He met North’s wide-eyed expression and imagined his face held the same surprise. The horseless carriage moved quickly through the winding streets, steering them towards an unknown fate.
Mortals had always been exceptional at inventing new ways to create a sort of magic for themselves. Their technology had advanced, but before the War of Realms, it was no match for the races who were born with true, gods-given magic.
Despite their inventions, their manmade power, Westley could take out this entire town with a tidal wave if he wanted to.
Hence why his family believed they held dominion over the earth and sky, the seas, and the wind.
It had made sense to him as a faeling. The mortals were weak, created to serve the magical races, and especially the Fae since the gods had created them to rule.
His skin crawled with discomfort as children played in the streets, jumping in puddles as their parents tried to usher them home. Midgard was a realm that had been cursed with all four seasons in the extreme, and their current spring was rainy and damp.
The greys and browns of the buildings melded together as Westley peered through the fogging window.
In Idavoll, rain created life, cleansing any lingering debris and dust. But here, it seemed to flood the streets, allowing the dirt and grime to travel, spreading the filth instead of washing it away.
Even in these harsh conditions, mortals were living their lives, unburdened by slavery and servitude. Mortals stayed in Asgard because they chose to and wanted to work and live there with their families.
Cold seeped into his bones, penetrating his layers.
He could not say the same of Idavoll.
How blind had he been to not see what was under his nose the whole time? To ignore his discomfort when mortals were treated brutally and less than. To not recognize that their treatment of others was against the gods’ teachings.
Freyja would never stomp the mortals into submission.
Thor would never tear families apart.
They would love and care for and protect them.
Who was Idavoll to declare itself the chosen race? To think that the gods favoured them because of their blind obedience to Ragnvald’s, the ones he had pushed onto them in the name of Odin.
To think that Ragnvald had not only deceived the mortals in bringing them magic while still causing them harm, but he had deceived his own people—his family.
But to what end? To gather them in his twisted version of Hel, where only the devout and faithful entered the halls of Valhalla and everyone else was left to suffer? Why trick the mortals into believing he’d spare them?
Ragnvald craved dominion over the world, and to achieve this, he created chaos in the realms that sent people to Hel.
His Hel.
Not the Hel of old where spirits rested in peace, where Valhalla was a city and not its own realm. But that was before the destruction of theuniverse, before the death of the gods. And Ragnvald had capitalized on that fracture, taking Hel for his own.
Westley’s magic surged as he thought through the deception that was his entire life. Easta laid a hand on his bouncing leg, calming him. The same hurt was in her eyes, the same shattered trust in everything she knew.
North looked between them and sighed. She had spoken to them before about her plans once she became queen. A kinder rule, less strict and harsh.
At first, Westley had argued. Who was she to overrule the desires of the gods?
North had backed off but slowly began planting the seeds of her new rule in the hearts and minds of her people.
Westley saw the change in those who believed in North’s vision for Idavoll—it had chipped away at his resolve. He’d fought against it, doubling down on his belief in his grandfather and the gods.
But the more his eyes were opened—the more the general forced his eyes open—he could not turn away from what he saw and felt.
Ragnvald was a liar. He could not be trusted, which meant nothing Westley had been taught to believe could be trusted.
He’d visited Midgard before, but seeing it through this new lens made him ashamed of how he’d treated this race.
They were not lesser, nor undeserving. It was utterly foolish to think the mortals had been spared by Loki, his dying wish for them to survive Ragnarök only to be a nuisance to the magical realms. Pawns to be used by the gods and their chosen.
