Chapter 20
Invitations went out to all the key players, including Ragnvald.
Westley made sure that North and Easta received a separate invitation from the one addressed to his parents. Attached was a letter from him, explaining the latest developments in as much detail as he could give in a cryptic letter.
Solveig had hovered while he wrote to ensure he didn’t relay any traitorous messages. He may or may not have taken longer than necessary, keeping her body pressed close to his back while she peered over his shoulder, enjoying her huge sighs of impatience.
The palace brimmed with daily activity as preparations for the ball accelerated.
It was to be a grand affair, a celebration of Solveig’s return and an honour to the fallen Vanir legion and clan.
Invited were all the leaders and monarchs from each realm, including the president and his wife from Midgard.
The realms typically called a truce for an event such as this, but these were unprecedented times. Anything could go wrong.
There was nothing typical about this ball. The world was on the brink of war. If Ragnvald was aware of Asgard’s preparations, he hadn’t yet retaliated. In fact, he’d been eerily quiet.
It came as no surprise that the Vanir royals wrote to say they would not attend—Vanaheim had been attacked, torn in two. They had good reason to sit this one out. Solveig didn’t yet know if crossing the chasm was possible.
Westley’s parents had accepted their invitation, as had Alfheim, Svartalfheim, and Jotunheim.
In lieu of a formal refusal, Muspelheim had sent back a pile of ash. The fire demons would not be attending, and the dark Elven who ruled over Niflheim sent their regrets.
No answer came from Helheim, which made Westley nervous, and though she didn’t let on, he could tell Solveig was wary as well. His grandfather would probably make a grand entrance after everyone had already arrived.
Westley had barely seen Solveig over the past three weeks. The queens had reinstated her position as general of their armies and as such, she attended countless meetings and strategy sessions with her commanders.
He’d been invited to a few of those discussions as a representative, their hope that Idavoll would come around. If Alfheim could be convinced to emerge from their apathetic state, the Trifold might have a chance of reforming.
His stomach turned at the role they asked him to play. To spy on Idavoll until North ascended the throne.
When Solveig wasn’t in the council rooms, she was speaking in low whispers with her young Seer or training with Gerrie and the queens.
The first time he’d seen Gerrie and Solveig spar, his jaw practically hit the floor. Conalle let out a low whistle beside him, and even Noren hadn’t had anything to say as they watched the pair.
Gerrie whirled her spear around like it was an extension of her arm, anticipating each of Solveig’s advances. Westley wondered if that’s how he and Solveig looked when they sparred.
With their mind connection, even if their walls were up, it was difficult to surprise the other in combat—not that she’d deigned to spar with him as of late.
But with Gerrie, it was as though she could see what Solveig was about to do before she even decided to do it. Did they also have a mind connection? Or perhaps Gerrie had some Seer abilities. If the former were true, he didn’t want to admit how much it bothered him.
“Is she showing off again?” Latham came to stand at Westley’s side, apple in hand. He inwardly cringed at the witch’s presence.
“Showing off?” he asked without taking his eyes off Solveig.
Latham snorted. “Neither of them needs to train. They’re both flawless, especially Gerrie.” He spat her name like it tasted rotten in his mouth.
“You know that’s precisely why they’re training. If Gerrie is the only one who puts up a good fight against Solveig, then it’s good practice for her.” Conalle threw Latham a knowing look and the witch bristled.
Westley’s pride flared. “I put up a good fight against her,” he muttered.
Noren laughed. “She handed you your ass in front of the whole camp a couple months ago.”
Before Westley knew what he was doing, he strode forward to the edge of the training mats.
Gerrie used the split second that Solveig was distracted by his sudden appearance to swing her spear, swiping Solveig’s legs out from underneath her. The general landed on her back with a hard thud. Her irritation was solely directed at him as Gerrie helped her to her feet.
Solveig stalked over, tossing him a sword. He caught it just before it hit the ground.
“You want to fight me?” he asked. The last time they’d clashed blades hadn’t exactly been friendly.
“Isn’t that why you came over?” she challenged. Her predatory smile sent shivers down his spine. There was no humour or joy in her expression.
His own wicked grin was an answer as he stepped onto the mat. The second his foot made contact with the floor, she was on him. He barely blocked the blow she aimed at his neck, his eyebrows flying to his hairline.
“That’s how you want to play this?” he growled, shoving her away with more force than necessary.
“Who says I’m playing?”
Damn his body for reacting to her.
He went on the offensive. Even though she’d just spent the last hour fighting Gerrie, she held him off. They danced around each other until Westley caught her from behind. Pulling a dirk out of his boot and ramming it upwards towards her chin, he almost nicked her skin.
Solveig ducked to the side, spinning to face him, but Westley had been prepared for that move.
He shifted his weight and threw her off balance, hooking his leg around the back of her knee and knocking her to the ground.
She balked the second her back hit the floor, slamming her fists into his elbows so he buckled over. He winced at the blow.
She smiled—a real smile this time, hitting him like a ton of bricks. Had he ever seen her this light, this unencumbered by pain or fear?
He was so blinded by her sudden burst of joy that she kicked him hard in the chest, and just as Noren had pointed out, she knocked him on his ass, sword at his throat.
That’s the second time I’ve beat you, Prince. You must like being beneath my sword.
