Thor pulling Ragnvald’s strings.
“You let Ragnvald loose in the world, knowing eventually we’d come running.”
“You are quite predictable, I’m afraid.” Thor took a step towards them.
There was nowhere for them to go—they’d have to fight their way out. Westley pressed his palm into hers, a silent reassurance that he was there and they would fight him together.
He had to be struggling with the thought that his grandfather may be innocent, infected by shadows that had turned his soul rotten. But the shadows were attracted to dark souls, like it was attracted to hers.
Only the force of her light had kept them out of her own soul.
When she was a witchling, she’d been drawn to the shadows. Even before her lightning manifested, she had loved the darkness—revelled in the feel of the night. And then her light came and her soul became a battlefield.
Koa trained her to use her lightning, to turn her back on the shadows, bury them deep where they could not hurt her or anyone else, for they were powerful and potent. Soon it had become second nature to ignore their calls, to let the light overwhelm that darkness.
Until the War of Realms, when they stirred. And then the cave, where the shadows comforted her, where darkness became a reprieve.
As she peered into the shadows in Thor’s eyes, they called to her.
“Now I must take that beautiful lightning back,” Thor said.
“Back?” Confusion took Solveig from her thoughts.
“Yes. You see, there’s one more thing you should probably be aware of.” Thor took another step towards her but made no move to attack them. She knew the look of calculation on his face.
But then Westley choked, his hand releasing hers as he clawed at his neck. He struggled with an invisible force. Solveig had never felt so powerless as she collapsed to the ground with her mate in her arms.
“West,” she cried, her hands fluttering uselessly over his body.
Thor stood over them, watching intently, his ragged blond hair shimmering. She couldn’t focus on her father. She laid her hands on Westley’s chest and pushed her magic into him.
There were shadows in his lungs, stealing the breath right from the source.
Solveig wielded her lightning, trying to banish the dark magic before it took root. He could not die in Hel—she would not allow him to cease to exist. She battled with Thor’s shadows and felt his power weakening.
Westley took in a heaving breath as the darkness left his lungs.
Her relief did not last long. She turned to find Thor crouching right beside her, his face a hand’s breadth away. She flinched.
“Very good, daughter. Now I know you are ready,” he purred.
Without warning he snatched her wrist, wrenching her to her feet. Westley was still catching his breath, coughing as he struggled to reach for her.
“Let her go.” His voice, though hoarse, was forceful and full of power.
Solveig struggled against her father’s cold grip, trying to use her other limbs to fight him off. His power surged through her, halting her movements.
Her own shadows and light abhorred the intrusion into her body and fought Thor’s magic off.
Again, Solveig thought she saw Thor shimmer, almost like the dead souls did—like a mirage.
His shadows were losing against her combined power until he sent another wave into her and took hold of her magic, beginning to drain it out of her.
It must take a large amount of power because Thor paled, his forehead beading with sweat.
Westley charged at Thor, his sword drawn, but was blasted back.
Not by Thor.
