As if in confirmation of his words, a tendril of shadow leaked from the president’s nose. He wiped it quickly, but not fast enough.
Westley let the magic drop. Before it splashed to the ground, he released it back into the air. “The price you’ve paid is a steep one, and it will not bring you glory in the afterlife. Only pain and suffering in this life,” he finished, taking a step back to stand side by side with his sisters.
“Please, Hugo. Please think it over,” North implored.
The president studied his sister intently, and Westley’s heart leapt. Maybe they were having an impact after all. But all hope was extinguished when his eyes went dark.
“Bring the irons,” he commanded.
Westley, weakened from his display of power, was too slow to stop them. Iron cuffs with spikes were clamped onto his wrists, cutting him off from his magic entirely. His sisters received the same treatment.
“You are no match for the weapons we have created, Fae,” the president snapped. “You will not fool me with your flowery words and magic tricks.”
“Hugo—” North tried, but she was interrupted as one of the guards yanked her out the door, dragging Easta and Westley behind her.
“Where are you taking us?” Westley demanded.
“To the dungeons,” his guard ordered, shoving him forward.
The irons dug into him, sealing his magic beneath his skin. The oily feeling lessened, and he finally understood that the president’s room must’ve been imbued with iron somehow, protecting the mortals. But it had been no match for a fraction of Westley’s power.
However, the direct contact effectively stifled what little power he had.
Alarm filtered through his body—Solveig was trying to reach out. The iron may have confined him, but Solveig was not Fae. Iron did not restrict her. And, clearly, had no effect on their bond.
He felt her react as she realized what was happening, seeing the images Westley was able to send through their connection. Her anger filled him as her magic seeped into his veins.
Energy burned through him as a flash of light exploded from where the irons pierced his skin. The shackles were blown off and his guards flew back with the force of the blinding light. Westley stood in the middle of the hallway, panting. Solveig’s magic tasted like sunlight in his mouth, and his canines extended, power rushing through him as she sent more to heal him, to loosen the bindings deep within.
His magic gradually reawakened, answering her beckoning call.
Whiletheday’sfightshad been more promising, she still hadn’t met her match. To their credit, each soldier she’d faced had been better than the last. Gerrie and Conalle were like youths, betting and cheering with the rest of them.
At one point she wondered if the soldiers were performing poorly on purpose to give their princes a clear shot at her hand in marriage. If she’d been fighting Fae, she would’ve taken the thought seriously. They were smart and not too full of pride to follow through on a plan like that.
But Elven were not as cunning. Though ethereal and gentle, the Elven thought themselves better than their savage allies. Their pride would bar them from not competing fairly.
The last challenge of the day had arrived just in time. Solveig was bored. The warrior she currently fought was second in command to their general. He was quick on his feet, his lithe body graceful as he twisted and turned.
She had to give him credit—he was doing well.
Njal managed to get in a few decent hits and had dislodged one of her daggers. The success had rejuvenated the crowd.
A whoosh of magic that was not her own left her, leaving her oddly empty. She hadn’t realized that, even with Westley’s distance and the walls they’d both erected, a current of it lingered. A dull hum in the background only noticed once it was gone.
She panicked, causing her to misstep—Njal managed to trip her. She thudded onto her back, earning a gasp from the crowd and a cringe from the sidelines, but she wasn’t seeing the fight in front of her.
Her body continued to move against Njal as the prince flooded her mind with images. Her anger swelled and with it, her magic. She blasted the soldier across the stage before sending as much energy as she could to Westley.
Njal stood, shaking his head from the disorientation, and charged at her again. She’d sent too much magic to the prince to be able to do Njal any harm, but she was done. The warrior, though skilled, wasn’t worthy of her hand in marriage, so she shut it down. She gripped his wrist, sending shockwaves of power into him.
He collapsed to the ground and tapped the stage.
Solveig hurried to exit the theatre before the audience could grasp the abrupt end. She made it outside and collapsed, only vaguely aware of Gerrie and Conalle chasing after her.
They found her on the ground, head between her knees as she breathed through the nausea. She was severely low on power and was trying to hide it from Westley. He had to escape, and she would only be a distraction.
Thank you, his voice sounded in her mind.
