Chapter 10
Westley paced back and forth, waiting for Solveig to return.
He’d let Noren tear into him for every little detail of his deception. But he didn’t feel like he had betrayed anyone. If anything, letting Solveig escape was the first sound decision he’d made in centuries.
All those months at the Southern Wilds, he’d wanted to tell her—to start with the truth, laying it all at her feet.
But he’d been a coward just like she’d said, and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it.
He hadn’t wanted to see that hate enter her eyes when he revealed himself to be her greatest nightmare.
But she had known who he was and never let on. For what purpose? They’d have to talk, but right now Westley focused on Noren, who continued staring daggers at him.
“Anything else you’d like to add?” Westley asked with a sigh.
“At what point did you stop fighting for your people?”
Westley took a steadying breath, reminding himself that Noren was one of his oldest friends and it wouldn’t do well to break his nose. He was lashing out, hurt by Westley’s betrayal.
“I’ve never stopped fighting for my people. I changed tactics,” Westley said as calmly as he could.
“That’s what I don’t understand. What’s your plan? Align with Asgard?”
Westley took in his friend, assessing how best to approach his change of heart. Noren stared at him, his full brows pulled over his dark eyes. He kept his ashy brown hair cropped short on the sides, atypical for a Fae.
The longer section on the top had braids woven in—Westley assumed Conalle had been playing with it.
Noren was almost as tall as he was. The sharp planes of his face, creating shadows in his golden-brown skin, were hardly ever broken with a smile. The only time he’d seen his friend let loose was when Easta forced him to join their revelry, and usually he needed ale.
Westley rubbed the scruff that lined his jaw.
If Noren wouldn’t respond to a gut feeling, he wasn’t sure he’d be receptive to an emotional plea either. But since he didn’t have all the answers, that’s all he had to go on.
“Do you know what it’s like to have something change you to your soul?”
“What?” Noren jerked his head at the turn of conversation.
“Has anything ever happened to you that shook the core of your entire existence?”
“No.”
Westley nodded, softening his words, pleading. “It feels like my entire world has shifted, that my life was—”
“If you say incomplete, I’ll punch you.”
“I wasn’t going to say that, but thanks for the warning. No, I was going to say unbalanced. You know there were times when my parents’ orders didn’t sit well with me. But I followed them anyway. If something didn’t make sense or I had questions, I relied on the gods.”
Noren’s face still held a measure of disapproval.
“North and Easta see it this way, Noren, you know this.”
When North had challenged his beliefs, Westley hadn’t wanted to hear it. And his sisters had long since stopped badgering him about it. He’d been relieved, but now he wished he had listened.
His friend shook his head. Westley knew this was a difficult topic for him. As Easta’s personal guard, he had a soft spot for her and her family. And Westley knew that Noren valued her opinion heavily, even though he didn’t agree.
“Everything Easta told me over the years went on a shelf, disregarded. The ideas I disagreed with went on that shelf until too many piled up. And in the cave, it broke with what we did to her. What I let Booth do to her. What I thought was right no longer aligned with how I felt. The scales of truth tilted, leaving me with too many unanswered questions.”
“So what’s your plan then?”
“Get to the truth, in any way I can. Before, that meant capturing and torturing Vanir, but where did that get us? My grandfather was behind all of it the whole time and we had no idea. He was using us.”
Noren stared, jaw clenched. Westley could tell he didn’t understand, but hopefully he’d come around once they got to Asgard.
Conalle still hadn’t spoken to him since Solveig left, lost in his thoughts as he listened to their conversation.
The Fae lord had taken his boots off and was soaking his feet in the waterfall’s pool. Westley sat down beside him and chucked a few rocks in the water, waiting for him to speak.
“Even after what you did for her, it may not be enough. I don’t know if she’ll be able to forgive you,” Conalle began.
“I know,” Westley said. “Can you forgive me?”
Conalle’s eyes drooped. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“I understand that more than you know. I’ll earn it back.”
“I hope you can.” They turned at the sound of Solveig’s approach. “For all our sakes.”
Conalle laid a hand on Westley’s shoulder and left to speak with Solveig.
Westley watched them embrace, and his heart clenched when she glanced over the lord’s shoulder. He couldn’t decipher the look she gave him. Instead, a light flickered on the fringes of his mind.
Her light.
It was silent as they ate their lunch, the sounds of water rushing over rocks filling the space as they all sat with their own thoughts.
Noren stared hard at his food with his brow furrowed as if it contained all the answers he sought.
Conalle’s head was tilted to the sky, a contemplative look on his face.
Solveig and Westley kept stealing glances at each other. When their meal was winding down, Conalle finally broke the silence, turning to Westley.
“So, you have access to your magic,” he stated.
“Sort of,” Westley answered, though it was not a question.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s like the Block has lost some of its strength,” Solveig explained. “The force of our magic is too strong for it to be kept completely at bay.”
Conalle’s brows knitted together. “How? Why?”
“I’m not sure,” Solveig said, looking at the prince. He stared intently but offered no solution.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Noren muttered.
“And it started the day you were captured?” Conalle wondered aloud.
Solveig and Westley nodded.
“West first felt his when you touched. Is that when you felt yours, Solveig?”
Solveig thought for a minute before she answered. “If I’m being honest—”
“That would be a nice change,” Noren muttered.
Solveig glared but chose to let it go for now, turning back to Conalle.
“Now that I know what my magic feels like under my skin, I think I first felt it stir on the journey to the mortal village that day. It was buzzing in my veins, like a gradual awakening.”
“Yours broke the Block first, and then when Westley encountered you, his awoke?”
