“Like you haven’t thought about it,” he teased.
“In your dreams, Prince.”
The little exchange grounded her and feeling returned to her cold fingers.
Leif stood shirtless, a guard on either side of him. With his back to her, the smooth expanse of flesh was displayed before her. She would be responsible for marking the unscarred map of his skin.
Her vision fogged, her chest tightened, but before she could descend into the shadows, the prince placed his hand on her elbow for a quickmoment. He didn’t stay with her, he joined the circle of onlookers, leaving her to stand alone.
The jolt of electricity that passed between them helped steady her again, and she tried not to think about why that was. She took a deep breath. One. Two. Three.
Solveig stepped forward and slowly unsheathed the two swords at Leif’s sides. His breathing was shallow and perspiration beaded on his skin. She couldn’t see his face but imagined he was fighting to keep it neutral. The scent of his fear made her stomach curl.
When the blades were free, she took a step back, handing one to the jarl, who took it carefully and wrapped it in a cloth, confirming what she had only guessed. Leif had poisoned the blades. The jarl nodded, seeing the understanding in her eyes.
She drew her focus back to the male in front of her. He was visibly shaking now, the guards at his sides adjusting their grip to support his trembling weight.
“Leif Ivarson, your cowardice has earned you five cuts by your own blade. These scars will serve as a reminder of your weakness.” Solveig paused, her voice almost cracking as she thought of her own scars. “Take the consequences of your actions to heart, as well as to your skin, soldier. It will do you good to be humbled.”
Leif twisted his head, his eyes flashing with fear before he spat in her face. A growl broke the silence of the crowd, sending a shiver crawling down her spine.
Solveig held the blade up to inspect it. It was a respectable blade, if not slightly dull. She shook her head. She would have to teach these trainees to take better care of their weapons.
Stepping forward on shaky legs, she contemplated the smooth skin again, fighting to hold her arm steady so no one would see the tremors as she approached. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she readied theblade, but as she was about to make the cut, a whimper slipped through Leif’s teeth.
The sound pulled her up short, and she took an involuntary step back, lowering the sword almost imperceptibly.
Whispers hummed through the crowd at her hesitation, but she could barely hear them over the roaring in her ears. In an instant she was the one with her hands strung up, back exposed.
The phantom cold tip of a blade dug into her back. Over and over and over again. Slicing pain searing into her soul as the poison worked through her quickly. Her hands began to shake as she tried to blink the memory away. She needed to be anywhere but here.
A solid, warm wall was behind her half a moment later. She recognized his scent a second before the prince spoke.
“The offence was made against me and my kin. I will not allow another to enact the punishment that is rightfully mine. I demand retribution,” he said with all the authority of a royal.
Attention switched from Solveig’s hesitation to the prince’s pronouncement, and in that moment, she couldn’t help but feel a small kernel of gratitude for his pride.
Surely, it was his pride that made him come forward. Nothing else.
Quillon spoke up. “General Tordottir, if it is acceptable to you, I second the motion for the Fae prince to carry out the punishment.” Solveig gave a hard nod and handed the sword over to the prince, who took it from her shaking hand. She did not meet his stare as she backed away, melting into the crowd slowly, trying not to draw more attention to herself.
Once she was clear, she walked briskly to her tent. Gerrie quietly followed. She felt the prince’s eyes on her and without thinking, she looked back. His brows were furrowed and conflict raged in his features. He held her gaze until she turned away.
She was almost to her tent when the screaming started.
Solveig ran, barely making it to the treeline before emptying her stomach. Her cold and clammy skin chilled her to the bone, and Gerrie rubbed her back as she heaved. Bracing herself on her knees, she willed the nausea to pass.
When it finally subsided, Solveig made her way into her tent. She burrowed into the furs on her bed and curled up in a ball, holding herself there, eyes shut tight.
I got out. I got out. I got out.
Over and over again she told herself those words, begging her body to believe it. The covers shifted as Gerrie slid in behind her.
Gerrie’s much smaller body tried to curl unsuccessfully around Solveig’s tall frame, but the gesture was comforting nonetheless. Gerrie’s even breathing gave her something to hold on to, and she matched her own breaths to it.
Her heart rate slowed, the memories receded to the back of her mind. She could feel the texture of her blankets and furs, the softness of her bed. She fixated on the light filtering through her tent just before she heard footsteps coming towards the entrance. Her breath caught, both hoping and dreading in equal measure.
ItwasLaeknir’svoicethat broke the silence, and she let out a relieved breath.
