Chapter 41 Solveig
With the amount of Fae residing in their camp, Solveig and Latham each took charge of finding positions for them to contribute in any way they could.
Those who were skilled at archery were split into two groups: hunters and instructors.
The Vanir were lacking in their archery skills—before the Block hit, they’d preferred to rely on their magic, and Solveig would not pass up the opportunity to benefit her people.
If the Fae had to be here, she would use them.
She also intended to improve her own archery abilities but so far hadn’t had the time.
Some of the Fae were given menial jobs, and she was impressed when they got straight to work without complaint. Their Vanir cooks were teaching some of the Fae warlords how to fry eggs, and though she tried hard not to, she found it endearing that they took their assignment so seriously.
She did not want to credit the prince for his leadership, but she had to admit that he knew what he was doing.
Thinking of the prince, she furrowed her brow. It had been difficult to find a place for him. She wanted him as far away from her as possible, but thanks to Conalle’s constant reminders of their plan, she had to keep him close.
Not only that, but they had to pretend as if they more than tolerated each other. Conalle kept reminding her that her face was visible so she needed to stop scowling.
Solveig made sure that whatever they were doing did not involve them interacting too much. Close proximity to any Fae was bad enough, but the prince’s constant presence made her magic nearly unbearable.
When it was Solveig’s turn to train her soldiers in combat, he taught archery. Her eyes had wandered to him more times than she cared to admit.
His skill was impressive to say the least. He appeared effortless, though she knew it was anything but. His arms were strong and steady, relaxed as he raised the bow and pulled the string back in a movement so fluid it was mesmerizing.
The muscles in his arms flexed, and when he let the arrow fly, it found its target every single time. Some of her strongest warriors attempted to use the prince’s bow—they’d hardly been able to draw it.
He was a good teacher too. Over the course of only a few days, she witnessed those he trained improving significantly. She tried to ignore the lessons, but they were constantly pulling her attention. To learn of course, nothing else.
Several times the prince caught her gaze. Sometimes she flinched away, but other times she held his stare and thought maybe he knew what she was thinking in those moments.
He couldn’t tease her though, because his eyes were on her just as much as he caught her staring at him. He tracked her movements and her conversations with others.
Needless to say, it had been a distracting rotation.
After their turn training the soldiers, he was with her under the guise of “learning the Vanir customs” even though, as a royal, he would’ve had lessons on the different realms and their cultures.
Solveig assumed he knew most things but frequently caught his look of surprise or confusion when they spoke about their history and traditions. His reactions intrigued her. What piqued his curiosity?
She never asked, though. Having him nearby was distracting in more than one sense, given her magic would not settle—she was always on edge. Her mind was primed for a fight at all times, and she was forced to hold her temper in check.
Conalle suggested that they hold a few joint training sessions multiple times, and Solveig shut that down so quickly it gave the lord whiplash.
She would not fight publicly with him. She only trained with a select few—those who could handle her outbursts, still unable to control herself when her fear spiked.
It was strange, but she thought the prince understood that somehow. He’d also declined Conalle’s proposal. He gave no reason, just a shrug of his shoulders, and when pressed by the irritating lord, said it was unnecessary.
Solveig knew the prince wanted to train the warriors. He didn’t come straight out and ask her for the permanent post, but he clearly fancied it. He was a war prince, after all. On the battlefields and training for war was where he was most comfortable.
She did everything she could to keep him out of the ring, thinking back to their fight weeks ago. She’d let him get too close.
The way they’d moved together had left her feeling raw for days.
She had no desire to be that open and vulnerable with him.
Her magic pulsed beneath her skin at the thought of their blades clanging together, faces inches apart.
The feel of his breath on her face, the now familiar scent that was uniquely him washing over her.
He smelled of the forest after a rainstorm, salty like the open sea.
Her magic had pushed her forward, past the brink of confusion.
Had she wanted to get closer to taste the scent, or to spill his blood?
She didn’t know, and that scared her. So she kept her distance, building a wall between them, taking him with her everywhere but the training ring.
She dragged him along to the meetings with her people, to the stables to take care of their horses, to collect firewood. He even sat with her and helped with the mending. They only did that once because seeing him work with such a small needle in his large hands had made her mouth go dry.
His fingers were nimble, efficient, and so steady. It didn’t take a genius to know that he was capable with his hands. Plus, after catching her staring at him, he had strutted around camp all day with a stupid smirk on his face.
She was testing him, and he was passing with flying colours—never complaining but remaining by her side as a silent, steady presence wherever she went. Their plan was working.
The number of Fae who sat with them at dinner increased, who at least pretended to be comfortable talking to her. Conalle’s “I told you so” was pointless. Just because she didn’t like it didn’t mean she didn’t think it would work. That’s why she’d agreed in the first place.
No doubt the favour she was currying with the Fae was a testament to how much they respected their prince.
So there she was, going tent to tent, trying to ignore the banter between the prince and Conalle.
Even Laeknir had joined them this morning.
There was a sickness spreading through the witchlings and he’d decided to tag along with their little tent-hopping party.
She could hear them bickering outside and released a small sigh.
They were like all manner of younglings. If they sat for too long, they started in on each other.
She wrapped up her conversation with a father of three whose wife was currently out finishing a morning patrol.
His wife refused to give up her position—their family needed the money—and she’d been scheduled for double shifts, even though she’d just had a baby. The babe crying in his father’s arms was hungry and needed his mother.
Solveig told the tired father she would personally attend to this for them. He thanked her profusely while she jotted it on her list as she exited the tent. Personally attending to too many things right now, she’d had to start writing them down so nothing slipped through the cracks in her memory.
When she finished writing her thirtieth note of the day, she begrudgingly made her way to the three males who lounged on the grass, waiting for her.
“You’re saying that if a Dwarven and a Giant got down to business, a Fae would be born?” the prince asked Laeknir. Solveig rubbed her temples.
“Are you three still having this discussion?” she asked, exasperated.
For the last two days, they’d been discussing what makes a Fae. His Royal Highness was appalled that the Vanir classified anyone of mixed species as Fae. It made sense to them, but he found it highly offensive.
Idavoll was known for its clean bloodlines, only allowing those born of Elven and Vanir or Fae parentage to reside in its borders. Laeknir opened his mouth to respond, but Solveig put her hand up to stop him.
“Enough. I don’t actually care. I’m done for the morning. Let’s head over to the training ring.”
They eagerly got to their feet, immediately changing the subject to which weapon they thought the prince should use in the upcoming match.