Chapter Twenty-five: New Friend?

SIGRUN

The morning air carried a sharp bite that made my nose tingle as I stepped out into the courtyard.

A stable hand was already waiting beside my mare.

The sight of her immediately improved my mood. Never thought there’d come a day where I missed a horse, but here we were.

She lifted her head the moment she spotted me, ears perking forward, and nudged my shoulder as I approached.

“Someone missed me.”

Her warm breath puffed against my cheek.

I scratched the white patch between her eyes and frowned thoughtfully.

“I need a name for you.”

Something that didn’t sound like I had stolen it from a children’s storybook.

Unfortunately, my imagination had failed me completely.

“Maybe it’ll come to me eventually.”

A throat cleared behind me.

I turned and immediately remembered that I wasn’t simply riding into town by myself.

Two enormous men stood several feet away. Each sat atop a massive black horse with a wolf banner inscribed in silver. The wolves were identical to the one on my pendant. It was obviously Varul’s crest.

Neither of the men spoke nor smiled.

Their expressions carried the same warmth as an execution notice.

Apparently, being married to the Alpha meant I was no longer allowed to wander around without my very own security detail.

It was protocol, Marta had patiently explained. The Alpha’s wife was not supposed to be seen walking alone.

Which felt incredibly inconvenient for someone who enjoyed walking. Still, arguing had accomplished absolutely nothing.

The guards had appeared and quietly followed me to the stables.

And judging by their expressions, they would probably continue following me until the end of time.

“Good morning,” I said with a bright smile.

The one on the left inclined his head. The one on the right blinked. That was apparently the extent of today’s conversation.

Wonderful.

I mounted my mare and tried not to feel ridiculous as we rode through the gates.

The guards positioned themselves on either side of me immediately.

Like very large bookends.

The ride down toward the city was beautiful despite the awkward escort.

Snow still clung to rooftops and mountain slopes, but spring was beginning to push through the North in stubborn little patches. Evergreen trees dotted the landscape, their dark needles standing out against stone and snow.

As the land spread beneath us, I found myself sitting a little straighter. The city looked different from this angle. More alive and less intimidating.

The streets grew busier as we descended. Merchants hauled carts. Children darted between buildings. Workers carried bundles of lumber and crates filled with supplies.

The closer we came to what was supposedly the Market Square, the more crowded the streets became.

And the more attention I attracted. People literally bowed.

I nearly looked behind me to see who they were greeting.

Unfortunately, there was nobody behind me.

The bows were for me.

“Oh.”

More people noticed.

A butcher standing outside his shop lowered his head respectfully.

Two young girls curtsied.

A group of merchants paused mid-conversation.

Within minutes it felt as though an invisible wave was spreading through the square.

The Alpha’s new wife.

The title moved ahead of me before I ever spoke a word.

I offered awkward smiles whenever our eyes met.

Some smiled back. Most didn’t. Others looked openly curious. Many stared.

One elderly man even reached out to touch his heart before bowing his head.

The gesture made something twist uncomfortably inside my chest.

I wasn’t royalty. I wasn’t some legendary figure. I was just…Me.

A broke art student who had somehow woken up here, and in a position of royalty.

By the time we reached the center of the Market Square itself, I was grateful for the distraction.

The place was enormous.

Rows upon rows of stalls stretched across the square.

Colorful banners fluttered overhead.

Different smells mingled in the air.

Fresh bread. Roasted meat. Wood smoke. Spices. Leather. Flowers.

A dozen scents tangled together into something warm and vibrant.

Vendors shouted over one another.

Customers bargained.

Children ran through the crowds.

Musicians played somewhere in the distance.

Every direction revealed something new.

One stall displayed hand-carved wooden animals.

Another sold woven blankets dyed rich shades of blue and green.

A blacksmith hammered glowing metal while sparks danced around him.

Nearby, a woman arranged jars of honey that gleamed like liquid gold beneath the sunlight.

I wanted to stop everywhere.

Unfortunately, being escorted by two giant guards tended to create a path through crowds whether I wanted one or not.

People moved fast. Nobody seemed eager to test the patience of the men accompanying me.

Eventually we stopped before a narrow three-story building nestled between a bakery and a tailor.

A carved wooden sign swung gently overhead.

THOMPSON’S.

