“The elves can banish me all they want, but I was forged from that land. I was there, in the rocks, in the moss, as a whisper on the wind, as a horse hoof scuffing the dirt, before anyone else showed up.” With a wave of her skeletal hand, the dark green cloak, the painful hunch to her back, all of it shimmered away.
A wisp of a woman grew upward from the empty robes on the floor. An entire silhouette formed in front of me, growing together with roots and ivy, leaves cascading from her head like strands of hair, flowers sprouting over her torso, grass carpeting her limbs.
I glanced up at her, my chin kicking back as if I were staring into a forest’s canopy.
And then she transformed.
The foliage fell to the floor, crisp and dry. The bark shriveled, turning dead and bleached. The years of wanting and waiting and cursing flashed by in a second, stealing her beauty, turning her eyes glacial, until she was no longer a woman of nature but a woman of revenge. The ogress.
“The elves may have the spirit of that island,” she tsked, hooded and hidden within the folds of her cloak again. “But I am the spirit.”
Grýla was sent here against her will. And now she was ancient and crooked, starved and lonely, consumed with rage. I rested my chin in my palm, my brows dipping. “Why would they banish you?”
“Bargains. They’re only as good as your word, and she found a way to twist mine.”
Eldi’s warning floated to mind. The elves are cunning. Creative. They’ll use their words against you, even the ones you do not say. “What kind of bargain?”
“Many questions.” She rose from her chair, the legs clicking against the ground. “Didn’t you know that hungry mouths are often silent?”
“Well, I have a right to know.” Time. I needed more time. “I mean, if this is going to be my last supper, I’d at least like to understand what put me here.”
“It was never our choice to fight. It was not our battle, yet it was our blood that was spilled.” She pressed her knuckles into the splintered wood, the color draining rapidly beneath the tight skin. “The elf queen agreed to pull out of that war, and I vowed to shield her kingdom until her enemies retreated.”
The incident reports Olivia had found—they’d indicated that the earliest recorded failure of elven magic was during the Cross-Realm War.
My eyes narrowed. That was a century ago. What was Grýla doing here?
“I’ve no other option, dear girl,” she said, as if the question had been written on my face. “I performed my job too well.”
My heart lurched.
“I’m trapped,” she emphasized, spit flying out with the word. “Just like you.”
“No.” My eyes darted behind her, above her, to the wall and back. “There’s got to be a way out.”
She lunged, teeth bared and bloody, stopping only inches away from my own. I shot back, the wooden legs of my chair lifting off the ground. “The only way out of here is through the cauldron, I’m afraid.”
I stared into her dark cowl, into the impenetrable shadows. A chill slithered across my shoulders. It struck me then: without visitors, there would be no food on her table, no souls to keep her company—and no magic to shield the elven realm.
As long as Hildur had Grýla, her kingdom was safe and hidden. And even though Grýla tampered with the Galdur, it’d never fully fail—so long as the queen fulfilled her end of the deal and kept bringing the ogress visitors. Because the bargain had been twisted to last for eternity, so clever Hildur never had to worry about threats of another war, just broken pipes and moldy walls and endless winters; retaliation—inconveniences, really—the monarch was willing to endure for the protection she got in return.
Chin slowly dropping to my chest, my gaze caught on the sapphire straps of my dress, the metallic paint shimmering over my collarbone, the bangles collecting at my wrists…
That queen sends gifts, in hopes to ease tensions.
How do I look?
Like a most perfect offering.
Hildur had wrapped me up in a pretty little bow.
Vapor rose from my bowl. Sickly, sweet. Two fingers pinching my nose, I swatted it away.
A gnarled chin, a flash of teeth. “What’s wrong, angel? You don’t like your soup?”
Shit. “No—I mean—I do.”
“You’ve barely touched it. Tell me, how does it taste?” She hunched lower, lower, until the tip of her warped nose skimmed the lip of the bowl.
