“There’s a fucking chasm in the middle of the realm. How did that even get there? Do you know?”
He didn’t answer and she laughed without humour. “You are a pawn in their games, and they will sacrifice you when the time is right, mark my words.” She didn’t give him time to answer, turning her attention to Maddock. “Let’s get this over with.”
Maddock led them into the tent, and this time it was Westley who stopped short as they entered through the opening held by Fae guards.
Fae and Vanir stood around the large table in the centre of the room. She searched for the faces of her shieldmaidens, of Sten and Laeknir, but did not see them. Latham strode past her and took his seat beside Conalle, whose eyes were downcast as he sat rigid in his chair.
Solveig let out a low growl and Westley stepped closer to her, brushing his hand against hers.
Around Latham sat Conalle and Noren and three new Fae, including a female with long golden hair and eyes the colour of the forest. She sat tall with a regal air, though she wore no crown.
Beside her sat a male, his large hand resting on the female’s. His hair was dark, and his eyes were just as black. Solveig couldn’t even make out the pupils.
Sitting at the head of the table was a Fae who resembled the older version of the dark-haired male next to him. Strands of grey weaved through his own black hair. Hard eyes pinned her in place as a cruel smile curled his lips.
“Welcome, General Solveig Tordottir. It’s nice to officially meet you. I am King Ragnvald.”
The female with familiar green eyes set her sights on Solveig, and she inclined her head before smiling at the prince.
“Mother, Father.” Westley nodded to the pair holding hands, then acknowledged the Fae at the head. The word that left his lips ripped Solveig’s heart in two.
“Grandfather.”
Westleysatrigidinhis chair beside Solveig, across from his parents.
They had exchanged stilted pleasantries before his grandfather invited them to join the table. Westley kept stealing glances at Solveig, but the cold mask she wore had not dropped once since they entered the tent.
She sat as far away from him as the table allowed. He could practically feel the cold indifference wafting off her. He hated the change—he’d rather have her fire aimed at him, lighting his soul with her electric energy.
His grandfather cleared his throat, snapping Westley’s attention back to him.
“Westley, my lad, tell us of your progress these past months. Your correspondence has been ... lacking as of late.”
“Yes, Grandfather, my apologies. The Vanir settlement was more extensive than we expected. Given the short time frame we had to uncoverpotential traitors, we did not want to split our focus. Or signal any false leads.” He fought the urge to look at Solveig.
“I see,” was all his grandfather replied. He cocked his head in Solveig’s direction. “You do not appear surprised by this, General.” It was not a question. Westley hated how her title sounded on his grandfather’s tongue.
“You have your spies, Ragnvald. I have mine.”
“King,” he whispered, his tone deadly.
“Pardon?”
“I said, King. You will address me asKingRagnvald.” Threat laced through every word.
“You are not a monarch of this realm. I owe you no such respect,” Solveig said boldly. Westley’s hand twitched at his side. He tried to silently warn her, but it seemed she was deliberately facing away from him.
“Insolent female,” his grandfather spat as he stood. “I am the King of Helheim—the rightful ruler of Asgard.” His voice shook with rage.
Westley had never seen his grandfather provoked so easily. Less than two minutes into their conversation and he was already shouting. That had to be a record. Solveig’s mouth tugged down at the corners, light flaring in her eyes.
Fuck, this was going to be bad. From his own experience, nothing good came after that look.
“What gives you the right to claim ownership of Asgard?” she asked smoothly.
“My very gods-given blood!” he shouted, the tenor of his voice echoing around the silent tent.
She didn’t flinch. “The gods are powerless. How could they have chosen you? Your blood is no more special than that of a Dwarven, or even a mortal, for that matter.” Solveig’s calm tone only incited the king’s wrath.
