The soldiers foolishly heckled the prince for shirking his duties, saying he was rusty, intimidated by the Vanir fighting techniques and didn’t want his pride hurt. Westley had waved it off, but his Fae companions would not let the insult slide.
After a rather intense shouting match, the drunkest of the trainees issued a formal challenge. He’d had no choice but to accept. He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes from darting to Solveig where she sat in the dark corner before he gave the lad a curt nod and headed out of the building.
From the corner of his eye, he’d watched her stand as if to go after him but seemed to think better of it and sat back down.
Now they were on their way to the ring.
A large crowd was already gathered, and Solveig sighed next to him in defeat. Westley gave her a sidelong look, but she shook her head in answer to his unspoken question.
“Aw, that’s so cute. You two are having silent conversations now.” Conalle stepped between them, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. They both stared at him incredulously. “Don’t make that face! You think I haven’t noticed the looks you have been trading?”
Westley shoved him off and resisted the urge to look at Solveig again. “Bugger off, Connie,” he muttered, the pointed tips of his ears reddening.
When he did glance at the general, she was staring hard at the crowd surrounding the ring. She’d wanted this to remain a quiet affair, she’d said as much numerous times that day, but the spectacle was inevitable. He hadn’t fought publicly yet, and the Vanir were itching to study his fighting style.
The most they’d seen was his archery skills—which were impressive.
“It was bound to happen eventually,” he said, still facing forwards.
“I know,” she replied, void of emotion. “Just get it done quickly.”
That surprised him. “What, no scathing remarks? No jabs about not being able to handle a fight against a Vanir?”
“If you were fighting a fully trained Vanir, of course. But the lad has barely hit maturation.”
Westley scoffed. “You think that’s the only way I can beat a Vanir?”
She shrugged. “I concede that in the past we relied too heavily on our magic. Our soldiers are trained differently now. I know the average Vanir wouldn’t be able to take you down, but a highly trained warrior with equal experience? It’s a toss-up.”
“Are you offering yourself up to test that theory?” He hoped she’d say no. He didn’t want to fight her.
“It’s endearing that you think we have equal experience.”
They reached the edge of the crowd and dropped their conversation. The citizens were loud and hadn’t heard their approach. The general had to clear her throat to announce their presence, and a hush settled over them.
They parted for her, creating a path straight to the edge of the ring. Her gaze flicked towards the approaching captain, and he braced himself as Latham put his arm up to greet her. Westley needn’t have worried, she had already dismissed him.
Latham had the nerve to look hurt by the insult, until he became aware of Westley’s attention and he plastered a sardonic grin on his face. The desire to punch him nearly overwhelmed him, but he kept his fists at his sides. Instead, he followed Solveig into the ring.
“Leif asked me to announce the challenge,” Latham told her bluntly, still trying to gain her attention. She only nodded and went to take her place at the top of the ring.
Halfway there she hesitated, spinning on her heel and stopping closer to him than she ever voluntarily had before. Westley’s skin prickled at her warmth as she whispered close to his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. His breeches grew uncomfortably tight.
“End this quickly. Leif is a cheat. It wouldn’t surprise me if his weapons were tipped with poison.”
Her voice made his stomach flip, and he leaned in closer, almost grazing her cheek with his, the energy pulsing between them. “Careful, General, that almost sounds like concern. Don’t want to see me die?”
She pulled away and glared at him. “The blow that kills you will come from my hand and mine alone.”
Westley’s stomach dropped at the menace in her voice, but then she smirked. A kernel of uneasiness remained as she took her position beside Gerrie. That smile hadn’t reached her eyes.
He took a breath, shaking off the effect the witch had over him and switched his focus to Latham, who looked as though his head was about to explode. His attention had been on Solveig as she walked away, blatantly dragging his gaze down her body.
A low, threatening rumble formed in Westley’s chest at the predatory expression on Latham’s face. His Fae instincts reacted when the captain stepped forward, and his growl became audible.
Latham’s head snapped back, and the males sized each other up. Westley took an involuntary step towards the shorter male, hands reaching for his weapons. Latham mirrored his movement. Solveig cleared her throat and Latham broke the stare first. Westley smugly stood upright at the victory, glancing over at the general. She had a question in her eyes, one he did not intend on answering.
“Do you need something, General?” he called.
