Chapter 75 Westley
Westley sat rigid in his chair beside Solveig, across from his parents.
They had exchanged stilted pleasantries before his grandfather invited them to join the table. Westley kept stealing glances at Solveig, but the cold mask she wore had not dropped once since they entered the tent.
She sat as far away from him as the table allowed. He could practically feel the cold indifference wafting off her. He hated the change—he’d rather have her fire aimed at him, lighting his soul with her electric energy.
His grandfather cleared his throat, snapping Westley’s attention back to him.
“Westley, my lad, tell us of your progress these past months. Your correspondence has been . . . lacking as of late.”
“Yes, Grandfather, my apologies. The Vanir settlement was more extensive than we expected. Given the short time frame we had to uncover potential traitors, we did not want to split our focus. Or signal any false leads.” He fought the urge to look at Solveig.
“I see,” was all his grandfather replied. He cocked his head in Solveig’s direction. “You do not appear surprised by this, General.” It was not a question. Westley hated how her title sounded on his grandfather’s tongue.
“You have your spies, Ragnvald. I have mine.”
“King,” he whispered, his tone deadly.
“Pardon?”
“I said, King. You will address me as King Ragnvald.” Threat laced through every word.
“You are not a monarch of this realm. I owe you no such respect,” Solveig said boldly. Westley’s hand twitched at his side. He tried to silently warn her, but it seemed she was deliberately facing away from him.
“Insolent female,” his grandfather spat as he stood. “I am the King of Helheim—the rightful ruler of Asgard.” His voice shook with rage.
Westley had never seen his grandfather provoked so easily. Less than two minutes into their conversation and he was already shouting. That had to be a record. Solveig’s mouth tugged down at the corners, light flaring in her eyes.
Fuck, this was going to be bad. From his own experience, nothing good came after that look.
“What gives you the right to claim ownership of Asgard?” she asked smoothly.
“My very gods-given blood!” he shouted, the tenor of his voice echoing around the silent tent.
She didn’t flinch. “The gods are powerless. How could they have chosen you? Your blood is no more special than that of a Dwarven, or even a mortal, for that matter.” Solveig’s calm tone only incited the king’s wrath.
“How dare you speak to me in this manner. I am your rightful king, and you will treat me as such!”
Solveig stood abruptly, all traces of politeness vanishing from her face. She braced her hands on the table as she leaned towards Westley’s grandfather.
“I am the daughter of the Queens of Asgard. I bow to no king.” She spat the word back in his face.
Ragnvald reached out his hand to strike her, but Westley jumped from his seat and pulled Solveig back. He tried to ignore how quickly she jerked out of his grasp, once again putting distance between them.
“Grandfather, please.”
“You think with your cock, boy. Too much like your father.” Ragnvald sighed and sat back in his seat, plucking a grape off the tray in front of him like the outburst hadn’t happened at all. “It’s a pity, General. I was hoping you would be amenable.”
“I am not amenable to traitors of the crown.”
“I am the crown.” Rage flickered in his eyes again. “Seems we will have to disagree on that front. Let’s put that aside, shall we?” He gestured for Solveig to return to her seat, but she stood where she was. “Very well,” he said with a sigh. “We are on the same side.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“Maybe not all sides, I acquiesce, but against the mortals we can agree, I think.” Westley bristled at the bald-faced lie.
For the first time in his life, he let his doubt linger, not forcing it away.
Silence filled the room as Solveig continued to stare down his grandfather, calculating. Westley tried to hide his surprise as Solveig slowly lowered herself back into her chair.
“I am not after the mortals,” she said coldly.
“They are after you.”
“I don’t blame them for it.”
“Such mercy in one so young.”
“I have seen over three centuries of blood and warfare.”
Ragnvald waved a dismissive hand, and Westley watched Solveig’s own clench into a fist under the table. He desperately wanted to reach out and take it.
“That’s nothing compared to my two millennia ruling Hel. You are young—you will learn that true power resides in death.” He said this like he was imparting great wisdom. “What are you after then, witch?”
“Magic,” she said, like it was obvious.
“Ah yes, our elusive magic. But it was the mortals who stole it from us.”
Solveig inclined her head at him.
“You do not agree? Pray tell, why ever not.”
“I have my theories.”
Ragnvald waited, but Solveig did not elaborate.
“Very well. You have made your allegiances very clear. Westley.” His grandfather’s sudden address straightened his back.
“Yes, Grandfather?” he asked slowly.
“Pack whatever belongings survived this egregious attack. You will be returning to Idavoll with your parents,” he said as he stood. “Oh, and General Tordottir, it was so lovely to meet you. Please do give Koa and Aelfsi my regards and best wishes.”
