted the stew, but first uncorked her wine and guzzled what was left of the expensive and rare nectar.

“Are you cold?” Valentin asked. “We have fur—”

“No. What do you intend to do with me?” she asked.

Sitting with a groan, he pulled out a wooden pipe and a linen cloth. “This is an unexpected circumstance,” he said, tamping fragrant ‘baccy into the bowl “My men think we could ransom you.”

“Please don’t ransom me.”

“Why not? Don’t you want to go home?”

“If I wanted to be home, I wouldn’t be here,” she pointed out.

“So, you are running away,” he said. “Why? Is it because you don’t want to marry the duke? Or perhaps you have discovered the true nature of your people, and find yourself abhorred by their… barbarity?” His upper lip twitched.

Yes, and yes.

As ironic as it was, Valentin’s claims that her people were barbaric could not be contradicted. They may wear silks and drink out of gem-encrusted goblets, but they were blood-thirsty, power-hungry, and they treated their women like objects.

No matter how much she tried, the thought of becoming a duchess made Delaya nauseous, as did the prospect of floating through life as an amenable Nivishkan woman, whose only purpose was to powder her cheeks and breed. No matter who she married, this was her inevitable fate.

“I want to start a new life, where I’m not the daughter of a lord, nothing more than a prized heifer. I don’t care about being wealthy. Look at me! I have slept three nights in this cave!” She set down her bowl and looked at Valentin pointedly. “Please, don’t ransom me.”

“What do you propose I do with you?”

“That depends, where are you heading?”

“Don’t tell me you want to join a gang of Xovalian men?” He laughed and bellowed something over his shoulder, and was met with a chorus of raucous guffaws. Brushing away tears of hilarity, he pinched the end of a thin twig.

She reddened. “Fine. Just leave me here.”

A tendril of smoke rose from the stick, drifting towards Delaya to wrap around her like a ribbon. The faint glow beneath Valentin’s thumb suddenly sparked and he pulled his hand away. Tucking the curved stem into the corner of his lips, he married the flame to his ‘baccy.

“You’re a fire diviner!” she said.

He grinned, pleased with her reaction, then exhaled a perfect ring to frame her face. Pride forced her delight down, and she wafted her hand through the diaphanous smoke.

Valentin sighed and shook his head. “It’s not safe for you in Xovalia. Pretty women are like mice for hawks. And out here,” he gestured to the woods, the glade, and beyond. “Nivishka soldiers will eventually find you.”

“They won’t!” She stood, and Valentin shot to his feet, perhaps thinking his payday would make a run for it. But Delaya simply walked a little way into the glade, crossing her arms.

“I’m sorry,” he said, following behind her. “It’s just…you’re a Liriel. Your father is well known to us.”

Delaya had risked everything to leave behind her life as a mere commodity for trade, only to find herself apprehended by men who also wanted to trade her—and back to the original peddlers, to boot! Overcome with anger, she pressed her hands against his granite chest and pushed with all her might. He stumbled, but did not fall, and after regaining balance he looked at her with an infuriating grin.

“Who are you, anyway?” she cried. “We may be on your soil now, but barely. I could spit and it would land in Nivishka.” She hawked up the best glob she could and spat it neatly in the direction of her homeland. Or at least, what she thought was the right direction.

“My sister was murdered by a Nivishkan soldier, and I am seeking revenge,” he said. “The intelligence I gathered informed me that the killer is residing in Solan. We will travel North to board a ship in five days.”

Hope spread wings in her chest. “Valentin, if I pay for all of your sea passages, will you allow me to accompany your gang to the port so I may buy passage for myself to Erendir?”

He laughed again, but this time it was dry. “Delaya, as much as it would please me to have a beautiful woman accompany us, these men  want to ransom you. It won’t be easy to sway them from this rare opportunity. Besides, they won’t trust a Nivishkan to hold up her end of the bargain.”

“Give me my blade. I will prove it to you, with a blood vow.” She blew egg-fetid hair from her face and held out her hand.

“What? No.”

“Give it to me!”

The men huddling around the fire looked their way. Valentin’s expression melted into one of indecision as he brushed a hand through his long, unruly hair. Finally, he reached into his coat and handed her the pearl dagger, his face battling apprehension and amusement.

With great determination, she held it over her palm.

“I, Delaya Liriel, vow to uphold my end of the bargain, to give you all the money in my satchel once we reach the harbor, except what I require for my own passage, of course. If I go back on my word, then you can ransom me. Or kill me.”

