Chapter 68 Westley
After a half hour of waiting for Solveig outside the gates, Westley figured she’d already made her way to their training ring. But when he reached the opening of the clearing, she was nowhere to be found.
Odd. She was never late.
Surveying the clearing to make sure he was alone, Westley knelt in the soft grass.
The day was cool and overcast as usual, and the fog from the early morning hours had not yet dissipated, casting an unearthly scene.
If it weren’t for the trees surrounding him, he’d think he was in the clouds of Valhalla.
Moisture from the grass soaked into his pants and he took a moment to appreciate the small grove of peace Solveig had managed to carve out for herself. She attained her peace the same way he did—surrounded by weapons and bloodstained gravel.
If he tried, he could inhale her scent from the traces of sweat and blood she’d left behind in this area. His heart rate increased. Westley closed his eyes and started to pray.
His prayers had been less frequent as of late, and he took this spare moment to remember his gods. To thank them for his power and for the chance he’d been given to make things right for his people. He reached up in a silent plea to guide him in his cause—to show him what to do, how to proceed.
He prayed for his heart and his mind to once again live in harmony. Silence answered him and Westley found no peace—only the swirling clouds above him responded as small drops of rain started to fall.
Frustrated with himself and with the gods, he stood, glad Solveig had not found him on his knees but irritated that she hadn’t yet arrived. He warmed up and went through part of his routine, trying to lose himself in the movements he’d so long ago memorized.
But his mind would not focus. He was distracted by every twig snap and rustle of the forest leaves.
The sound of footsteps neared and Westley’s head snapped up, a quip about tardiness already on his tongue. He was disappointed to see Noren and Maddock strolling into the clearing. He gritted his teeth together before he could snap. Noren shouldn’t have brought him here.
It wasn’t a secret by any means, but he didn’t want Maddock to taint Solveig’s safe place.
“Alone, Your Highness?” Maddock queried.
Westley gestured around him. “Obviously.”
“Where is our dear old general today?”
Westley shrugged his shoulders and glared at Noren. Maddock didn’t miss the look.
“Lovers quarrel, perhaps?”
He bit his tongue to keep from saying something rash. “I do not keep track of the general’s whereabouts.”
“Perhaps you should,” Maddock said suggestively. “You see, we just came from town—oh, forgive me, camp—and our little she-demon was entering none other than General Arlanson’s tent. She went quite willingly, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Why should I care whose tent she enters?” Westley asked. Maddock was lying. Solveig wouldn’t give Arlanson the time of day, let alone go to him.
“You mean you’re not upset that she seeks out another male after you spent the night in her bed? Maybe you knew what kind of whor—” A dagger blew past Maddock’s head and silenced him before he could finish. Blood trickled down his face from the cut on his cheek.
“Say one more word and I will rip out your serpent tongue,” Westley threatened, stepping up to the Giant.
A knowing smile crept over Maddock’s face, and Westley cursed inwardly. He’d fallen for Maddock’s bait. No matter, he wouldn’t tolerate anyone speaking of her that way.
“You slept with her?” Noren asked, eyes narrowing. Westley ground his teeth. He and Solveig had woken so early this morning he was sure no one had seen him exit her tent, then re-enter and exit again.
Gods, that had been a disaster. He couldn’t dwell on it now, though, not when he had to keep every twitch of his face in check in front of Maddock.
“In a manner of speaking, yes. In the way Maddock is insinuating? No.”
Incredulity rolled off Noren. “Why?”
Westley didn’t want to betray Solveig’s secrets, but he was backed into a corner. He had a duty to his people that far outweighed any feelings he might be developing for the general.
“Arlanson was right.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth. “She may not be the link to the mortals we’ve been seeking, but she knows more than she lets on. I’m trying to get close to her.” Why did saying it feel like a betrayal? He owed her nothing.
“I knew it,” Maddock said triumphantly. “I’ve always hated that bitch.”
“I’m fairly certain the feeling is mutual,” Westley told him.
He wouldn’t let this drop so easily. “So what? She let you into her tent and you just . . . talked?” Noren asked skeptically.
Westley fought the urge to run his hand down his face. “She didn’t exactly ‘let’ me in.”
Maddock whistled low and clasped his shoulder. “I didn’t know you Fae snobs had it in you to take what you want from a female! Good on you, brother!”
Westley gripped Maddock’s hand and squeezed until a bone snapped. He waited for Maddock’s grunt of pain before removing it from his shoulder.
“Let me make two things very clear.” Another snap of bone, another cry of pain.
“First, we are not brothers.” Snap. “Second, I would never force myself on anyone.” Snap, snap.
“Just because our kingdoms are currently allied does not mean I would sink to the lowest level of the scum you are.” Snap.
The forest seemed to lean in to inhale Maddock’s pained cries.
He released Maddock’s hand, and the sorry excuse for a Giant stumbled to the ground, clutching his broken bones to his chest.
“You’ll pay for this, Prince.” Maddock spat on the ground at Westley’s feet.
“You had fun without me again.”
All three males jerked their heads towards Solveig. She stood casually by the training ring, twirling a dagger in her hand like she hadn’t a care in the world. Maddock’s screams must have covered the sound of her approach.
Westley’s heart lurched in his chest, his magic flowing like ice through his veins. How much had she heard?
