“We have much to discuss,” Maddock said, attention on Solveig. He nodded to two guards who appeared beside her. One of them grabbed Westley and the other gripped her shoulder hard.
Westley threw his body into his guard before two more came and forced him to his knees. Solveig fought against the hands that held her, jabbing her elbow into an unsuspecting stomach.
“Unhand me, you filthy—”
“Careful there, Tordottir, wouldn’t want to inflict any pain on that beautiful mare of yours.” Another Giant came into view, yanking Helle along. The bridle she wore cut into her face, the edges sharp and dripping with black. Poison.
Solveig’s stomach roiled with rage, magic sizzling in her blood, but said nothing. She was outnumbered.
“Good lass,” Maddock condescended. “Bring them both.”
Westley and Solveig were forced to follow Maddock and his minions through the wreckage of the Southern Wilds. This half of the chasm had fared so much worse than Solveig could’ve imagined.
The dining hall was reduced to rubble. Her heart constricted in her chest as she passed the bodies of witchlings, females, and males. The walls surrounding the camp had fallen.
There were no Fae bodies on the ground—only Vanir and mortals.
Solveig’s breath quickened as the injustice and grief threatened to drag her under. Instead, she used it to fuel her magic, letting it fill her veins.
While Fae needed the element of their power in order to recharge, Vanir used emotion—whether their own or those pulled from others. She had an unending supply of emotions right now as her magic built within her.
They were led through the carnage to the only tent that had survived the onslaught.
The council tent stood unscathed and unscorched on the edge of camp. The unblemished beige canvas stood out like a beacon amongst the blackened and burned tents surrounding it. Solveig stopped dead in her tracks as Latham came into view standing outside the council tent, staring at the ground.
“What did you do, Latham?” she asked, seething. “Look at me,” she ordered.
As if on instinct, his head snapped up at the demand. Regret radiated in his eyes as he took in the blood that coated her skin and clothing. “Are you okay?” he whispered.
“What do you think? Of course I’m not okay. How many of our people did you sentence to death?”
“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” he said solemnly, his eyes darting towards Maddock.
“I know. But it did.” It took everything in her not to lunge for him. But looking at his face, seeing the friend she used to have, a male she used to love, she couldn’t help but pity his weakness. She had them too. “This is not all on your shoulders,” she said softly.
“What do you mean?” he asked hopefully.
“You were right. I got complacent, and that led to dissent among my people that I didn’t acknowledge, or even see, was there.”
“So you understand why I did what I had to do.”
“I’m not even sure I know yet what you did, Latham. But no, I’m not absolving you of your crimes—I’m merely saying that we have all made decisions that led us to this point.” She spared a glance at Westley, who watched her intently.
Latham caught the exchange and his demeanour changed immediately.
“You aligned with Idavoll. How can you hate me for working with them too?” he spat at her.
“Vanaheim and Asgard have always and will always have my allegiance first,” she censured, power bleeding through her voice as she straightened her back. “I am no traitor to my people,” she said quietly, menace lacing her words.
“And you think I am?” Latham cried.
“Look around you, Latham. What else would you call this?”
“I call this taking action. Sometimes we have to sacrifice our own people to save them,” he insisted.
“You didn’t just sacrifice some, Latham, you sacrificed them all!”
“The Southern Wilds may be gone, but Vanaheim stands strong,” Latham said haughtily.