Valentin lifted an eyebrow.

Delaya bit her lip and slid the blade down, emitting a shallow gasp.

“By the gods!” Valentin went to her, taking the dagger from her trembling fingers. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he pressed it against her wound. “You didn’t have to dismember yourself!”

“Do you believe me?” she asked, her chest heaving in and out. He looked down his nose, his hands as rough as volcanic rock as he closed her fingers around the cloth.

“I believe you,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “But that was unnecessary, a small prick would have done.” Lifting the cloth, he angled her palm in the moonlight to assess its depth. “I thought noble ladies were squeamish.”

She lifted her face to the breeze. “I’m not a noble lady. Not anymore.”

He frowned. “I will talk to the men about your proposal.”

“I’ll give you everything I have,” she pleaded. “A-and I will tell your fortunes.”

Bending to his knees, Valentin slid her dagger through the grass. “Tell me where you got this.”

“My uncle Boydrich made it for Mother many years ago,” Delaya replied.

“Does your uncle make many of them?”

“I’ve only seen one other like it. But it has a malachite blade, not pearl. Why do you want to know?”

Valentin was silent for a long moment. “It’s late, and I’m tired,” he said. “It’s time for sleep.”

“You won’t let them hurt me?” she nodded towards the fire.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he replied, softly. “On my honor.”

Something unbidden stirred in the cauldron of her belly. It was a strange feeling; one she could not attach to a name.

“You’re cold,” Valentin unbuttoned his coat and threw it over her shoulders. The fur was so warm, a deep shudder cascaded down her spine.

“I’m sorry, but you must remain bound to the tree until we reach an agreement.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

He tied her to the tree, gave her a sip of harsh, organ-searing liquor, and after a consultation with his men Valentin arranged his blanket halfway between the fire and Delaya.

She watched the swollen, blue-tinged moon rise into the sky.

When Delaya woke up, the world was blanketed in frost. All of the yarrow and aster which flecked the glade had shriveled, a testament to the life she knew before.

One of the men saw her: an unnaturally tall and pale-skinned man with a mop of bright orange hair, who looked remarkably like an aspen tree in the fall. He came to her, introduced himself as Wyllum with broken language, and offered her what could only be described as hot water flavored with dirt and leaves, as well as the cold leg of a rabbit. Ten minutes later, Delaya was sitting in front of Valentin on his large and spotted horse, rubbing her freed wrists.

“We have decided to accept your offer,” Valentin said, his voice husky from the cold. “You will not be used as ransom bait. In addition to passage across the Oura and all your blatva, my men will have their fortunes read tonight.”

“How did you convince them to give up the ransom?” She looked over her shoulder, overjoyed.

He shrugged one shoulder with a crooked grin. “To have a fortune read is priceless, a gift from the gods. Besides, I’m in a hurry, and it would take us weeks to collect a ransom. Too many things can go poorly with such exchanges.”

“How do I say thank you in Xovalian?”

“Zevrak.”

“Zevrak, all of you!” Delaya cried, making sure to look at each of them in turn. She was met with hesitant smiles and curious eyes, and she simpered to herself. It was lucky she brought her cards. At the time of her escape, she considered they would be an easy way to make money on her travels.

They rode in silence for the next hour, after which the men began to sing. Delaya liked the melancholy tune, and their gorge-deep voices. When Valentin joined in, his voice more befitting a giant than a man, she could feel the powerful rumble in his chest and found an unexpected comfort in the sound. Exhaustion crashed over her, and she leaned against him. Valentin’s arms instinctually tightened around her, as though to give her a more stable bed.

A nauseating jolt pulled her out of a blackened slumber. For a moment, she was still in the cave beside the hot spring, and then she saw the charred and leafless woodland looming before them like a direct passage into the Underworld.

“We have reached the Forest of Cruor,” Valentin said, as though to himself. “The Forest of Cruor?”

“A terrible place,” Anders replied, with a violent shudder.

“Can’t we go around it?” Delaya’s skin trembled as a shrill wind rushed from the dismal woods, wrapping her in a frigid embrace.

Valentin clicked his tongue, and the gang entered the forest. The world dimmed. The frost thickened. Branches reached for the sky like crooked fingers. Delaya shivered and pulled Valentin’s coat tighter.

He handed her his flask. “You need warmth, it will get colder.”

The entire forest was frozen, everything splintering and crackling so that she did not know what to make of the sudden pops, and wheezing sighs of trees. The horses were restless, ears twitching and eyes rolling, hooves cracking through thick layers of ice to plunge into dark, squelching mud.

