Fucking Ragnvald.
Solveig realized with a jolt of awareness that she was sitting out in the open and carefully got to her feet, a shiver running down her spine. Another quick scan of her body as her legs shook under her weight showed she was tired and empty of magic, but she was okay.
She was alive.
I got out. I survived. I’m alive.
She chanted to herself over and over as she searched for cover, her survival instincts taking over. The craggy black rocks were otherworldly—giant obsidian crystals forming triangular shelters across the desolate landscape.
A flash of white appeared and vanished just as quickly in the corner of her eye.
She placed a hand over her racing heart—another sign she was alive—as she reminded herself they were dead. As a rule, the dead were not allowed to harm the living while they visited Hel.
A spirit. Just a spirit.
Yes, they could torment the visitor, but as Solveig had proven, she could withstand that torture. Not that she’d be thrilled to do it again so soon. Though nearly a year had passed, a drop in the bucket of her immortal lifespan, her time in the cave was an internal scar that had barely begun to heal.
The spirit peeked out from behind a black crystal. She’d been spotted. No sense in hiding now—if Ragnvald was back, he’d know within minutes that she had entered his realm.
She prayed to all the gods, futile as it was, that he was not here.
“Hello?” she called, keeping her voice as friendly as possible. She could almost hear Westley’s snort in her head. Her, friendly. Ha.
The spirit ducked behind the rock, hiding. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She raised her hands in the air to show she meant no harm.
“Hello? My name is Solveig,” she tried again.
A small head with white eyes popped back up. Long white tendrils of smoke fell in waves, wisping around her little face. Her ears were rounded, but Solveig couldn’t tell if she’d been Vanir or mortal. She was too small to be Giant and too slender to be Dwarven.
Solveig took a few tentative steps towards the child.
“Can you help me?” she asked.
The child shook her head. There was something vaguely familiar about the girl, but Solveig couldn’t put her finger on it.
“Have you seen a Fae male wash up on shore?”
The girls stared blankly. She tried a different language, but still the spirit didn’t answer.
Maybe she should ask directions to find her father. Then she could look for Westley while heading to the cavern.
“I’m looking for a tunnel, one that goes to the centre of the realm.”
The girl’s eyes widened in fear.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to come with me. I only need to find the entrance, and I’m a little turned around.” Solveig didn’t know which side of Hel she’d ended up on. The ocean could have moved her anywhere.
“You don’t want to go there, Solveig,” the girl’s haunting voice said so quietly Solveig barely heard her.
“You’re right, little one, I do not want to go, but I must.”
The little girl’s eyes seemed to glisten with silver tears as her white eyes grew paler.
“If you go down there,youwill not come out,” she said.
A Vanir witchling, a Seer.
And that’s when it clicked—she was a witchling of the Southern Wilds.
