Westley dropped his goblet, uncaring as it shattered, splashing red wine and broken glass everywhere. Solveig was right on his heels, cursing that ridiculous dress behind him as they hurried to his parents.
Easta cradled their mother’s head in her lap, tears rolling down her cheeks as Alvida looked up at her. Westley couldn’t hear what Easta was muttering, but shock crossed their mother’s face as she struggled to breathe.
North bent over their father, his hand gripping his eldest daughter’s so firmly her tanned skin turned white with the pressure. She stroked their father’s hair, and when he gasped Alvida’s name, she adjusted him so he could lie beside his mate.
Erik and Alvida gazed at each other as they choked on their dying breaths.
Their last wheezes echoed through the hall, now empty save for their own companions.
The King and Queen of Idavoll were dead.
Westley’s parents were dead.
He stood frozen between their bodies, North and Easta slumped on the floor at his feet. Odd expressions passed over their faces as they stared between their mother and father. His sisters had comforted their parents through their last moments.
Comforted them but had not tried to help them.
Westley furrowed his brow as North met his stare. She slowly got to her feet, the weight of the crown now settling onto her shoulders. Easta came to stand a step behind her, resolve in every rigid line of her body.
“You ... You killed them,” he whispered, shocked that the words even left his mouth.
“I did not,” North replied simply, and Westley’s gaze snapped to Easta.
“As our laws dictate, no murderer of the crown can ever sit upon the throne. I did what needed to be done,” his second eldest sister said calmly, no remorse on her face, only sadness.
“And you didn’t think to tell me about it?”
“West,” Solveig said, “they didn’t want to put this on you—you who have had to carry out their horrible orders for centuries.”
He removed his hand from hers and turned to look at his mate.
“Did you know?” he asked,frightened of her answer.
“I didn’t know for sure, but I assumed it would happen while we were here.”
He backed away, and even the hurt that flashed through her eyes, that struck straight to his heart, wasn’t enough to pull him back.
“How could you?” He wasn’t even sure which of the three females he was asking.
“Cool it, Westley. She didn’t know we were going to do it today,” North said, waving him off like he had no right to be upset. Westley paid his traitorous sisters no mind. He’d deal with them later.
“But you knew they were to die? If it wasn’t them, would it have been you?” he asked Solveig. He didn’t know whether to be angry or sad or betrayed.
“If my queens had ordered it, yes,” Solveig said firmly.
Westley sucked in a deep breath, dropping to his knees, his head sagging. He heard the room clear out, Easta speaking to a very upset Noren. There would only be this moment of peace before Idavoll learned of the death of their king and queen.
It would be a new realm by morning, with North set to take the throne.
His eyes pricked with tears, for his parents who had raised him, for the villains Ragnvald had made of them. He let the tears fall as Solveig knelt beside him, her hands coming to brace his face. Guilt washed over him, his own guilt, as he flinched away from his mate. But she didn’t balk this time. Instead, she held him as he allowed his conflicting emotions to flow to her.
The strength of her magic wove into him, curling around him, protecting and comforting. He placed his own hands over hers and held her there. She pressed her forehead to his.
“I’m sorry,” she said, so low only he could hear.
She sat with him while he cried, pulling him into her chest as he wept like a youngling. Until the grief bled into anger and he leapt up. Solveig handed him dishes to smash—first plates, then glasses, as many things as he could get his hands on.
And when he sliced his hand open, she was there to heal it.