“Why do you wish to go to Erendir so bad?” Valentin asked her, as they ducked to avoid a drooping branch with menacing thorns oozing a dark red sap.

“Because it’s far away from Nivishka, and the people there live simply.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

“Have you been there?”

“I’ve been everywhere, my lady.”

“And you disagree?”

“I do. Perhaps two-hundred years ago they lived simply, but such a way of life no longer exists.”

Delaya’s heart ached to hear Valentin’s words, but she pierced the heavy fog with adamant eyes. “It doesn’t matter. It’s still far away. At least I will be a stranger.”

“That’s what you want?”

She frowned, and tightened her grip on the pommel.

Is that what I want? Ever since Mother died, she dreamed of nothing but the freedom of distant horizons. Solitude did not frighten her, but she was starting to wonder whether she felt that way because she had never experienced it to such a length. Perhaps it was not the concept of being alone that appealed to her, but the potential for new beginnings as a foreigner in a new land.

“I don’t know anymore,” she whispered. “But that’s not all I’m confused about.”

“I dare say.”

She smiled ruefully over her shoulder to see Valentin was grinning.

“I’m also curious as to why you would choose to help me, at all,” she continued. “Fortune telling aside, if you don’t have the time for ransom, why not take the money and abandon me?”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” he repeated.

A squeal erupted behind them, shrill enough to grind Delaya’s bones. The next moment, she was holding onto the saddle's pommel while Valentin shouted over his shoulder, unsheathing his cutlass with a metallic schwing!  A large black shadow slammed between the horses. Two of them reared, but Valentin’s steed bolted into the forest. There was a sickening sensation of plunging, as its front legs sank into a pit of mud. Delaya was thrown off the saddle; she landed with a slap in the mud. Instantly, the earth began to consume her.

“Help!” Delaya screamed, thrashing her arms as the warm mud glugged, pulling her down.

Valentin stood on the saddle with acrobatic stealth, grabbed the cuff of his coat she wore, and wrenched her out of the mud. The bog burped, disgorging a flatulent green mist. Throwing Delaya over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, Valentin bent his knees and jumped from the horse. He lost his footing in the slippery shallows of the quagmire, and they landed in a heap.

Behind them, men shouted and the beast squealed—disconcerting shrieks that echoed through the Forest of Cruor. Gripping her hand, Valentin led her to a burnt tree and pushed her to the ground.

“Stay here,” he said, chest heaving

“No, don’t go!” She gripped his forearm, digging her nails in. He paused for only a second, just long enough to look in her eyes. Something indescribable passed between them, and in that ephemeral moment, she noticed that his eyes were deep-water blue.

Then, he was gone.

Delaya pressed against the tree, panic surging through her as the distant screams amplified, bouncing between the skeletal trees until she could not tell from which direction they came. She buried her head between her knees, clenched her hair, and imagined the green sea in Erendir, which she had only seen in pictures.

It was useless. She forced the image with every ounce of her willpower, but the horse's frantic neighing propelled her to her feet. She broke a low-hanging limb from the tree and ran back to the bog. Jabbing the branch through the mud to assess the weight, she entered it up to her knees. Stretching her torso, she managed to grab hold of the bridle and yanked with all her might. The sludge had reached a boil, as though angry it was being cheated of a meal, each glossy bubble bursting to release more of that mephitic green mist. It had swallowed the front half of the horse up to its jowls, but its bottom still jutted in the air.

Leveraging her weight against her heels, Delaya pulled. The horse sludged towards her a few inches, its lips pulled away from chomping teeth. “Yes, that’s it! Come to me!” She laughed—-a maniacal sound she did not recognize—and, channeling this energy into her arms, the laughter rose into a scream of exertion. She had never put so much force into anything in all her life.

The horse found solid ground just as she slid onto her back. It pushed itself out of the deep. After finding its footing, the noble steed reared its head towards the sky and whinnied, flinging mud from its mane.

“Come on, girl!” A voice said. “Make haste! Enough dallying!”

Dallying?!

Delaya looked to the left with wild eyes to see Anders running towards her.

“DON’T!” She shouted, just in time for him to come to a screeching halt at the edge of the bog. His eyes were wide and pinned with adrenaline. He looked like he had dipped his head into a bucket of blood.

She followed him, trying to keep the horse tame as she gripped the bridle beneath its jaw. Arriving at the scene, Valentin and the other men gesticulated over the body of a boar—or what might have been a boar, had it been half as large. Not only did it have scythe-like fangs, but claws curved like eagle talons. Seeing Delaya, Valentin went to her and cupped her face in a gesture bordering instinct.

