Chapter 37
The morning after their arrival in Alfheim, Solveig woke with renewed purpose.
Sten had settled in and seemed more comfortable than he had in weeks—since the last time he’d used his magic.
It was strange, given how much his power had grown, that nothing had come to him as of late.
He’d been quiet on the journey, but that wasn’t unusual.
It was his shiftiness that had made Solveig wary.
But she couldn’t think of that now, nor could she wallow in her situation. It was time to act. She hurried through getting ready, not allowing the lady’s maid she’d been assigned to help her dress.
The female had laid out a flowing silver and green-trimmed gown with bell sleeves and a trailing hemline. Though she was grateful for the offer, a dress wouldn’t suit her needs.
Instead, she dressed in training leathers and made her way to the breakfast hall. Steeling herself before entering the lively room, she straightened her shoulders and let the light of the sun drown out the darkness that had crowded her mind since parting with the prince.
“My dear, what ever are you wearing?” Queen Eir exclaimed when Solveig entered.
“I will be selecting my husband based on their skill as a fighter, starting today. With your permission, I’d like to dispatch messengers to inform your people of my announcement.”
The queen looked like she’d swallowed a sour plum, her pale skin reddening with the blush of indignation. Queen Eir did not approve of violence. However, she was also raised to reign with decorum, and Solveig counted on the fact that she did not like disappointing anyone, especially her guests.
“Mother, we are at war, whether you acknowledge it or not.” Bo, her youngest, laid a hand on her arm, drawing her attention to him. “Our people may not like violence, but nor can we stand by and watch our brothers and sisters fall. Asgard calls for aid, we must respond.”
Queen Eir closed her eyes. “I cannot justify the slaughter of my people, Bo,” she said heavily.
“They will encounter a worse fate if we do nothing,” Henny insisted.
Turmoil clouded the queen’s eyes as she appraised her sons.
It was not the first time a realm of the Trifold had begged Alfheim for help.
But the queen had declined. Even when Vanaheim was overrun with mortals, she would not send her people to help.
The Elven withdrew themselves from the war, from trade, and if it had been possible, Solveig was sure the queen would have removed their entire realm from Yggdrasil.
Queen Eir sighed. “It is not that simple. Even if we wanted to help, how could we?”
The longer the Block remained in place, the harsher conditions in each of the realms became. Much like Idavoll’s endless winters and Asgard’s unforgiving summers, Alfheim too, struggled, but not with their weather.
Alfheim had cut itself off from the other realms. The Block worked in a reactionary way. Because of Alfheim’s early retreat from the war, when the Block hit, none but the royal family could leave.
Though they could escort people into Alfheim, their borders were cursed. Anyone who tried to cross without a royal family member would perish.
Despite pulling away, the queen hadn’t intended for the situation to be permanent. After the war ended, she’d tried to resume trade with the Trifold, unaware of the Block’s effect. They’d lost many.
Ever since, the Queen of Alfheim had been desperately trying to facilitate a marriage alliance with any other realm, in hopes that it would break the curse on their lands.
Eir turned to Solveig and, in an instant, morphed into someone else. She was not the Queen of Alfheim. She was a female who knew tragedy and fear. A mother who wanted what was best for her sons.
Solveig softened.
“This is the only way for you?” Eir asked, sounding defeated.
“It is,” Solveig said, making sure the queen could see the kindness and sincerity behind her words. It was the only way.
“I will agree. With one stipulation.” She drew her airs up around her, becoming the queen once more. “If any of my people die, I will declare us apathetic to Asgard’s plight, the curse on our borders be damned.”
Solveig sighed in relief. She hadn’t planned on any challenges to the death.
“Of course, Your Majesty, you have my word,” Solveig agreed, and the tension in the room eased. To their credit, Eir’s sons had remained calm throughout the exchange, lending reason and confidence to Solveig’s plan. For that, she was grateful.
“Very well. You have my permission to send notice to my people. Though I must warn you, I do not think many will attend.”
The crowd roared. Solveig slammed an Elven to the ground, who struggled before tapping the stage in surrender. Solveig released his neck immediately, raising a hand to help the Elven to his feet.
This was the third day of the contest and Solveig had yet to break a sweat.
