In an abandoned mine on the western side of the North—
A place well hidden from the Draken Duchy and other nobles.
It was the perfect place to hide. The mine had long been closed down. No one would suspect that a bunch of bandits would take shelter here.
It was perfect for Bjorn as well.
It had been three months—three long months since he'd holed himself up here—wounded, humiliated, and burning with a rage that hadn't cooled in all that time.
Bjorn sat near the flickering light of a low-burning lantern, its glow casting long shadows across the jagged walls of the abandoned mine.
His arm still bore the scar from that night—a deep, ugly wound that never fully healed, no matter how many low-grade potions he poured over it.
Three months.
He clenched his jaw as the memory surfaced again—of that brat from the Draken Duchy, Alice, and the way she'd looked down on him like he was nothing. She hadn't even been trying. She just wanted him out of the way—like a bug under her boot.
