That little tidbit had earned Latham a broken jaw. He had tried to use his own deception against Solveig when her title was in jeopardy,insinuating that she was the reason they’d never been able to extract information from their prisoners.
What a piece of shit.
Ragnvald, working under the guise of Jotunheim, wanted a spineless weakling in charge of the queens’ armies in order to dismantle it from within and bring the general down, weakening Asgard. The problem with relying on a spineless weakling was fairly obvious, Westley thought. It lay in a pile of excrement and shame on the floor of his ship’s hull.
Westley’d had to remove himself from the stench and resurface above deck. The fresh air on his face had helped calm his mind and clear his senses.
It all came down to Asgard. It had always been about Asgard. Since Gudrun lost the Fae Territory War and sequestered himself and his lineage in Idavoll, his ancestry, and as a result, his grandfather, had been seeking revenge.
But Ragnvald had taken it a step further. He was amassing an army of all the realms to attack Asgard. Though Latham swore he didn’t know the final goal—who told their pawn the end strategy?—Westley could guess.
Ragnvald wished to eradicate the Asgardian Fae, and likely the Elven and Vanir as well. He wouldn’t want any new Fae being created unless it was under his regime. Another missing piece to the puzzle was how Ragnvald had managed to do all this.
His grandfather was powerful, but conquering realms? Gifting the mortals magic? Something still wasn’t adding up. They needed to know more about Ragnvald. Westley didn’t even know how his grandfather had become King of Hel in the first place.
It was something else he wished to discuss with Solveig when they reunited.
He hadn’t heard from her and was anxious to get to her, if only to share everything he’d learned. He guided the ship through the frigid water, docking seamlessly in the port.
The Fae crew finished their jobs aboard the ship and disembarked, their feet sinking to the ankles in snow the minute they touched the shores of their homeland.
“I miss Asgard,” Viggo said, shivering.
“Oh really?” Noren said, coming to stand between Viggo and Westley. “What do you miss about it? The pompous Fae? The sneaky witch who tied us up?”
“First of all,weare pompous Fae,” Viggo replied. “And second, say what you will about Gerrie, that was some of the best sex of my life,” he said, clapping a hand on Noren’s shoulder.
“Would you bed her again?” Easta asked from Viggo’s other side. Their horses came off the ship, ready for a hard, cold ride to the Idavoll palace.
“I might,” Viggo mused.
Noren snorted. “You couldn’t get me into a bedroom alone with her for anything.”
“You wouldn’t have to be alone. Anders and I could always join,” Easta said with another laugh, Viggo joining in. Noren shook his head and turned his back, muttering under his breath about boundaries.
Westley was happily distracted by his bickering friends—the buzzing of anticipation faded to the back of his mind. He let their conversation carry on, revelling in the sting of cold air on his face as they quickened their pace.
The port wasn’t far from the Idavoll palace, and Westley wondered for the millionth time why the queens wanted to meet them there instead of back in Asgard.
He was worried they might try to assassinate his parents in order to get North on the throne. Not that he hadn’t thought of it before, but he wasn’t thrilled with the idea.
In a matter of a few hours, the palace’s tall tree-like spires came into view, thick vines reaching to Valhalla. Though it was midday, the sun was hidden behind grey clouds that continued their barrage of snow and sleet.
It nipped at Westley’s face, a welcome alternative to the growing pain in his chest—he was nearing Solveig. The palace’s shadows stretched their fingers out to greet him first, and for the first time, he felt ensnared by his home.
His years of living in the palace, in Idavoll, fighting for a cause, had been a lie from the very beginning. He thought of Bragi, Frida, and Faedir. The birth of that first Fae had been in Asgard, not Idavoll.
How many had come since Faedir was born? Where did the truth lie? He had scoured the books from different realms and each told a slightly different version, but all revolved around that initial story.
The Idavoll tomes Solveig had shown him were so close to the texts that resided in the palace ahead of him.
The book he had taken from Asgard lay at the bottom of his bag. He could see no other course of action than to bring the tome to Idavoll and compare it to the texts in their libraries. It read like the books he grew up studying, but with the dates and names changed—as though someone had altered their history, morphing it into a version to suit their own desires.
Ragnvald.
He was the oldest living Fae Westley had ever met and certainly would’ve had the power to change the course of history.
There were answers in the palace he once thought of as home, and he was desperate to find them. Even if learning more broke his heart, broke his faith. And without his faith, who was he?
