Solveig lost track of how far they walked. Her frantic energy over losing time only heightened the farther they went.
Laeknir had told her that time moved differently in Hel, but it was another thing to feel it. She hadn’t been there long enough last time to notice.
The world above had probably not finished the cycle of a day, and yet to her and Westley, it felt like weeks.
Not needing to eat or stop for food was odd at first, but they quickly became accustomed to it.
Their minds grew hazy, and they worked methodically, covering every inch of ground they could, searching for some faint spot of recognition in Solveig’s memories. They barely spoke, silently helping each other climb over dry, crumbling rocks.
Spirits kept them company but never answered their questions or requests for directions.
Monotony drove them both wild, but unless they wanted to lose the war before it began, they could not give up.
They had no idea what was happening or how much time had really passed in the world above. Their only comfort was the fact that there was no huge influx of spirits, so the war had most definitely not started and ended without them.
At least she hoped.
An indeterminable amount of time later, they faced a fork in the road. Solveig was sure they were in the middle of the realm, unable to see the ocean. Despite the ground they’d covered, land went on as far as they could see. Bone-deep exhaustion settled in her body.
“We should go left,” Solveig said.
“Your gut?” he asked.
Solveig confirmed with a hard nod.
“Well, that’s all we have to go on, so let’s go left.” He turned towards the left path and started walking but she remained frozen, unable to take that first step. Westley returned to stand in front of her.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she said so quietly she could barely hear herself.
She’d sensed the thrumming of her magic for some time now, and it was getting stronger. If she turned to the left, she was certain they would find what they were looking for and, to the right, only darkness. It made sense to turn left, but she couldn’t bring herself to actually move.
Westley’s hands came up to grip her arms—she could barely feel their warmth. “What can I do?”
“I feel . . . strange.”
“Strange how?” he asked, concern rising.
“Most certain death that way”—she pointed right—“but most certain pain this way”—she pointed left.
“We can handle pain, Solveig,” he reassured her. Still her feet would not move. “Talk to me,” he insisted, grip tightening.
She laid a hand on her heart and then on his. “Do you feel your magic?”
“No, but I feel yours.”
She nodded. “I feel it lingering there, but I can’t hold it. Something tells me I’ll be able to hold it if we go left.”
“Then let’s go left.”
Panic flashed through her.
“But why? Why go left? If the pain and torment is going to be so bad that my magic comes alive ... I don’t ... I don’t know if I can go through that again.”
Westley’s heartbreak bled through their bond.
“So we go right and die.” It was not a question.
