I don’t think I—
Promise me.
There was no reply.
Gods damn it, Solveig, promise me!His shouting was loud even in his own head, like the walls of his mind couldn’t fathom the emptiness she’d leave in her wake.
I can’t ...was her soft reply, the voice in his head breaking along with his heart.
Solveig!
Then nothing. His mind became a shell without her presence invading it.
Westley’s pockets were loaded with watercress as he searched the forest for the leafy green chervil. He was going to be sick as he continued to call out to Solveig with no reply.
He prayed, he screamed, he raged at the gods until finally he came across a small cropping of the healing plant. It would have to be enough.
Njord was ready for him when he threw himself on the saddle and raced like the raging sea.
A storm blew in, the wind pushing him forward, giving him hope that he wouldn’t be too late.
Solveiggaspedasthepain from her wound took hold of her entire body. Her magic tried to break free, but it was no use—the poison was too strong. She’d known something was wrong the moment it entered her heart, preventing her from focusing on anything but the pain.
She needed to feel something, anything to fuel her magic. But physical pain was not an emotion. Dark spots appeared in her sight, her vision blurring.
Helle’s soft breath washed over her face and Solveig tried to hold on to it. It was concerning that she couldn’t feel the warmth of her horse’s body.
Conalle and Noren were fighting above her—fighting with each other or fighting to keep her alive, she didn’t know.
Her veins filled with ice as her blood spilled out. She understood what that meant, having heard it described countless times in her four hundred and twenty-six years.
Before now, she had never felt the sting of dying. Not in the cave, not on the battlefield. She’d walked side by side with Death, delivering Her to countless people, but She had never come for her.
Death was here for her now.
Westley’s words replayed in her mind.
Please.
His desperation had given her a small boost of power, but it was not enough—she couldn’t feel anything past the pain, past the darkness. She was not scared. The shadows that embraced her felt familiar, like coming home after a long journey.
Though she could no longer see, she heard hooves stomping close, followed by running footsteps.
“Solveig, I have you, hold on.”
She tried to answer but couldn’t. Air stirred, bringing a waft of salt and sea to her. Her magic yearned for the source of that smell, reaching out as though it could save her.
Her consciousness clung to anything that brought him closer.
The bandages loosened followed by a low growl. Pressure on her wound and then a stinging pain. A hiss escaped her as the burning tore through her veins. There was muffled noise, as though she was underwater, that sounded vaguely like talking.
She couldn’t hear his voice. She couldn’t hear anything.
The pain drowned everything out.
“It was working! Why did it stop working?” Westley panicked as Solveig’s eyes fluttered shut, her breathing gargled and slow.
Conalle rested a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Some wounds take too much of a toll, West.” The pain in his voice was evidence of his defeat.