The lettering was painted in deep blue.

Small illustrations decorated the edges.

Books.

Quills.

Paintbrushes.

A palette.

The building itself looked charmingly crooked, as though it had settled into place centuries ago and refused to move ever since.

Tall windows displayed stacks of books alongside sketchpads, paints, rolled maps, and peculiar little sculptures.

I smiled immediately. This was exactly the sort of place I loved.

One of the guards dismounted before I could. Without a word, he offered his hand and helped me down with surprising gentleness considering he looked capable of wrestling bears.

“Thank you.”

The guard bowed.

Then resumed standing there looking terrifying.

The bell above the door chimed softly as I stepped inside.

Warmth greeted me immediately.

The smell nearly made me sigh.

Paper, ink, leather bindings, paint, old wood. An artist’s wet dream.

It was the scent of every bookstore, art shop, and creative space I had ever loved.

Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling.

Books occupied most of them.

Others displayed sketchbooks, brushes, charcoal, pigments, quills, bottles of ink, and supplies I couldn’t immediately identify.

Sunlight streamed through the front windows and painted golden rectangles across the wooden floor.

For a moment I simply stood there taking everything in.

I loved it already.

“Hello?” I called. “Anyone here?”

There was a sudden rustle. Then a head appeared from behind an enormous book at the counter.

A woman blinked at me. Dark red hair tumbled around her shoulders in slightly chaotic waves. Round spectacles perched on her nose. Freckles dusted her pale cheeks. She looked to be around my age. Perhaps a year or two older. Her intelligent grey eyes assessed me quickly.

Then she smiled. “Welcome to Thompson’s. How can I—”

Her gaze shifted past me and toward the doorway to the two enormous guards standing watch outside. She took in the silver wolf crests.

Then her smile faltered, her eyes widening slightly as realization dawned, probably about who I was. The woman straightened so quickly she nearly dropped her book.

“Goddess, you are Princess Sigrun who got married to the Alpha!”

I offered an apologetic smile. “Guilty.”

To my surprise, she laughed. “That explains the behemoth men outside.”

I immediately liked her.

“Trust me, I had the same reaction,” I said dryly.

The woman grinned. She set the book aside and curtesied.

“I am Elara Thompson, My Lady.”

I shook it. “Please, just Sigrun.”

Her grin widened. “A honor to have you at our humble shop, Sigrun. What can I get for you?”

“Oh, just some paint and paintbrushes. For painting,” I added unnecessarily.”

She looked intrigued. “You paint?”

I nodded proudly. “Yes.”

“Splendid. My father will love you. He is a lover of all things art, including those who make them. It is why he started this shop.”

I smiled at the fond way she spoke about her dad. “Oh, is he here,” I asked politely.

She waved her hand. “No, he traveled for business three days ago. Let me show you some of our best supplies…”

Within minutes she was leading me through the aisles. Talking the entire time. The sort of enthusiasm that appeared whenever someone genuinely loved what they were discussing.

“If you’re painting landscapes, these pigments hold color longer.”

She pushed her glasses up her nose.

“If you’re painting portraits, avoid these brushes because they shed terribly.”

Another push.

“And if anyone ever tries to sell you imported Southern charcoal for double the price, they’re scamming you.”

I laughed. I loved the easy way she was speaking with me, as though I was an old friend. She gave off premium Eva vibes, and God knew how much I missed my best friend.

“Noted.”

She nodded seriously. “It is my civic duty to protect innocent artists.”

The glasses slipped again. She pushed them back.

I was beginning to suspect they spent half their lives trying to escape her face.

As we moved through the shop, conversation flowed surprisingly easily.

For the first time since arriving in the North, I found myself talking to someone who wasn’t a servant, a guard, or a terrifyingly competent warrior.

Someone my own age.

Someone who seemed entirely comfortable speaking her mind.

Someone who wasn’t treating me like I might explode.

And it felt…

Nice.

Unexpectedly nice.

I found myself smiling more than I had in days.

Perhaps Elara noticed.

Because as she handed me a set of brushes, her expression softened slightly.

Then she adjusted her glasses once more and said casually,

“You know, you are not quite what everyone expected.”

I blinked.

“What does that mean?”

A mischievous glint appeared in her eyes.

“Oh.”

She smiled.

“That is a much longer story.”