Her tears joined the droplets as they raced down her face. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and she thought for one small moment that perhaps Thor was there and had sent the rain to comfort her.
But she knew better. She’d seen too many atrocities and knew too much about the gods to even want to believe in them. She gave one last scream for good measure, but her heart wasn’t in it anymore.
The rain cooled her pent-up emotions. And when she stood, a weight from her shoulders had been lifted, making her lighter and freer than she’d felt in a while. Gerrie was right and she would apologize.
I got out. I got out. I got out.
Notreadytoreturnto camp, Solveig took refuge in the training ring, soaking wet and eyes red from crying until no more tears came. Too many thoughts swirled in her mind—she needed to dry off and regroup. She threw knife after knife, enjoying the small thrill of satisfaction as each one met its target with a thud.
Losing herself in the practice, she finally grew strong and steady again.
When her right arm was too tired to continue, she moved on to her left. This was one of her favourite exercises, and Gerrie had supplied her with a countless number of throwing knives. Even so, she was nearing the end of her pile.
Before she threw the last one, she switched her aim at the last second.
The knife flew past the original target and embedded itself in a tree, right beside the prince’s face where he leaned against its trunk, arms folded across his broad chest. The cold blade was a hair’s breadth from touching his skin.
He didn’t flinch, and Solveig had to give him points for that.
The prince grabbed the knife and yanked it from the bark. Solveig watched wearily as he flipped it a few times in his hand before pocketing it with a smug smile.
“That’s not yours,” she reprimanded, narrowing her eyes.
“Any blade thrown at me is fair game. If someone is foolish enough to leave me alive, they deserve to lose their weapons.”
“I wasn’t aiming to kill.”
“I know.”
“Take the warning, Your Highness, and leave.”
“Please, call me Westley.”
“I think I’ll stick with Your Highness.”
“Very well,General,” he emphasized. He stalked closer, inspecting the private ring she and Gerrie had constructed. He tugged at the ropes and kicked a tree stump, his eyes scanning the weapons laid out on the dirt.
“Does His Highness approve of my set-up?” Solveig mocked.
“No,” he retorted. “His Highness feels that a general should not train so far from her legion.”
“I do not train here exclusively. I also use the camp’s main ring. This is only for my private use,” she defended.
“And why do you need such privacy?”
“To avoid irritating interruptions by Fae princes who are not welcome.”
Westley put a hand to his chest. “Are you saying I am unwelcome here?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, forgive the interruption, General.” He made no move to leave.
“Did youneed something, Prince?”
“Not really.”
She waited for him to explain his presence, but he didn’t. Instead, he continued to inspect the weapons, running his hand along the blades and axes. Solveig ignored him and went to collect her knives from the forest.
