“Solveig is stubborn and will not admit weakness or defeat easily. You didn’t know her before, but her eyes have changed. She’s haunted. Where there used to be joy, mischief, and determination, there is fear and lifelessness.” Conalle’s face fell. “She’s here, but her mind is trapped.”
“Is there anyone else capable of leading? Latham is clearly a terrible choice, but if she isn’t ... herself, is there someone else? Someone better?” Conalle was shaking his head before he’d even finished.
“The Vanir are a loyal people. If they have pledged their allegiance to Solveig, that is who they stand with. Same goes for Latham.”
“What about this Gerrie person? You say she is a highly skilled warrior?”
“She is the fiercest warrior I have seen in all my years. But she would die before betraying Solveig.”
Westley nodded in understanding. He had been pushed and pushed to challenge his elder sister for the throne. Though he could see the disappointment in his father’s eyes at this perceived weakness, he had been raised to keep his vows. And he had vowed that he would serve and protect his family at all costs. To this day, he had.
He carried out their orders with his armies, flooded villages, executed traitors, and committed atrocities that fuelled his nightmares.
But this was war, and his parents were chosen by the gods to lead their people. All of Yggdrasil believed that the gods were completely erased during Ragnarök, but his people knew differently.
The gods lived in a small, forgotten place in Valhalla, building their strength to return to the lands. Even in their weakened state, they had divinely chosen the Fae of Idavoll to lead in their stead. Who was he to defy them?
Even if he didn’t always agree or see the merit of his actions, their orders were divine and true. The Fae were the chosen people, created by the gods to rule over all. The queens of Asgard were proof of this.
Though their ancestors warred with his, eventually usurping his family’s divine role as the true leaders of Yggdrasil, time would right the wrongs of history. As long as they heeded the teachings of the gods, they would rule in the end.
As a faeling, his parents had read him stories of the history of their people. Those who failed to uphold the wishes of the gods and were destroyed. And others who were blessed because of their submission. The magical Block had been the result of disobedience.
He would not repeat the mistakes of his ancestors.
Conalle continued speaking as Westley’s mind wandered. “There is hope for Solveig. I saw it today.” He gave Westley a coy smirk. “There was life in her eyes when you deliciously got all in her personal space. You lit a spark in her.”
“Hopefully she doesn’t burn the world down with it,” Westley muttered.
Conalle, normally so lighthearted, gave him a hard look Westley had never been on the receiving end of before.
“Hopefully she does.”
Solveigarrivedatthetraining ring before Gerrie and went through her warm-up routine. She took comfort in the familiarity of each movement, her mind fixed on the strain in her muscles and the slow building of strength.
She appreciated simple facts—ones she could count on. If she trained, if she put in the work, she would see results.
Logic. Reason. Fact.
These kept her grounded and balanced. She concentrated on each move, allowing her mind to clear. But every time she was about to sink into peace, green eyes and a furrowed brow invaded her thoughts, and her magic compelled her on, forcing her to think of him and how petrified and exhilarated she’d been at his closeness.
Gerrie found her like that, angrily swiping at an invisible opponent. She joined her without a word and blocked every one of Solveig’s slashes with her spear. She held the defensive position as Solveig continued on the offence.
Though Solveig’s arms burned and her legs were tired, she kept pushing.
“That’s enough for now,” Gerrie whispered, hardly out of breath. Solveig did not stop. She kept attacking, no longer seeing Gerrie but Booth’s black eyes and Fear’s rigid back as she lay on the ground.
“Solveig,” Gerrie warned. But again, she ignored her friend. She gripped her sword with one hand and unhooked the hammer on her belt with the other. She had to get free—she wouldn’t stop fighting.
“Solveig!” Gerrie yelled. But Solveig continued fighting for her life, fighting to escape the cave. She was aware of the blood leaking from her nose, the blisters stinging her hands, but she did not stop. She couldn’t.
The blunt end of Gerrie’s spear jabbed into her chest, knocking the wind out of her as she collapsed to the ground on her hands and knees, her weapons scattering..
“Yield, Solveig.”
Never. She made to stand, still choking on her lost breath. But Gerrie’s spear came down on her back.
“Yield.”
