She relished the challenge.
“That’s too bad,” Conalle said in disappointment as he handed Solveig her waterskin.
“I know. It wasn’t even a good fight,” Solveig said after taking a swig.
“No, it’s too bad because Thadi is quite exquisite to look at and he is fantastic in bed.” Conalle trailed the Elven with his eyes and Solveig chuckled.
“I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“You could still take him for a spin. You’re not betrothed yet,” Conalle suggested with a waggle of his eyebrows.
Solveig laughed off the joke, even though she knew Conalle was serious. Her gut twisted at the thought. She hadn’t bedded anyone since returning from the cave, and her dreams became increasingly more vivid as the nights went on.
There was only so much self-pleasure one could enjoy while being tortured with the need for another. She couldn’t afford to dwell on it though.
“Okay, we’re taking a quick break before moving on to the soldiers,” Gerrie said, running over. Solveig sat on the stairs leading to the stage, shielded from the crowd by heavy emerald curtains.
Despite the queen’s avid belief that her people wouldn’t be willing to challenge her, there had been a line of suitors signed up within an hour of Solveig’s notice going out. She’d gone through the list meticulously, removing anyone who was too young or too married.
Over a hundred names remained, but with well over half of them eliminated and no real prospect in sight, Solveig dropped her head into her hands, massaging her temples before standing to face her next opponent.
“Cheer up, Sol,” Gerrie said, smacking her ass. “There are plenty of eligible bachelors left for you!”
“Let’s hope some of them put up a decent fight. We need to spice things up.” Conalle punctuated his statement with a well-timed yawn.
Solveig tossed some fruit into her mouth—not the phallic kind—and munched on nuts as she looked down into the tunnel that led to the stage.
The Elven didn’t have a fighting ring, but they did have a theatre. Much to Conalle’s and Gerrie’s delight, Solveig had wanted to make a spectacle of it all. Her hope had been to rouse the Elven to action.
It had worked.
With each fight, she whispered words of war and encouragement to her opponents. She needed them to know what they fought for, what they would lose. Their apathy would be their downfall if they did not join Asgard.
She whispered words of the other realms, the places they would be able to travel, people they would be able to see. Though the royal family had done a commendable job finding their people who had been trapped in other realms, they hadn’t been able to escort everyone home.
Soon after the Block hit, the curse intensified, and they’d been limited in how many they could take across their borders.
Once a suitor was chosen, Solveig would begin her preparations to move the Alfheim army. So long as the queen’s suspicions proved true, if an Elven married her, they would have access to Asgard and Vanaheim, given her heritage. One step at a time, she moved her pieces into place.
Solveig stepped back onto the stage as the crowd cheered, the roar fuelling her resolve. It wasn’t the guttural goading of Vanir and Fae she was used to, but the more docile, uplifting cheering of a crowd that wished to see both parties succeed. She waved to the audience and they waved back.
She smiled to herself—the Elven truly were a lovely folk.
Rumours had reached her that all of Alfheim was waiting for her to choose either Steffen or Vali, insistent that the notion that everyone had a chance was simply for show. But Solveig was serious. She would give anyone—a farmer, a soldier, a prince—a fair fight and would select only the best.
The next match was against a soldier, Joran. He beamed at Solveig as he stepped out onto the stage. He was handsome to be sure. The scars that marred his tawny beige skin told Solveig she was about to face her first real challenge. Joran narrowed his dark, fox-like eyes but grinned kindly.
She returned the smile before setting her face in a stone-cold mask, signalling her readiness.
Joran shuffled his feet from side to side and then spun a kick so fast, Solveig barely dodged it. She smiled wickedly and struck her hand out as he tried to do the same move twice in a row. Big mistake.
Solveig stopped his leg mid-kick, grabbing hold of his ankle and spinning, forcing him to lose his balance. He fell face-first into the wooden floor. His nose cracked, and just like that, Joran tapped the ground and the fight was over.
Gerrie and Conalle stood backstage, trading money and laughing while ushering the next soldier on stage.
Solveig’s hopes deflated at his skittish movements and the fear in his eyes.
Westleyandhissisterswere marched straight to the president’s house, four mortal guards for each Fae, all armed with those unfamiliar weapons.
