The Fae bristled in their seats at the mention of the gods. Latham cast a condescending look in Solveig’s direction. “We saw yesterday that healing is needed. Our beloved general is not the same as when she left. She was unable to do what needed to be done—what sheinsistedneeded to be done. She must heal before she can even consider leading again. It pains me to see her unable to fulfill her duties, to see her struggle with such weakness.”
Westley caught Solveig stiffen almost imperceptibly, but otherwise, she showed no reaction.
“I hope she can find the help she so clearly needs. I hope that she can see that an official change of leadership is better for her people. I am willing to step in to fill the void—to bring about progress and change for Vanaheim. To put an end to the Block and an end to the reign ofMidgard!” Latham brought his fist to his chest to punctuate the end of his speech. He returned to his seat after the applause petered out.
Westley couldn’t have torn his eyes away, even if he’d wanted to, his heart beating wildly, as the jarl gestured to Solveig.
She stood gracefully, making eye contact with each person in the room. Her eyes lingered on Latham, who could not escape her gaze. Her face hardened before moving on. She met Westley’s last, and unease settled over him. What was she up to?
In an instant, the tent was empty of air as the group took a collective inhale, holding their breath. Tension was so tangible it was its own entity, filling the space with anticipation. The only audible sound was the rolling thunder in the distance.
“I step down as leader of the Southern Wilds.”
Despitetheoutcryandbarrage of questions hurled at her, Solveig didn’t linger after her pronouncement.
She ignored them all, calmly striding out of the tent.
In any other circumstance, it would’ve been amusing how every face transformed from anxious to shocked in a split second, too stunned to say anything at first. Solveig felt one set of eyes in particular drilling a hole in her back, but she didn’t meet the prince’s stare.
When she exited the tent, she breathed in the morning air.
The storm from the previous night had cleared and the dawn brought a new beginning.
Commotion in the council tent reached her even as her steps took her farther from it. Gravel crumbled beneath her feet with each deliberate step she took away from who she used to be.
Perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing.
She absentmindedly traced a finger down the scar on her face, the wind catching strands of hair that loosened from her braids.
The camp was waking and soon would know what she had done. She hoped her people would give her the benefit of the doubt—that they knew her well enough to know she had a good reason, even if she did not speak it.
Gerrie’s quiet steps approached behind her. “Want to tell me what that was all about?” her friend asked, completely unfazed by Solveig’s surprising change of heart.
Solveig had a plan walking into that meeting prepared to lay out the whole truth of her capture, every gritty detail if need be. She could describe each day, each hour, proving to them that she was willing to suffer for their secrets.
If Latham would stoop so low as to accuse her of treason, then she would use every remaining piece of her broken soul to defend herself.
But when she had seen Sten hovering in the shadows of the tent, a pit of dread opened up in her stomach. Both times he’d made his appearance known with that wide-eyed, frightened look, something bad had happened to her. First her capture, then the appearance of the prince. She would not ignore a third warning from him.
She replayed their conversation in her mind, mulling over each word spoken as if to find more meaning.
“Sten, what’s wrong?” she’d asked him. His eyes darted around the room, widening as he took in the scene.
“I don’t ... I don’t know. About half an hour ago I woke with this feeling that you had made a big decision.” Solveig swallowed the rising lump in her throat.
That had been about the time she’d made up her mind to spill all her secrets. “Okay, so what do I do?” she asked him softly, not wanting to scare him. She rested her hands on his trembling shoulders. Gods, he was so young.
“I don’t know. Forgive me, General Tordottir, I ...” Sten’s face paled and went blank, the colour leaching from his eyes. He grabbed her arms, bringing her close to him, his voice a whisper so soft she had to lean in to hear the words. She embraced him as his body began to shake violently.
“If in doubt, look to the past
The die is yours, set to recast.
One path to power, the other despair
The promise of a soul, deep in your nightmare.
Do not be reduced by events gone
