“Sixty-three, General.”
Her stomach churned with bile as the still-healing wound in her heart throbbed.
Sixty-three. Their census last year had been four thousand and fifty-eight soldiers, and three thousand and twenty-two civilians. Sixty-three out of nearly eight thousand.
“Fuck,” the prince whispered, coming up beside Solveig.
“This has to stop,” Solveig whispered. Too many dead. Too many she’d failed.
“I agree.” His grave tone matched hers.
They shared a long moment charged with months of secrets.
“Don’t look so surprised. I do not revel in unnecessary deaths,” Westley said.
“Only necessary ones.”
“You can’t tell me you don’t appreciate a well-timed and well-earned death.”
She sighed, reluctant to admit it. “That we can also agree upon.”
“So Conalle was wrong. We have more than two things in common.”
Solveig scoffed. “Conalle is wrong about a lot of things.”
“You know I can hear you, right?” Conalle chimed in, not sounding the least bit offended.
The prince moved closer to her, but Helle swung her head at Njord and the stallion took a snap at her. Solveig wrenched Helle away so they couldn’t hurt each other.
Solveig scanned the crowd of survivors for familiar faces. She was glad to see witchlings eating a warm meal of roasted meat. There were still too few for her joy to last long, a brutal reminder of how many witchlings usually gathered for supper.
The swell of emotion sent a charge to her magic.
Like a coward, she turned away from the fire, avoiding the visual evidence of her failures. Her eyes snagged on two figures standing off to the side. Before she could react, a body came flying towards her.
“General Tordottir!” Sten’s voice enveloped her before his arms did, and she embraced the young Seer firmly, all while not taking her eyes off the pair who stood watching the interaction.
Unable to read their body language, she was unsure if they were relieved she’d survived. Based on the way Trella turned from her, she guessed not.
The feeling was mutual.
Theirgroupoffournewcomers sat around the fire and accepted the offering of food.
Exhaustion begged her to rest. She was unable to remember the last time she’d slept. Likely before the chasm opened.
After being seconds away from death, the hard ride through the night to catch up to her clan had taken its toll.
She was glad her people practised packing up and leaving quickly. Even with only sixty-three survivors, they’d managed to gather a good store of supplies to last the journey to Asgard.
Solveig had Quillon Bjornson to thank. The jarl and his family had survived and had been quick to get as many people out as they could, with as many supplies as possible. It was impressive, and more than Solveig had been able to do for her people.
Letting the feelings of inadequacy and failure go, she watched the jarl play with the witchlings in a field of wildflowers.
Vanaheim was a beautiful land with an ethereal atmosphere. It had been a long while since Solveig was able to appreciate it. It was said that, before Ragnarök, the realm of old was so blessed by the gods that they bestowed life not only to the beings, but to the land itself.
The trees listened, the wind whispered, the mountains guarded, and the waters comforted.
That same magic lingered now.
