Chapter 29 Westley
Exhaustion tugged on Westley after the long journey, begging him to rest. But unless he wanted Noren giving him shit for it, he couldn’t complain. He had decided at the last minute, despite Noren’s protests, to come with the final group headed for the Southern Wilds.
Much to his parents’ delight.
He rarely took an interest in the family’s political endeavours. When he was a faeling he would sneak away with the armies to escape his horrid tutors who insisted he sit still, folding himself into their provision barrels if he had to.
As third in line for the throne and the youngest of their living heirs, he had little reason to join the diplomatic journeys his sisters oversaw.
Instead, he focused his attention on the battlefield, concerned only with what affected his soldiers.
This trek managed to feel as though it had taken longer than his four hundred and eighty years. He was tired of travelling, but this was for the good of his people.
When the Asgardian queens finally revealed the location of the Southern Wilds, he insisted on coming, even though he’d rather stab himself in the eye with a fork than sit in council meetings for the next few months.
Ever since he could remember, he had to be moving, set on a course. No one had been surprised when his water magic surfaced, but he’d been disappointed. Fae regarded fire wielders above all others. Fire was dangerous—raging. The most powerful of the elements.
So when he went through his awakening and his element manifested, he hated the wet, cold water that swirled around him.
He refused to learn how to wield it until one day his older brother threw a fireball at him during their lessons. It was warranted—Westley had tied the laces of Souther’s boots together while he was distracted by a female he was trying to woo.
Souther had fallen flat on his face and retaliated by whirling his brutal magic at Westley.
The ball of fire hurtled towards him so fast he didn’t have time to dodge it. When he instinctively threw his hands up to protect himself, a wall of water exploded from the ground. The fireball collided with it and dissipated immediately.
Shocked faces had peered at him through the wave. He was stunned himself, and as soon as he realized what he’d done, the wall came crashing down, soaking everyone in the arena.
His magic only grew stronger, more impressive—it took him decades to master the depths.
When he was tested as he reached maturation, it revealed wells of magic deeper than any Fae known in the last millennia, including his siblings. He would’ve been eligible to challenge for the throne, but he had no desire to rule.
That was North’s responsibility as the first-born.
Instead, he pleaded with his parents to allow him to serve their armies. With his strength, both physical and elemental, they would have been foolish to deny his request.
Thus, he became a legend, whispers following him on the battlefields. The rebirth of the god of the seas, Aegir walked among them once more. He was arrogant enough back then to allow it to stroke his ego, and eventually he couldn’t bear to be around himself sometimes.
Of course, he had not gone by that name since his magic was torn from his body.
He missed the cool feel of it under his skin, the icy sensation tempering the heat of his emotions. He was always overheating now. The memory of the full force of his magic reminded him of the stifling clothing his parents had insisted he wear.
Tugging on the reins, he stopped his horse and allowed the others to enter the Vanir camp ahead of him.
He yanked at the tight tunic at his neck, loosening the buttons at the collar.
His parents would be scandalized to know that he would not be arriving in pristine condition, but he was suffocating.
He took off the heavy sash he’d donned that morning along with the thick velvet royal overcoat.
His silken neck kerchief came next and with it, the confines of his royalty.
He relished the cool breeze that blew across his exposed skin.
Leaving his vest on, he rolled up the long sleeves of his tunic.
Noren came to collect the discarded clothing, unceremoniously shoving them in his saddlebag. He handed Westley the bandolier he usually carried and the bow his grandmother carved for him, slinging them across his chest and back and settled into the familiar, grounding weight of his weapons.
The gold crown stayed, knowing he had to show some respect to his family, but despite that, he was much lighter and much more himself.
With a nod to Noren, they entered the camp.
It surprised him to see the number of Vanir present to receive them. He hadn’t known the camp was so vast. Then again, very little was known about the Southern Wilds—only that it was the queens’ illustrious war camp, home to some of their most skilled Vanir warriors.
This was the legion that was led by the most ruthless and powerful Vanir general, head of Asgard’s army.
If rumours could be believed, he ate the hearts of his victims to steal their power with some form of dark witchcraft. Disgusting barbarian.
Silence rang through the crowd as Westley entered last, his gold crown gleaming in the dying sun.
No one bowed, though he’d expected as much.
The Vanir were not obligated to recognize any monarch apart from their Vanaheim royalty.
They only did so if a leader earned their respect, like the Asgardian queens.
He had a feeling their respect was hard-won and straightened in his saddle.
Cold awareness swept through him, his trapped magic alerting him to danger nearby.
A painful tug pulled at him from the right.
When he scoured the area for what threat triggered it, all he saw were Vanir faces, both those hardened by war and soft with youth or privilege.
It surprised him to see civilians in a war camp.
His eyes snagged on the sight of a hooded figure retreating, their cloak swishing out of view. He narrowed his eyes, as if that would help him see the vanished figure. Who had the nerve to turn their back on him?
Maybe it was the unknown general who thought he’d seen enough. Although if it was him, the male was smaller than Westley would’ve thought—leaner and more graceful. He shook his head and greeted the waiting Fae.
Lord Conalle made his way through the crowd and beamed up at him.
He was relieved to see the older lord and was grateful he’d been the first to arrive.
Lord Conalle was a trusted advisor both to Westley’s parents and the Asgardian queens.
Westley was relying on him to provide an accurate assessment of all he’d witnessed during the length of his stay.
“Prince Westley!” Conalle’s loud voice boomed. “What a delightful surprise!”
Westley jumped down from his horse and grasped the lord’s forearm in greeting, the back of his neck still prickling.
“Oh, you know. I was in the area and figured I’d lend a helping hand.
” He smiled coyly at Conalle, sharing a look with the lord that promised a more private conversation.
He was here to help select a new general, not that he knew why yet, but it wasn’t all he was here for. “I’m at your service, Connie.”
Conalle shook his head. “You and Solveig are the only ones who can get away with calling me that. I can’t make either of you take me seriously.”
“Solveig, as in daughter to the queens of Asgard?”
“Have you never met her before? I would’ve thought you’d be familiar with each other, seeing as she was raised with the Fae. Different circles, I suppose.”
Westley waited for him to continue but he didn’t, so he had to ask again.
“And what does she have to do with this?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Apologies, Your Highness.” Conalle seemed uncomfortable, his eyes shifting back and forth. “I suppose since you’re here, you’ll find out anyway. The time for secrecy has passed and the blood oaths we swore have been fulfilled, given the circumstances.”
With another glance around, and Westley’s patience dwindling, Conalle sighed, saying, “She was, or is—well, it’s complicated.
Solveig Tordottir is the Vanir Asgardian General.
That’s why we’re here.” He lowered his voice and leaned in.
“They thought she was dead. She was captured during a raid a few months ago. No one expected her to return, but she did.”
Westley froze, shocked.
She.