“Are you alright?” He asked. “You saved Bellamy!”

She gasped at the serious wound on his cheek: three slash marks running from temple to mouth. “You’re hurt!”

“I’m fine,” he said, dismissively. “Thank you, Delaya. Bellamy means everything to me, she was my mother’s horse.”

“We must leave!” Anders shouted.

They mounted quickly and, skirting around the treacherous bog, galloped toward the sinking sun. Delaya thought she would faint for joy when they burst out of that dark place. The great big yolk in the sky broke apart, shedding its rich gold light over a field of tall yellow grass covered in ice crystals.

That night, the Xovalian’s took turns sitting across from Delaya so she could read their fortunes. They were like little children listening to horror tales around the fire with glittering eyes. She shuffled through the cards, seemingly blank like small scrying mirrors. Wyllum grunted in pain as he leaned forward, following her instructions to cut the deck. Delaya selected the top three cards and laid them in a row. She touched her index finger to each one, the black surface rippling like a pebble dropped in water. An icy blue fog crept into the corners of her vision, and when she returned from her voyage the men all looked at her with gaping mouths.

“You will marry a woman who smells like honeysuckles,” she said to Wyllum, the aspen tree man. “I saw three children, two boys and one girl, and a farm with chickens and sheep.”

Wyllum smiled so brightly Delaya had to squint. “Thank you, Vakal Meshtora.”

Horse Guardian—that’s what they called her now.

When it came to be Valentin’s turn, he tucked away her pearl knife that he had been turning over in his fingers, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He sat beside her and offered his flask.

“Thank you.” She drank deeply and handed it back to him. Gingerly touching his cheek, she pursed her lips at the thick blue salve she made from the persistent willekuh flowers she found growing by the bank of a frigid stream. All of the men had required some form of nursing, but without any medical supplies there was precious little she could do but staunch the bleeding.

They made brief eye contact, then she started to shuffle her cards. Valentin shook his head and draped his hand over hers.

“No,” he said gruffly. “I do not wish to know my future.”

Delaya blinked. It was rare that anyone refused her prophetic services. “Why not?”

“I prefer it to remain a mystery.”

They watched shadows dance across the glittering walls of the cave, Delaya finding peace in the vague murmurs, grunts, and belches of men. She liked that they acted themselves around her, that they didn’t treat her like Lord Erin Liriel’s daughter, and smelled like earth rather than cologne.

“Tell me, do you read your own cards?” Valentin asked.

“I used to,” she said. “But not anymore.”

“Why not?”

She looked into his blue eyes and swallowed. “I also prefer the future to remain a mystery.”

But that night would not be made of the unknown, for what Delaya knew was loud enough to fill the cave with its resonance, and she was not the only one who could hear it. Valentin’s body language had shifted, like he was drawn to her magnetically, the space between them buzzing in an effort to pull them together.

When everyone had gone to sleep, their snores echoing through the cave, Delaya went to her erstwhile captor, and the man who saved her life in the Forest of Cruor.

Dropping to her knees, she touched his prickly cheek, brushing her thumb across his long black lashes. He put his hand on her wrist and lifted his blanket in invitation. She slid beneath it, her heart pounding when he brushed her tangled hair aside, his fingers catching in the snarls.

Lightning filled her chest, branching into her fingertips and toes. They breathed the same air, chilly exhales borne of desire for distant lands and mysterious offings. He pressed his lips to hers, and everything Delaya had ever seen, heard, felt, or dreamed, became lost in the flurry of snow as winter came to sap away her past.

Delaya and Valentin fell asleep shortly after their kiss. In the morning, they woke to an undulating ocean of snow glittering beneath an amber sun. The gang was in high spirits as they trotted at a leisurely pace, their faces turned up to the woolly snow, but Delaya felt uneasy. She and Valentin exchanged very few words. His eyes were sunken, distracted, somewhere far away.

Their time together was narrowing, and Delaya felt a strange ache in her chest. Visions of the green Erendir sea did not excite her the way they did two days ago.

The day passed in a lazy gradient, from brilliant gold to velvet indigo.

Nobody realized that they were on a road, but after arcing the bend of a snow mound, a log-stacked inn came into view. Smoke poured from two chimneys, and everyone released a sigh as the aroma of seasoned food drifted towards them in beckoning tendrils. Valentin paid for two rooms—one for them—another with bunk beds.

