The King of Hel stumbled, his eyes widening. If Vali didn’t know any better, he’d have thought there was a flash of fear. But he was in Ragnvald’s mind and there was no such emotion there, only shadows and bloodlust.
Vali grit his teeth as he sent as much power as possible into the pretender king, hoping he could do what Solveig had andbanish the shadows.
They fought against him, and though the battle was in the mind, Vali felt the pain of it as if the shadows were slicing into his skin.
Pulses of compulsion shot from his hands into Ragnvald, but the shadows remained impervious to his magic.
He dropped to his knees with the exertion, sweat dripping down his back. Ragnvald loomed over him, the darkness of his mind working tirelessly to shove Vali out.
“Another king on his knees before me,” Ragnvald managed to speak. Little did he know, this was exactly where Vali wanted to be. Hiding the motion of his head, he reached into his boot for the Dwarven dagger.
This dagger had been in his family for centuries, passed from ruler to ruler. The blade was imbued with a dark magic, one only to be used in dire circumstances.
Like the King of Hel trying to take over the fucking world.
He gripped the hilt and sucked in a deep breath. He would end this now.
A twig snapped and Vali’s concentration faltered at the sound.
It was a deadly mistake.
Ragnvald was released from the force of his magic and it slammed back into him, knocking Vali back.
North stood there, watching the interaction. How much had she heard? Enough to put that pained look in her eye, there only for a moment before she once again became the cold and calculating queen.
“What have you done?” she demanded.
WestleytrailedafterSolveigas she drifted like a wraith from the cottage.
Though it was reassuring to finally have directions, dread moved through his body. As War Prince of the Riddari, heir of Idavoll, he thought he’d been prepared for everything.
But if his life so far with Solveig taught him anything, it was that nothing was ever what it seemed. Everyone around them had their own version of what they thought the world should look like.
Once, even he had believed in a different version than he saw now. The one he and Solveig both wanted.
With his faith in the gods destroyed, he didn’t know what to believe in anymore.
He couldn’t believe in anything but Solveig and the way he felt for her and his people. It was no longer possible for him to turn a blind eye to the falsehoods he’d grown up believing.
History was written, told by the victors, but truth was a matter of perspective. The writers were incentivised to tell the story that suited their own beliefs, the side they were on.
How would this story be told? It would depend on how the war ended. And surely it would differ from his perspective, than that of his people now under the influence of Ragnvald.
And if they lost, if Ragnvald won, what would the books say about him and Solveig? Would they say she deceived him? Would they disown him? Would his name even appear? They could very well write him out of existence.
And if they won, if Solveig led them to victory, the stories would paint Ragnvald as the evil king who tried to take over the world but destroyed it instead. Maybe that was what he’d turned into, but Westley’s memories of his grandfather contradicted the male he was now.
Was it all a lie? What is truth if not memories and perspective? For something to be true, it must provoke no doubt, from any side, Westley decided.
And there were some truths that could never be known.
He looked at Solveig—took in her copper hair braided down her back, swaying across her black leathers as she climbed over rocks, silent and strong.
A truth no one could argue, a fundamental principle—his heart belonged to her.
When they reached the bottom of a long descent through black crystals and obsidian rocks, Westley grabbed her hand and turned her around. A silent question sparked in her eyes, and he did not hesitate to pull her towards him.
He brushed a strand of hair off her face.