I’ll gladly get on my back for you any time you wish.
Solveig snorted out loud and extended a hand. He grasped it firmly, embracing the jolt of energy that passed between them, and let her help him to his feet. She didn’t drop his hand right away, tightening her grip and bringing him close.
Be careful what you wish for, she purred.
When she let go, the absence of her touch was like a physical ache.
The night before the ball, Westley tossed and turned in his bed, eyes once again drawn to the door that connected his rooms to Solveig’s. It remained unlocked but neither had used it. The only time he’d dared to open it, she had not been in her room.
His stomach twisted at the thought that she might be sharing a bed with another. Though nothing pointed to that conclusion, he couldn’t help but think the worst.
He had to remind himself that she wasn’t his, she couldn’t be. Even if she forgave him, even if she trusted him enough to make him an ally, there was no way around the fact that he’d captured her, was complicit in her torture—whether he’d laid a hand on her or not.
Tearing his eyes away from the door and shoving down the urge to go to her, he thought over the past month in Asgard.
During his previous visits he’d always been accompanied by his family or guards and had never walked the streets or spoken with the people.
This time, he had the opportunity to do so. More than just the Asgardian Fae lived here. The population was diverse, hosting all manner of races.
He’d seen Dwarven blacksmith shops, Light Elven apothecaries—Hel, he’d even seen a Dark Elven operating a bakery. Mortal children played with faelings and witchlings.
Westley’s eyes were opened to a new possibility.
There was no way around it. He had been wrong. He’d been short-sighted and had allowed his parents to cloud his view of the world.
Not only that, but he had allowed them to dictate all his opinions as he blindly followed, taking them at their word instead of discovering it on his own.
North had tried, and so had Easta, but because of his position as War Prince, he’d only beheld the brutal battlefields and atrocities that his army, the Riddari, had seen. He only saw the evils of other races.
This Asgard he’d witnessed, the peaceful everyday life, was good. The queens ruled fairly, if not harshly when called for. Westley had even been surprised that they spoke of the gods differently.
He’d assumed that because they were Fae, they believed as Idavoll did, that the gods lived and used their power to help the world and bless their followers. That the Fae were a chosen race, created to rule over the others.
In his brief stay, he’d learned the Asgardians believed that though some gods had survived Ragnarok, they remained powerless, residing in Valhalla. Their only influence was with the land, over the magic that lived in the realms, and not over people.
His life had been determined by what the gods wanted—what his parents told him the gods wanted.
The belief that he had more control over his life than the gods did was a new concept.
He floated adrift on the possibilities this presented, leaving him nearly directionless.
Giving up his fight for sleep, Westley sat on the edge of the cliffs in his rooms and tried to clear his mind.
The moon cresting over the sea captivated his attention, absorbing the effects of being so close to the water.
His magic stirred, reaching out to the vast source of his power.
Being so close made his magic thirst. He longed to be on the open water, where his magic was most powerful.
It had been an age since Westley rode the waves.
In a snap decision, Westley padded softly to his door and wrenched it open. To his surprise, no guards lingered outside his rooms. He meant to ask them for the closest route to the ocean but instead took the opportunity to explore the sleeping palace.
Moonlight seeped in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, calming Westley’s restless heart, the torrent of energy in his blood soothed by the peace he’d found here.
No wonder Solveig had been lighter, despite her heavy and endless duties. Asgard fed her soul.
A strange sense of welcomeness enveloped him. Instead of feeling like he was sneaking around, it was as though the palace urged him to find what he was looking for.
After an hour of poking his head into vacant rooms, he stopped in front of white stone doors decorated with gold and silver designs.
Golden handles gave way under his grip as he pushed the doors open, greeted by the grandest library he’d ever seen. Three stories of bookshelves lined the walls, stretching to the ceilings, not an empty spot to be seen amongst the vast collection.
Each level had a platform with white staircases leading up, with rolling ladders fixed to the shelves. Westley marvelled at the intricate maze of standing bookcases that wove through the room. Tables, comfy chairs, and sofas decorated the space.
Friends could gather for lively discussions in more open parts of the library, while readers and scholars could find solace, absorbed in their books, in more secluded areas.
A stone pedestal had been placed in the centre, tall and proud.
Westley’s heart thumped in his chest as something inside him whispered, Look. Intrigued, he found a large tome already open on the platform, the pages coloured with age. Westley glanced around to see if anyone was watching before he carefully picked it up, closing it gently to study the cover.
In the ancient language of Odin himself read the words The New World, Vol. I. Westley’s heart lurched as he ran his fingertips over the words as carefully as he could, flipping to the first page to see the date the book was written.
One day after Ragnarok.
His head spun.
Never before had he heard even a hint of such a text existing. Could it be a trick? It lay out in the open for anyone to see. Clearly the palace had wanted him here—he’d been drawn to it.
Westley picked it up carefully and brought it over to a chair. He hesitated before opening it again, as if he knew that the moment he did, his world would change.
Reading was slow at first. His ancient language lessons as a faeling seemed distant, but eventually he found a rhythm. With each passing line, his eyes widened, as if that would help him understand. He couldn’t believe what was written.
Stories he’d never heard of, contradicting everything he thought he knew.
Everything he’d been taught.