After eating a plate of food and gulping a decanter of poor-quality wine, the tavern maid wrinkled her nose, commented on the gang’s stink, and ordered Delaya to strip naked and stand outside in the blizzard while she doused her with buckets of water. Only then could she get into the tub, where she scrubbed every inch of herself with a hard-bristled brush. Returning to the room, she found Valentin stoking the fire on his knees, his back bare and broad, begging to be touched. She went to him, and ran her fingertips between his shoulder blades. He turned, his eyes widening marginally at the sight of her in a simple cotton robe, her hair loose from its braid.

“Delaya…” he said, softly.

She bent her knees. “Valentin.”

He closed his eyes while she traced the plane of his face, all harsh lines and faded scars, the stories of which she longed to know. The warmth of fire, smell of goat milk soap, and effects of strong wine lured Delaya into a place of buoyancy. She felt like a new woman, her past life buried beneath snowdrift.

“I have a gift for you.” He took her hand and led her to the small table, placed before a window overlooking the winter world. He handed her a small box. “I won it in a game of chess some years back. I never knew what to do with it, before.”

She opened the box to see a beautiful white-gold bangle, with a single red stone set in an ornate bezel. Smiling, she slid it over her hand and watched the firelight glint off the gem.

“Thank you, Valentin.” She reached out to touch him, but he pushed her away gently. Crossing the room, he rifled through his dirty trousers and returned with her satchel of blatva. He tossed the satchel across the table.

“We cannot take this any further,” he said. “This could never be. We are parting ways tomorrow.”

She picked up the coins and tossed them back; Valentin caught them with a confused expression.

“I will go with you,” she said.

He shook his head. “You don’t know me. We have shared something, but we’re still strangers.”

“I do,” she replied, tears filling her eyes.

He stood, and paced. “You don’t understand. The dagger—” he reached for his vest and removed her pearl blade. “Your uncle, he killed my sister.”

Delaya twisted her hands together. The thought had entered her mind, when he pressed her about the origins of her dagger. She knew Uncle Boydrich moved to Solan, and that he was a monster. The topic had always been a sore spot for Mother, but it wasn’t until Delaya was arranged to marry the duke that she fully understood why.

“I don’t care,” she said.

He stood, shaking his head. “I’m hunting your uncle, Delaya. Your family.”

“What does that word mean?” she asked.

“It means blood.”

“But not love.”

“Love?”

The word swung in the air between them like a pendulum.

“My uncle means nothing to me. He betrayed my mother, forcing her into a marriage she didn’t want. I won’t try to stop you. You can even use the dagger he made to do it, for all I care.”

Valentin sat and looked out of the window with weary eyes. “You don’t know who I am.”

“Then tell me.”

His eyes were sad as he gazed at her. “My name is Valentin Gregork of House Sluag, son of War Chieftain Valentin Gregork the Third. Do you know what that means?”

“That one day you will be a war chieftain.” Delaya went to him and straddled his lap. Knees shaking, head swimming, heart racing. “My name is Delaya Oryn Liriel. Do you know what that means?”

“It means you are a Nivishkan lady,” he whispered.

She shook her head. “No. It means I want you.”

“How could you live the life of a Xovalian soldier’s wife?”

“Wife?” She lifted a brow.

He smiled, then winced, gingerly touching the bandage on his cheek. “Perhaps. Would you surrender your elegant lifestyle?”

“I like living this way,” she said softly, bending to take his mouth. Their kiss sank to a dizzying depth, the energy between them frothing.

Delaya had never felt more alive. She would gladly spend every night of her life galloping through the snow and sleeping in caves, beside a man who made her heart throb. She would be Valentin’s lover, his nurse, his accomplice.

They parted, and looked into each other's eyes as though all of their secrets and desires could be spilled in silence.

After a minute, Valentin reached for her wine goblet and took a sip.

“I only have one condition,” Delaya said, pulling the goblet from his hand.

“What is that?” he asked, grinning crookedly.

She bent to whisper in his ear. “Don’t steal my wine.”

Winning pieces are published as received.

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Fiction Potluck

October 2025

Third Place Winner:

Madison Rayon

Madison Rayon is originally from Tulsa, Oklahoma. She’s currently rooted in rural Nevada, drawing inspiration from the haunting beauty of untouched wilderness. When she’s not working on her debut novel, she can be found wandering through the pages of a book, sipping on Spanish wine, or basking beneath the light of a full moon. www.madisonrayon.com