She rolled her eyes without responding. In a graceful movement, she jumped over the ropes to stand just outside the ring, leaning against one of the tree stumps. Westley took an extra moment to admire her physique, dragging his eyes up the length of her form, chuckling at the middle finger she raised.
Latham’s voice drew Westley’s attention away from the general as the captain stood in the middle of the arena, voice carrying over the crowd.
“Citizens of the Southern Wilds, today’s challenge was issued by Leif Ivarson and accepted by Prince Westley Erikson. Terms have been agreed upon. First to draw blood wins. Warriors, your last words.”
Leif cleared his throat. “Better it is to have a lower position in life and be free than to have a position of power only to be subject to the will of another.” A hushed chuckle went through the crowd. Calling Westley out as a royal who was not first in line was a low blow, and it stung a childish part inside him.
“Don’t mess with ale if you are weak. A clear head is good company. Drink is a dangerous friend.” He said it as calmly as he could, the warning clear in his voice. Leif sneered, drawing his weapons.
“May Tyr guide your sword!” Latham exclaimed, and the duel began.
Thelastwordhadbarely left Latham’s mouth before Leif lunged at Westley, dual swords drawn and slicing viciously through the air.
Westley dodged them, steel clanging as he used his sword to push both blades away. This Vanir had no finesse. Leif hacked again and again at Westley, who easily eluded each attack. He caught Solveig’s eyes at the edge of the ring.
She hadn’t moved from her relaxed position, aware that he was playing with the Vanir, putting on a bit of a show. When he winked, he caught the small smile that tugged at the edge of her mouth.
Her full lips were at the forefront of his mind because when not pulled in a taut line, they looked soft and inviting. Sometimes he even thought she wanted him to lean into her. Goddess knew he’d wanted to close that distance when they’d been the ones clashing swords.
Speaking of swords, his attention was pulled back to the present when his red-faced opponent managed to get a little too close forcomfort. Westley decided that the few minutes he’d let this go on was enough. He bared his teeth in a menacing smile, exposing his canines, and leapt forward, startling Leif into taking a step back.
Their roles reversed with that one small movement. Westley spun and swung his sword in one movement. The clash of steel against steel rang out as Leif brought both swords in front of his face to protect himself. Leif’s eyes went wide, fear flickering through them.
With a twist of his wrist, he disarmed the Vanir. In another spinning move, he was behind Leif, sword at his throat. Westley wasn’t even breathing hard.
“Be careful who you challenge in the future. It would be wise to accept your limitations,” he whispered in the young Vanir’s ear.
“You have to draw blood to win, you filthy Fae,” Leif spat, attempting to jab him with his elbow, but Westley’s grip was tight.
“Look down,” Westley replied. The Vanir tilted his head, noticing a droplet of blood leaking from a small cut on his wrist. Westley had nicked his skin when he disarmed him.
A disappointed murmur rippled through the crowd at the short fight and anticlimactic ending. Westley dropped his hold on Leif, gave him a small cursory nod, and made his way over to Conalle without waiting for Latham to announce his victory. The lord was grinning at him when his face fell, his eyes widening.
Westley spun just in time to see Leif charging towards him, swords raised.
Before the prince could react, Solveig stepped between them, not a weapon in sight, and tackled Leif to the ground. His swords clattered away as Solveig pinned his hands behind his back.
“You dare disparage our customs?” she hissed in his ear.
“He’s a Fae!” Leif spat back, struggling without success to break free.
“Solveig, what are you doing?” Latham cried, rushing over to them. As she had all day, she ignored him—this was none of his concern. Her focus remained on Ivarson.
“You disgrace the name of Vanaheim.” She pulled him to his feet and turned to Quillon, who stood on the outskirts of the ring. “Jarl Bjornson, since this vermin is not yet a fully initiated soldier in the ranks of my army, I suggest we collaborate on his punishment.”
Quillon paused, then in a loud, sure voice said, “Take him to the Vault.”
Guards came and collected Leif from Solveig. He thrashed, spewing profanities as he went. Their small dungeon was usually reserved for the mortals they captured, as well as any drunk Vanir who needed to be sequestered.
Leif was taken away and all the while, an annoying insect buzzed around her vying for her attention. She swatted Latham away. Though the prince was at her back, her magic reacting to his presence, she did not acknowledge him. Stepping away from the heat of his body, she left him to go to the jarl.
“We must meet to discuss his punishment,” he said quietly and she nodded.
“Gather the heads of houses and the battalion captains. We will convene in an hour in the council tent,” she ordered. He nodded his agreement and left to arrange the hearing, Latham trailing after him in an attempt to be heard. Solveig took a deep breath and faced the prince.
“Well, that was exciting,” he said blandly.
“Oh, yes. So exciting it was almost a party,” she retorted. His smile transformed his face from that of a warrior to, well, a prince.