Ragnvald made his way to the entrance of the tent with a sardonic smile. “And tell them I will be seeing them very soon,” he said ominously, waiting for a response.
But Solveig stayed seated, eyes cold and mouth set in a firm line. The king’s nostrils flared before he swished his grand cloak and exited the tent. Westley let out the breath he’d been holding as his mother came to his side, embracing him.
“West, where did all this blood come from?” she said, her hands searching for wounds that weren’t there.
“It’s not mine, Mother. I’m fine.”
“Alvida, leave him alone. He’s seen centuries of war,” his father said as he approached them.
“You cannot tell me not to worry about my babe, Erik. If I want to fuss over him, I will.” She proceeded to poke and prod him like he was in his early decades.
His cheeks grew hot as he caught Solveig’s eye.
He smiled shyly, but nothing in her stony face changed as she rose from the table.
Westley stepped into her path as she made for the exit.
“Get out of my way, Prince,” she whispered, so low his parents would have to strain to listen, even with Fae hearing.
He tried to make eye contact with her, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze. She stepped around him but could not escape his parents that easily.
“Excuse me, Solv . . . General Tordottir?” his mother’s soft voice called out to her. Solveig took a deep breath before facing them.
Westley tensed as his father came to stand beside his mother. They appeared so weak in comparison to Solveig’s hard stance and unforgiving eyes. Not to mention she was still covered in dirt and blood. So much blood.
“Queen Alvida. King Erik.” Solveig gave his parents a small bow, which they returned, much to his surprise.
“We are glad to see you well,” his mother continued.
“We should’ve known Koa and Aelfsi would appoint you as their war general and not tell anyone.
We had no idea that you would grow up to be so .
. . fearsome,” his father said, appraising her bloodied leathers.
A small smile played on the edge of Solveig’s lips, and Westley unclenched his jaw at her sincerity.
“I think that was the point. Hiding in plain sight,” Solveig said calmly. Her voice was steady, but her body language was still standoffish.
“You know each other?” Westley asked his parents, his brows raised.
“We do. You were away in training whenever the queens brought their special daughter to Idavoll for political visits. We’ve met her a few times throughout her centuries,” his mother said, offering Solveig another small smile. This was the first he was hearing of it.
“Although she was a polite courtier during those visits,” his father added, and Westley couldn’t stop the snort that burst from him.
“Westley!” his mother censured.
He finally caught Solveig’s gaze as she gave him a hard stare.
“My apologies, Mother, it’s . . . a little hard to picture the general as a courtier.”
Amusement filled his tone and he wished she would soften, just a little. But she did not joke with him. His parents glanced between him and Solveig. He wondered if they could feel the tension crackling in the air.
He needed to speak with Solveig alone. He was about to pull her aside when his father spoke.
“General Tordottir, I apologize for my father’s behaviour. He’s an old male, set in his ways. In his heart, he believes what he’s doing is right, as does Idavoll,” his father tried to explain. Any goodwill Solveig had been feeling towards his parents vanished in an instant.
“Any male—or female, for that matter—in power who rules with an iron fist and a stubborn heart is a danger to everything we hold dear. It is almost worse to sit by and condone such behaviour, explaining it away with platitudes. Keep your apologies, King Erik. I have no need of them. If you’ll excuse me.
” She did not wait this time before exiting the tent. Westley made to go after her.
“Westley, where are you going?” his mother called.
“Give me a moment to speak with her, I’ll be back.” But his father clamped a hand on his arm.
“It’s no use, son. She’s not fighting the same battle we are.”
He stared at his parents. “And what battle are we fighting, exactly?”
“The same one we’ve been fighting our whole lives,” his mother said.
“The Fae in Idavoll are the rightful rulers of Asgard and the Trifold, as you know. Asgardian Fae have taken the power the gods meant for us, and they are corrupting the world with their immorality. We need to save the world from itself.”
His mother’s voice was so gentle that he almost didn’t register how the words he’d heard his entire life settled uneasily in his stomach, mingling with the lies of his grandfather.
“Are we not allied to fight against the mortals to regain our freedom? Is that not what Asgard wants?”
“Asgard wants only power, not peace. They rule without the blessing of the gods,” his father answered gravely.
“And how the Hel do we know what the dead gods want?” Westley burst out, shock crossing both his parents’ faces.
“Westley,” his father reprimanded. “Do not let that female lead you into falsehoods. The gods speak to your grandfather.”
“I’ll be back,” was all he said, and he jogged out of the tent, chasing after Solveig.