“So it would seem.”
“Do you think . . .” Conalle took a breath and started again. “Could you do it for others?”
Solveig’s brows rose. “I don’t know, I’ve never tried to do it on purpose.”
“Well, now would be a good time. Once we cross into Idavoll, you can have some backup in case these Fae decide to double-cross us,” he said solemnly.
“But if you can come with me—” Westley started, but Solveig was having none of that.
“Hel if I’m going with you willingly.” She gave him a pointed look.
Westley sighed. “I’m not going to double-cross you.” He looked at Solveig. “You have my word.” Those four words were loaded with meaning. She may understand him as a general, but as a person? As a male? She . . . No. She wasn’t ready to trust him.
Solveig turned to Conalle. “We can try. Remove your shirt.”
“Why?” the three Fae asked in unison, their expressions varied. It was almost comical.
“Because the core of your magic resides in your heart.” Solveig laid her hand on her chest and closed her eyes as she spoke. “That’s why mating bonds were also Blocked. It’s why Vanir’s emotions are less severe than they used to be. So I need access to your heart.” She opened her eyes.
“Okay, but why does he need to take his shirt off?” Westley grumbled.
Solveig stared hard at him. “Because, Prince, you and I feel our magic stronger when we touch skin-to-skin, so I’m assuming it will make it easier to remove the Block.”
Conalle giggled. “Oh, please tell me more about this skin-to-skin touching! That sounds intriguing.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Conalle. When my bare fist connects with his pretty face, I feel my magic come alive.”
He didn’t look convinced but shook his head in amusement and took his shirt off. Solveig stepped forward, placing her palm on his chest. From the corner of her eye, she saw Westley stiffen as he watched.
Noren stood rigidly at the prince’s other side, brows furrowed.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked Westley.
“Be quiet, Noren, no one asked for your opinion,” Solveig said. He gave her the middle finger and she chuckled. But the humour quickly faded as she focused on her task.
Solveig closed her eyes, her own magic stirring under her skin, that dormant part of her responding to her will. It was still trapped, but she could see it, feel it, like it was moving underwater.
She stretched it out, reaching into Conalle’s chest, trying to get it to flow into him. She’d been expecting it to be as easy as when she had shared it with the prince, but it wasn’t. It took more effort and cooperation to direct it where she wanted it.
The air charged, the hairs rose on Conalle’s skin under her fingertips. Light faded behind her eyelids and she imagined that clouds darkened the sky.
Her magic gathered strength as she forced it into Conalle. Her hand began to glow with the intensity, finding the magic buried deep within him. She gasped as her magic reached his, finding where it was trapped.
“It’s not blocked, it’s bound,” Solveig muttered, sending more of her magic into Conalle, feeling her way around the binds.
At first, they felt solid, like thick rope, but when she tugged, tendrils of shadows wisped away as though they were a living entity.
Once released from their formation, they found their way to her, curling around her magic in greeting.
An idea sparked. “West,” she called. Without opening her eyes, she raised her hand, beckoning him.
She felt, rather than heard, his movements when he came to stand in front of her.
Instead of his shirt touching her palm like she’d been expecting, his cold hand gently wrapped around the back of hers and held it. Every nerve ending in her body became aware as he shifted closer and brought their hands to his chest.
Her fingers slid along the bare skin of his chest until he flattened her palm over his beating heart. He didn’t remove his hand, trapping her between the skin of his body and his firm hold. A chill washed over her body when his thumb swiped across her knuckles.
She pushed her magic into him.
It went willingly, and the moment her magic touched his, she inhaled an audible gasp.
“Solveig,” Westley moaned softly like he couldn’t keep it in, saying her name as though it belonged to him. The sound tightened her core.
Noren coughed.
“I can feel yours is loosened. The shadows are thinner,” Solveig muttered, barely recovered from the reaction of their magic connecting. “It has room to move and a little has escaped—that’s why you can feel it,” she said, her eyes still closed.
Their magic danced together as the binds on Westley’s magic relaxed further, giving way to more power. He sucked in a breath.
Reluctantly, Solveig withdrew her magic from the prince. It was difficult because she did not want to lose that feeling of . . . familiarity. But she needed all her power directed at Conalle.
“Now that I know what it feels like, I can try to loosen yours, Connie.”
She made to remove her hand from the prince, but he gripped it, holding her firmly in place. The thudding of his heart accelerated, as did the rise and fall of his chest.
Solveig let Westley ground her and pushed all her available power into Conalle, steering it to the dark tethers that tightly bound his magic. Her power built and built.
Sweat broke out on her brow at the exertion.
Her magic refused to do as she wished, desperately trying to find its way back to Westley.
Her body slumped, and she would have broken the connection if not for the prince’s other hand coming to steady her, gripping her waist and pulling her against his chest.
“I can’t—” she started.
“You can, General,” he whispered, his breath flitting over the shell of her ear.
Solveig tightened her hold on her magic and forced it to obey her bidding, but with the strain of her fight against the prince earlier, her stores were depleted.
“I need—”
Again, she didn’t have to finish before a thread of magic that was not her own found its way into her, propping her up like the male it came from was doing for her body.
“Take what you need,” Westley offered, his voice strong.
She did. She tugged at his magic and it followed hers willingly.
The light inside her flared with strength, and when he receded from her, she noted the loss.
But she focused on the task at hand. With one last surge, she shoved everything at the binds holding Conalle’s magic hostage and imagined shredding through every last tendril.
With a flash of light, Conalle was blasted back as the earth began to quake, rumbling with untethered power.