She pushed herself off the tree, striding with purpose towards them. She knelt in front of Maddock and used her dagger to tilt his face up to meet hers. His grimace of pain mixed with a hatred so pure it contorted his face into the ugliest expression Westley had ever seen.
“I heard something interesting today, Maddock, and it got me thinking.” The dagger moved slowly up the side of his cheek, tracing a line that mirrored the scar on her face. “If I was a rat, scurrying around looking for crumbs and morsels, I would not bite the hand that fed me.”
“What are you blathering on about, witch?”
An alarmingly cold smile touched her lips, the air charging with tension, and Maddock had the good sense to shrink away from her. She didn’t let him go far. A bead of blood rolled down Maddock’s temple, bubbling from beneath the tip of Solveig’s blade.
“It would be so easy to end you right here,” she whispered cruelly. “But what fun would that be? Plus, then I’d make an enemy out of Idavoll,” she said meaningfully. She stood abruptly and aimed that cold smile onto Westley. “But I suppose I already have.”
Noren took a step closer to Westley, hand on his sword. Solveig laughed without humour.
“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt your precious prince . . . yet.” She bent down to face Maddock. “I’ll be in touch. We have unfinished business,” she promised. He tried to stand, but she kicked his side, sending him into a crumpled heap on the ground with a hard thump. “Now get out of my camp.”
She didn’t wait for him to retort that it wasn’t hers anymore. He rolled onto his side and stood, still clutching his hand, and raced away.
“So, are we training or what?” she asked Westley like nothing had happened. She let her cold mask of indifference fall away. He and Noren gaped at her.
“It’s scary when you do that,” Noren muttered.
She stepped right into his personal space and whispered, “You have no idea how scary I can be.”
“Oh, I have a little inkling,” Noren retorted, not backing down. She just smirked.
“Are you joining us for training today, Noren? You probably need the practice. It might help if you removed the stick from your ass. I could assist,” she said with a wicked grin.
Westley snickered and Noren glared at him.
“Fortunately, I can’t subject myself to that today. Laeknir requested my help in the infirmary.”
This time it was Solveig’s turn to laugh. “Yeah, Laeknir asked you for help. Very believable.”
Noren walked over, grabbed his bag, and leaned in to whisper in Westley’s ear, “Be careful, West,” before taking his leave.
Westley was pretty sure that despite her distance and the volume of Noren’s voice, Solveig still heard him.
“Why doesn’t he shorten your name properly?” Solveig asked as they began to spar.
“That’s such a random question. Is there a correct way to shorten a name?”
She shrugged. “Isn’t it kind of pointless to keep the t sound?”
Their swords clanged a few times before he responded.
“My siblings are all named after the points on a compass. North, my eldest sister, likes to joke that she’s the only perfect child because my parents didn’t add any extra letters to her namesake direction. That, and she’s the firstborn and a compass always points north,” he said with an eye roll.
“So you have three siblings,” she said, though given her station, she already knew.
Westley didn’t answer right away, his heart beating harder as he relived the horrible memories, reminding him of the constant throb of pain in his chest. He debated what to tell her and decided on the bare bones of the truth.
“I have two living sisters, North and Easta. Souther was my elder brother. He died in the war.”
“The war that keeps on taking,” Solveig replied quietly. The absence of an apology was comforting to Westley. He hated when people apologized for his loss.
“That it does.”
That was all they said for quite some time. With only the occasional instruction or correction, they trained in a secret-filled silence.
Tension grew between them as their bodies clashed together. Their weapons the only thing separating them as the wind picked up and the air became electric. The forest darkened around them, blocking them off from the world as if they were the only two left.
Westley could tell something was on Solveig’s mind.
He sensed it in her increasingly strong strikes.
She was getting better at keeping her emotions in check, but with each clash of sword, each dodge, strike, and blow, her energy became more frantic, her emotions flashing across her face and through her heart.
Anger. Regret. Fear. Confusion. Desire.
Westley experienced them all—could actually feel them in his soul as their tempo climbed. His own convoluted emotions coursed through his veins, his desire taking centre stage as they locked eyes, and the pull of their magic was nearly irresistible.
This female’s hold on him only grew as he learned her.
How she moved, how she thought. Her actions constantly surprised and delighted him.
She infuriated him to no end with her strange bouts of vulnerability and the way she cut herself off from him without warning.
He ached to break down every one of her walls.
To tell her every secret and worship her. It made him fall for her.
The thought pulled him up short and he froze mid-swing. Her answering strike would’ve blocked his harsh blow, but because he froze, she knocked the sword right out of his hand.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, scanning his face.
He could only shake his head.
“Prince?”
He was glad, at that moment, that she didn’t say his name. If she had, he would’ve fallen to his knees before her.
“It’s nothing.” He tilted his face up to the sky and noted the low position of the sun. They’d lost track of time. “Let’s call it a day.”
She only nodded, stark curiosity written all over her beautiful face. Westley couldn’t meet her eyes. They packed up their things and walked back to camp. He was about to part ways without a goodbye when she spoke, halting him in place.
“I assembled a second bed in my tent. Feel free to use it,” she said before walking away.
He stood there stunned. She wanted him to share her tent. Not her bed, but still. Was it for his benefit or hers? He had no idea. He couldn’t use it.
He wouldn’t.