“It still might be a fitting symbol because, if the legends are to be believed, the wolf died for his cause.”
“Only after wreaking havoc during Ragnarök,” Solveig reminded him.
Past and present stilled the air, as if the gods themselves were listening and learning. Lightning clapped outside the windows, followed by a booming thunder. If Westley hadn’t known better, he would’ve thought it sounded an awful lot like the rumble of a wolf’s growl.
Northstoodbeforethegilded silver doors that led into the throne room. She could hear nothing of the guests inside. No sound could leave the room so as to keep the privacy of royal matters safe and secure.
Westley and Easta stood at her back, waiting to follow her to her birthright. She always knew she would make this walk with no one at her side—she’d never expected to have a mate for this moment, nor her parents guiding her through. Perhaps it had been a self-fulfilling prophecy, but she’d spent her life preparing to do this alone.
She stood tall and nodded to the guards.
The heavy doors opened, and she paused only a moment before taking her first steps towards her birthright.
This was only her fifth time in the throne room in her entire seven hundred years. The first was after Easta’s conception. She’d just turned one hundred and her parents had brought her to announce that she would no longer be the only heir. She would have to fight her way to the throne.
When she first saw the throne room, she’d been angry to be gaining a sister—competition. How dare the little runt hold a claim to her throne, to her birthright?
Similarly, her second and third visits were when Souther and Westley had been conceived.
It was after Souther’s birth that she’d decided the throne would be hers. But instead of battling with her siblings, she’d established her dominance, her intelligence. By her design, they never thought to question her right to rule.
The last time she had been in the throne room, her parents had named her their chosen heir. They’d been so proud that she had put her siblings in line.
She’d graciously accepted without informing them that her siblings had not fought her—none had wanted the throne, content to follow her. Just as she’d planned.
Had their parents known her siblings had not wanted the throne, they would have seen it as a weakness of North’s. Assuming the throne through wit and intelligence instead of brute force was not a recognized strategy.
Jotunheim’s heir, Maddock, had killed five of his brothers to be named heir. And the Vanaheim throne was constantly in danger of being overthrown by jealous siblings.
Idavoll had been seen as a symbol of strength and power, so North and her siblings presented the illusion that she had defeated them by way of magic, staging public duels choreographed so that North would always emerge victorious.
And now it was time to claim her prize.
She marvelled at the room, her freshly grown daisies merging with the precious jewelled flowers that decorated every inch. Her bare feetwere silent as she glided towards the throne, her skin heating the cold floor.
North was clothed in a simple gown of cream linen spun from the cotton stores of summers long past. Her hair hung in loose raven waves around her shoulders, and her clean face bore no marks or makeup.
There was no jewellery on her person, no necklace or earrings to adorn her head. She wore only the simple band that Munin had given her when they acknowledged their mating bond, subtly touching her thumb to the wooden ring he’d made for her from the tree under which they had spoken under for the first time.
The room fell silent at her entrance, daisy petals fluttering down from the hanging vines. A few caught in her hair as she pressed forward, but she didn’t bother to brush them away. The train of her simple gown fanned out behind her, sweeping the ground clean ahead of Westley and Easta, who followed with arms linked and heads bowed.
All eyes were on her except Solveig’s. When North spared her a glance, the Asgardian princess was staring intently behind her, no doubt at Westley. North fought to keep the smile off her face, but an equal sadness had entered her heart.
Munin should be with her for this moment.
When she’d woken this morning, she could have sworn she’d felt a fluttering of their bond. A familiar dream of him shackled in a dungeon had haunted her the previous night, his presence lingering in her thoughts and body long after she woke.
She couldn’t shake the sensation of his closeness. Maybe with her loosened magic, their bond was beginning to resurface. She took comfort in that thought, hoping it meant he was still alive.
Her short walk towards the throne was unending, the daunting task of her rule laid out at her feet. She had her work cut out for her.
Just this morning, reports reached her that guards had seized twenty Fae loyal to her parents who had attacked her followers. They were being held in the dungeon, and on a phantom wind, she could almost hear their chant.
Traitor Queen. Traitor Queen. Traitor Queen.
Her own doubts from centuries of deconstructing her beliefs chanted alongside theirs.
Was she making the right decision? What if the gods really had chosen her people? Could there be truth to Ragnvald’s claims? She shook herself out of those unhelpful thoughts.
