Chapter 2
Already in step with her, like she knew they would be, Latham and Gerrie flanked her as she headed to the stables.
“Went that well, did it?” Latham commented sarcastically.
Ever since they were witchlings he’d been able to read her face, no matter how tightly Solveig thought she had it under control.
Centuries of practice focusing her emotions on fuelling her magic instead of feeling them didn’t stop him from reading every twitch.
She pressed her full lips into a thin line, giving the only indication she was pissed as Hel.
Striding to the stables, she quickly readied Helle and was off before either of them could probe further. She loved them both but needed distance.
A solid hour of hard riding helped clear her mind—the feel of control with the reins in her grip and the wind in her hair. Solveig rode through the woods nearly all the way to the border of Idavoll, the home of the Forest Fae. She wouldn’t dare enter their lands uninvited.
Gerrie and Latham followed at a safe distance, stopping halfway to Solveig’s usual spot, ready to intercept anyone who dared come after her. She appreciated that they understood what she needed.
The sun glistened off the steady current of the river that bled through their lands from the ocean.
Solveig jumped down from Helle, dropping to her knees. With her hands firmly planted on the rocky shore, she screamed, releasing all her frustration, anger, and pain in one loud roar to Valhalla.
Grief at what was to come gripped her throat, making it difficult for her to breathe.
It was up to her to select the fourteen warriors—warriors she had personally trained—to accompany her on this raid. One of them would not return.
Each raid of the mortal villages over the past fifty years had gone exactly the same way.
This was why she hadn’t received the votes she needed.
It didn’t matter how many soldiers were sent, one was always lost. One raid every six months for fifty years.
The names of all one hundred soldiers taken were carved in her heart.
The names of those who had died fighting like Hel to protect their home and bring back their magic.
All races had been affected after the War of Realms, but the Vanir had suffered the most. Perhaps because their magic had been the strongest before the mortals discovered how to erase it from all the races and lands.
Or maybe because Vanaheim was the closest realm to Midgard, only a few days’ journey by boat, making it an easy target to inhabit once the realm had been defeated.
It seemed an impossible feat and yet, here they were. One hundred and fifty years without the sensation of magic in her blood. One hundred and fifty years of feeling powerless to stop her people from being slaughtered and pushed to the far corners of their lands.
She could empathize with the mortals’ struggle. Before the war, their kind had been used as slaves and whores or, at the very best, left to fend for themselves in the worst of their lands. Anything valuable had benn taken from them by stronger species.
Guilt filled Solveig as she thought of the many times she could’ve prevented the mistreatment of humans but did not.
She hadn’t cared enough back then. She had only ensured the mortals who resided in Asgard and Vanaheim were treated fairly and compensated for their work, their families provided for.
But it had not been enough. Given their history, Solveig couldn’t blame them for she would have done the same.
Ragnarok had not only ended the gods but also caused the nine branches of the World Tree to collapse. The vast universe hosting countless worlds and peoples had been destroyed alongside the gods.
However, in a twist of fate no Seer had prophesized, a piece of each of the nine planets survived the destruction, re-forming Yggdrasil into one lone world to fend for itself without the aid of the gods.
Each civilization was preserved in the remnants of both the people and their lands. Dreamers, inventors, scientists, artists, scholars—the best of each realm remained to carry on the development of their people.
A council had formed in the early history of this new world, seats filled by surviving monarchs and newly appointed leaders.
Emissaries from each land were selected to speak for their people, ensuring both autonomy of governance for the realms and treaties to protect the world from falling into wars of power.
Solveig was grateful she had not been alive at that point in history.
After centuries of peace the thirst for power darkened the hearts of would-be kings and zealots who were no longer satisfied with the limiting borders of their lands.
Midgard was the only realm to have no magic.
Their reliance on the gods for protection against the other realms was long gone, leaving them vulnerable.
Magic wielders dominated the mortals into submission and slavery, to be used as cannon fodder or labour. Brutal wars ensued and subsects of races formed alliances with each other.
A millennia later, only a semblance of that first council remained, clinging to the hope of regaining peace and control. But it had not been enough to stop what was to come.
Mortals had grown tired of being seen as less than and were no longer satisfied to live in a world without power. So they took it, rising against their oppressors.
The War of Realms began, and Midgard shook the world by conquering each race—decimating magic wielders with an unknown power. Every race had their magic stripped away as a result.
Solveig’s magic burned from every cell in her being. Days passed in agony until the last tendril was gone. She’d been weak for months, all magical beings suffering the same fate. It was unlike any torture she’d ever endured.
For the first time in history, the eight realms were at the mercy of Midgard, who’d overpowered them in their weakened state. The once magical races were forced to surrender as mortals took the lands for their own, leaving the other races broken in a world without magic.
There was no way to become accustomed to the emptiness in her body, even after a hundred and fifty years. The hum of her magic had been silenced, not even a phantom or a whisper remaining, as though her lifeblood was gone, leaving her a cold, empty being.
Every time she came to this riverbed, she pulled, straining to feel any trace of her power. She begged the useless gods to bless her with even a drop of the magic she had taken for granted.
Not even the wind answered her pleas.
Solveig roared one last time before steeling herself and taking three deep breaths.
Her people still needed her. The Queens still counted on her.
So she settled into the lethal calm her position as war general of the Asgardian armies, leader of the Southern Wilds, demanded and rode to camp with renewed purpose.