Pulling her hood over her head, she snuck close enough to inspect each rider as they came through without being seen. She was relieved this was the last arrival and Sten hadn’t warned her about them.
Still, her magic was out of control, so much so that when she went to grip her sword, a visible white spark left her fingertips, stinging her skin as though the current was alive. The light absorbed into the feather-shaped hilt and she froze.
What on Yggdrasil is happening?She didn’t have time to dwell on it because a hush had fallen over the crowd. Solveig refocused to see what the fuss was about and all thoughts of her magic faded away.
At the very end of the largest group they’d received these past seven weeks, a sizable Fae rode atop a massive steed.
The horse was pure black with eyes as dark as midnight. And the male riding this impressive beast made her jaw drop.
Though he was seated, she could tell he was tall. His long, strong thighs gripped the horse expertly. She slowly dragged her eyes up as she took in the rest of him.
His broad chest was clad in a well-fitted dark grey vest. A black bandolier slung across the expansive area, filled with beautiful, showy gold knives and a bow strung across his back in the opposite direction only accentuated his size.
The cream tunic he wore was a stark contrast to his otherwise dark clothing. The sleeves of his shirt were partially rolled up, showcasing muscles cording down his forearms, an indistinguishable tattoo from this distance following the lines. Large, scarred hands gripped the reins, sending ripples through the muscles in his arms.
After Solveig got over the shock of how massive he was, she eventually moved her eyes to his face. His Fae features were sharp and angled, his dark beard shaping his square jawline.
His olive skin was weather worn and his full eyebrows framed hooded eyes that were a dark emerald green. Shoulder-length black hair was half pulled up, tied in a loose bun, surrounded by intricately woven braids to keep the strands from falling in his face, exposing his pointed Fae ears.
He was a work of art, but what shocked her the most was the gold circle atop his head. A royal Fae of Idavoll.
They had not been warned about receiving such a guest.
The queens had raised Solveig not only to be a warrior, but also to be their general. She’d had to learn the ins and outs of each realm’s governance and had been sent on diplomatic meetings, posing as a delegate for Asgard, when in reality she was gathering information as their general. Her hidden identity made it possible for her to disguise herself.
She had met the king and queen of Idavoll, but not their two princesses, the elder being the heir to the Forest Fae throne. Likewise, the two princes were never present when she visited Idavoll, always off on their own missions until the elder prince died in the war.
This male must be the youngest heir.
Without allowing herself to be distracted by his appearance, she reassessed him under a different light, taking note of his highborn mannerisms. He sat regally, face void of emotion, and did not make eye contact with any of her people. She hated him already.
She was about to approach when her magic flared white hot. Whirling away so fast, Solveig did not see his head snap in her direction. Her cloak whipped behind her as she disappeared into the crowd.
ExhaustiontuggedonWestleyafter the long journey, begging him to rest. But unless he wanted Noren giving him shit for it, he couldn’t complain. He had decided at the last minute, despite Noren’s protests, to come with the final group headed for the Southern Wilds.
Much to his parents’ delight.
He rarely took an interest in the family’s political endeavours. When he was a faeling he would sneak away with the armies to escape his horrid tutors who insisted he sit still, folding himself into their provision barrels if he had to.
As third in line for the throne and the youngest of their living heirs, he had little reason to join the diplomatic journeys his sisters oversaw.
Instead, he focused his attention on the battlefield, concerned only with what affected his soldiers.
This trek managed to feel as though it had taken longer than his four hundred and eighty years. He was tired of travelling, but this was for the good of his people.
When the Asgardian queens finally revealed the location of the Southern Wilds, he insisted on coming, even though he’d rather stab himself in the eye with a fork than sit in council meetings for the next few months.
Ever since he could remember, he had to be moving, set on a course. No one had been surprised when his water magic surfaced, but he’d been disappointed. Fae regarded fire wielders above all others. Fire was dangerous—raging. The most powerful of the elements.
So when he went through his awakening and his element manifested, he hated the wet, cold water that swirled around him.
He refused to learn how to wield it until one day his older brother threw a fireball at him during their lessons. It was warranted—Westley had tied the laces of Souther’s boots together while he was distracted by a female he was trying to woo.
Souther had fallen flat on his face and retaliated by whirling his brutal magic at Westley.
The ball of fire hurtled towards him so fast he didn’t have time to dodge it. When he instinctively threw his hands up to protect himself, a wall of water exploded from the ground. The fireball collided with it and dissipated immediately.
Shocked faces had peered at him through the wave. He was stunned himself, and as soon as he realized what he’d done, the wall came crashing down, soaking everyone in the arena.
