I never was the type of noblewoman to stay by the hearth while the men rode into battle anyway. As my father always used to say with the shake of his head, the blood of the Old Tribes runs strong in me.

A sudden yearning to hold Artagan close overtakes me, to smell the scent of his skin and run my hands through his tousled black hair. He will soon ride into peril again as he has many times before. No matter how often he rides away, I never get used to it.

Whatever befalls us, we will endure it together. I clutch my longbow and dagger close to my side. My last thoughts linger on my husband and my boy. I will not let harm come to either of them.

My blood runs cold. Her savage stare and bloodied hands leave no doubts in my mind as she glares up at us from across the battlefield. This must be the fabled Queen of the Picts.

Hot-blooded men make war. It’s up to cool-headed queens like us to make the peace.

I’m all alone against the darkness. Dark winds rising against me.