The clouds overhead grew thick and dark, thunder booming in the distance. She pushed the emotions away and in a wild swing, disarmed the Fae and kicked his chest. He went flying, knocking out two of the soldiers who had begun to stand.
All six were down when Solveig stood, sword hanging at her side, chest heaving. It took every ounce of energy she had left to keep the panic at bay.
“I win,” she said, breathing heavily. Sheathing her sword on her back, she walked out of camp, swiftly making for the stables.
She didn’t even bother readying Helle, just opened the doors and swung herself up to sit bareback, taking off as quickly as possible.
Latham walked Conalle and his wounded soldiers to their tents. He ordered their baths to be filled with hot water and cloths prepared for their injuries. They were all silent as they nursed their wounds and their pride, but Conalle chuckled, unconcerned for his guards’ welfare.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen her fight. She’s a beauty,” he said to Latham once they were alone.
“Yes, she’s very skilled in combat,” Latham answered tentatively.
“The time away clearly hasn’t affected her ability too severely.”
“Not her fighting ability, no. She’s clearly regained her physical strength.”
“So you think she is emotionally unstable?” Conalle asked.
It was odd for a Fae to be so direct, but Latham appreciated his forwardness. Still, he hesitated to answer.
He didn’t know how Solveig was doing emotionally. She hadn’t spoken with him since their fight, and shame filled him. He hadn’t meant for her to overhear his conversation with Trella. He hadn’t meant for her to find out about Trella that way.
But he knew Solveig well enough to see she was haunted, even if they weren’t speaking. He’d seen the flash of panic in her eyes as she fought. Her dramatic exit wasn’t about making a point but to escape before her emotions spilled out.
“No, I don’t think she is mentally fit to lead anymore.” The sting of shame spread through him as he betrayed the only person he’d ever loved. But this was for her own good and the good of their people. He had to believe that.
Conalle gave him a look he couldn’t decipher.
“We shall see. Good night, Latham. Thank you for your hospitality.” The lord tilted his head towards him and went into his tent.
Latham slowly walked back to his tent as the storm clouds thickened and rain began to fall. The clear skies from earlier were nowhere to be found. He tilted his head up to the heavens and prayed to the gods he was making the right decisions.
He was unsure if it was a good or bad omen that a bright crack of lightning illuminated the dark, stormy sky, thunder reverberating through the camp.
SixmoregroupsofFae joined them in the following weeks, and only one did not instigate a confrontation with Solveig.
Each time a group arrived, terror seized Solveig as she searched for familiar body shapes among the new arrivals. More than once she’d thought she recognized Stick’s stiff gait before realizing most Fae males moved like they had sticks up their asses.
The females all had the grace of Water, so she could not distinguish between them either.
No matter how many times she searched for Fear’s silhouette, he was a ghost, everywhere and nowhere at once. It was only when Gerrie put her flat on her back during one of their private training sessions that Solveig accepted that she wouldn’t recognize her captors, even though she’d studied them for months.
She would have to be lying down in front of them to even have a shot at distinguishing their frames. No chance in Hel that was happening, so Solveig’s anxiety swelled.
They could be speaking with her right now and she wouldn’t know, given they all had tried to hide the tenor of their voices. Each tall and muscular Fae had the potential to be Fear, and her magic responded accordingly.
Dark, roiling clouds and thunderstorms were a daily occurrence, but Solveig threw herself into training regardless of the weather.
Physically she was almost back to her pre-captivity strength, bolstered by Laeknir insisting she take the Drink at least once per day. She hated to admit that it helped because it never got less disgusting. But she wasn’t a witchling anymore—she could suffer through it without whining. Mostly.
She wanted to spend most of her time away from the Fae but knew she had to be seen. It rankled that she had to vie for the position that had already taken her a hundred years to earn and had been rightfully hers for another two centuries.
Three months of being held against her will, giving away nothing, and this was her reward?
Solveig tried to keep her emotions in check, only letting them loose when she was alone. Her fear was a constant, unwelcome companion, determined to undermine her at every turn.
The last group of Fae were set to arrive that evening. This would be the last time she would have to dread their arrival, and there was some comfort in that. It was almost over.
