“I want your crown,” he said simply.
“You cannot have it,” Easta chimed in.
Ragnvald pretended she hadn’t spoken. “You will not win this fight, my dear northern star,” he said to North. “Give the crown to me, and we will allow you and your followers to leave Idavoll, exiled as opposed to dead.”
“That is no choice,” North answered.
“There is always a choice.”
“I will not subject my people to death.”
“Then hand me your crown.” Ragnvald extended his hand. North picked up the crown from the ground and held it close to her chest.
“You mistake my words, Grandfather. You are not the true ruler of Idavoll. The throne and crown will reject you, and the power of that rejection will crumble our fragile people.”
Ragnvald’s eyes lit up with the challenge, a twinkle of surety replacing some of the malice. “We shall see.”
“I will not let you touch this crown. On your head, it would sentence my people to a worse fate,” she said, raising herself to full height. The ground quaked beneath their feet as North sent her power into the earth.
Surprise flashed on Ragnvald’s face, his gaze meeting Solveig’s.
“You’ve been busy, witch,” he sneered. Solveig gave no response.
But Ragnvald did not need anyone to converse with. He needed only himself. “I have been busy too,” he threatened. “I would rather not show my hand just yet, so I’ll ask you one more time, North. Hand me your crown.” It was not a question.
“No.”
“Not even for a trade?” Ragnvald quirked a brow. “Not even for the life of your mate?”
He waved his hand and a guard gripped Munin by the arm and dragged him over, forcing the male to his knees before them.
When North did not move forward, the guard pressed a sharp blade to the back of Munin’s neck, making him bow in submission. Her sharp inhale was her only response.
Shuffling feet came from behind Solveig, and Sten’s cold hand rested on her shoulder. Unease settled over her—this was as close to a warning as he’d given in months.
Something isn’t right, she thought to Westley. He slid closer, his hand brushing hers.
None of this is right.
No, it’s something else.
North hissed as the blade sliced, the scent of Munin’s blood filling the air, pulling her forward to take an involuntary step. She placed a hand on Westley’s and Solveig’s shoulders, a request to let her pass. Westley moved immediately under the silent order of his queen, crowned or not. But Solveig remained where she was.
“General Tordottir,” North said in a commanding voice. Still, Solveig did not move—North was not her queen.
“It’s a trap, North,” Solveig said quietly under her breath so only North could hear.
The would-be queen glanced back, a question in her eyes, but Solveig couldn’t explain. She silently urged her to not accept, but when the blade rose, it jerked North’s attention back to her mate.
“Wait!” North cried. She rushed forward, dropping to her knees in front of Munin.
“The crown,” Ragnvald ordered, holding his hand out again.
A sob wracked through North as she shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Then your mate dies.” The scrape of a sword being unsheathed was amplified by the intake of breath.
“Forgive me,” North whispered, and relief washed over Solveig. She would not trade her crown, even for her mate.
