Darkness greeted her. The only light came from a narrow entrance about twenty feet away. From what she could tell, she was lying on her side at the back of a deep cave. Curled in a ball, the damp, soft ground permeated her clothes, making her wonder how long she’d been unconscious for. More scents reached her—earthworms beneath the surfaceand dank stale air. As she slowly moved her hands around to feel the mossy wall at her back, something pinched her wrists.
Right. She was shackled.
She shook her legs to see if her ankles were also chained. Of course they were.
With a quiet sigh, she tried to sit upright, but her head was too heavy. Testing the length of the chains, she found she had about a foot on each ankle and roughly three feet on her arms.
They clearly didn’t trust her, which either meant they were taking precautions because they didn’t know who she was, or they knew exactly who she was and had restrained her accordingly.
Her eyes were starting to adjust to the dark, allowing her to see the rough edges of the stone walls, small roots dangling above her head. After scouring the area for anything that could be useful, she slumped over, heart hammering, grateful she woke alone.
She strained her ears but could only hear the soft scurrying of rodents around her and wind rustling the leaves outside the cave. Her head pounded like it had the morning after she and Gerrie spent the evening trying to one-up each other in a drinking match, her soldiers loudly cheering Gerrie on.
Her eyes became unfocused and her vision grew blurry. Cold sweat broke out along her back and chest. Her queasy stomach returned and without warning, she vomited on the ground in front of her. She tried to shimmy away from the mess, but the effort took what little strength she had left, plunging her back into darkness.
Solveig jolted awake with an odd sensation crawling under her skin. The pain she’d encountered earlier returned, but it was duller, as though her body had adjusted to the feel of it. No longer as painful but uncomfortable and oddly familiar.
The spot in front of her was clean, a bucket placed to the left of her head. Interesting. Someone had been here but left her unharmed. She peered around with a clearer head, beginning to plan her next moves when that faint sensation under her skin grew stronger and more painful.
Pulling herself to her feet, she winced, noting that the chains were barely long enough to let her stand. Her attention fixed on the entrance to her cave with narrowing eyes as her body pulsed with a long-forgotten energy.
A lone figure with considerable height, broad shoulders and chest that tapered to his waist, and strong, muscular legs slowly came into view. Though he was dressed in black from head to toe with a hood hiding the colour of his hair, it was apparent he was a male of some kind.
The mask he wore concealed his features and cloaked him in darkness. He took calculated steps towards the entrance, towards her.
Solveig’s hair stood on end as the air became charged. Energy under her skin grew stronger, and she knew fear for the first time in a century. When she recognized that painful hum and it was such a shock to her muddled mind, her knees buckled, legs almost giving out.
Somehow, her dormant magic was breaking through the Block.
How was that even possible? She must be in the gravest of danger for the Block to weaken its hold. What else could it be if not that? Her heart raced and tears rolled down her cheeks as her legs shook.
The male stalked closer, his movements hesitant until he stopped barely inside the mouth of the cave to stare at her. Well, she assumed he was staring—she couldn’t see any of his face. She couldn’t even seethe colour of his skin as every part of him besides his general shape was hidden.
It was on the tip of her tongue, to say anything, ask something, but her magic awakening was warning enough—she didn’t dare speak. Instead, she took a deep breath. One. Two. Three. Bracing her shaky legs, she reminded herself who she was. Solveig Tordottir, daughter of the Queens of Asgard, war general of their armies.
She had never cowered under the presence of any soul, and she had no plans of starting.
She became cold and unfeeling, her mouth pressed into a thin line. She tilted her chin and stared right back at the male in front of her.
The bite of her trapped magic was relentless, its teeth trying to snap its way out.
Solveig didn’t know how long they stood there. Her head pounded to the rhythm of her heart, and her stomach lurched again as her body protested the pretence of strength. The terror threatening to resurface was not a helpful addition as beads of sweat poured down her back.
At last, he released her gaze with a rise of his chest and an exhale loud enough for her to hear. The power crawling under her skin intensified, as though it was preparing to fight back or make her pass out again. The male abruptly turned on his heel, putting his back to her, and sat down at the mouth of the cave.
He leaned his body against the wall and went preternaturally still. Not a mortal then. Mortals couldn’t achieve that level of control over their bodies during their limited lifespan.
Most likely Fae or Elven. He wasn’t large enough to be Giant, nor muscular enough to be Dwarven. She guessed Fae, given his muscular stature. Elven were typically tall and lean. Time ticked by, and not once did the male move, not even to shift or fidget.
What did he want? Was this part of her torture? Being bored to death seemed like an awful way to go. She was not so naive to think this would be the case and was sure by the end of whatever they had in store for her, she’d be wishing for boredom.
To pass the time, Solveig thought over the small amount of energy coursing through her, which led her to the only thing that had occupied her mind for two centuries. The War of Realms.
Mortals.
Solveig had fought against the human race. They proved to be vicious and brutal, having no patience or control over themselves. Worse than witchlings with their tempers—their hatred ruled their emotions, selling their loyalty to the highest bidder.
Even with no magic, the strength of their anger was a formidable force, amplified by the innate power when they reached immortal lands. As soon as they had breached the shores of Vanaheim and their feet touched the rocks, their hate became their greatest weapon.