The Elven used to be a fearsome folk. Though gentle, they were strong.
Years of apathy and quiet living had made them soft.
Solveig’s disappointment swelled with each encounter—they could hardly be called a fight—though she counted on the warriors’ turns later in the afternoon.
She relished the challenge.
“That’s too bad,” Conalle said in disappointment as he handed Solveig her waterskin.
“I know. It wasn’t even a good fight,” Solveig said after taking a swig.
“No, it’s too bad because Thadi is quite exquisite to look at and he is fantastic in bed.” Conalle trailed the Elven with his eyes and Solveig chuckled.
“I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“You could still take him for a spin. You’re not betrothed yet,” Conalle suggested with a waggle of his eyebrows.
Solveig laughed off the joke, even though she knew Conalle was serious. Her gut twisted at the thought. She hadn’t bedded anyone since returning from the cave, and her dreams became increasingly more vivid as the nights went on.
There was only so much self-pleasure one could enjoy while being tortured with the need for another. She couldn’t afford to dwell on it though.
“Okay, we’re taking a quick break before moving on to the soldiers,” Gerrie said, running over. Solveig sat on the stairs leading to the stage, shielded from the crowd by heavy emerald curtains.
Despite the queen’s avid belief that her people wouldn’t be willing to challenge her, there had been a line of suitors signed up within an hour of Solveig’s notice going out. She’d gone through the list meticulously, removing anyone who was too young or too married.
Over a hundred names remained, but with well over half of them eliminated and no real prospect in sight, Solveig dropped her head into her hands, massaging her temples before standing to face her next opponent.
“Cheer up, Sol,” Gerrie said, smacking her ass. “There are plenty of eligible bachelors left for you!”
“Let’s hope some of them put up a decent fight. We need to spice things up.” Conalle punctuated his statement with a well-timed yawn.
Solveig tossed some fruit into her mouth—not the phallic kind—and munched on nuts as she looked down into the tunnel that led to the stage.
The Elven didn’t have a fighting ring, but they did have a theatre. Much to Conalle’s and Gerrie’s delight, Solveig had wanted to make a spectacle of it all. Her hope had been to rouse the Elven to action.
It had worked.
With each fight, she whispered words of war and encouragement to her opponents. She needed them to know what they fought for, what they would lose. Their apathy would be their downfall if they did not join Asgard.
She whispered words of the other realms, the places they would be able to travel, people they would be able to see. Though the royal family had done a commendable job finding their people who had been trapped in other realms, they hadn’t been able to escort everyone home.
Soon after the Block hit, the curse intensified, and they’d been limited in how many they could take across their borders.
Once a suitor was chosen, Solveig would begin her preparations to move the Alfheim army. So long as the queen’s suspicions proved true, if an Elven married her, they would have access to Asgard and Vanaheim, given her heritage. One step at a time, she moved her pieces into place.
Solveig stepped back onto the stage as the crowd cheered, the roar fuelling her resolve. It wasn’t the guttural goading of Vanir and Fae she was used to, but the more docile, uplifting cheering of a crowd that wished to see both parties succeed. She waved to the audience and they waved back.
She smiled to herself—the Elven truly were a lovely folk.
Rumours had reached her that all of Alfheim was waiting for her to choose either Steffen or Vali, insistent that the notion that everyone had a chance was simply for show. But Solveig was serious. She would give anyone—a farmer, a soldier, a prince—a fair fight and would select only the best.
The next match was against a soldier, Joran. He beamed at Solveig as he stepped out onto the stage. He was handsome to be sure. The scars that marred his tawny beige skin told Solveig she was about to face her first real challenge. Joran narrowed his dark, fox-like eyes but grinned kindly.
She returned the smile before setting her face in a stone-cold mask, signalling her readiness.
Joran shuffled his feet from side to side and then spun a kick so fast, Solveig barely dodged it. She smiled wickedly and struck her hand out as he tried to do the same move twice in a row. Big mistake.
Solveig stopped his leg mid-kick, grabbing hold of his ankle and spinning, forcing him to lose his balance. He fell face-first into the wooden floor. His nose cracked, and just like that, Joran tapped the ground and the fight was over.
Gerrie and Conalle stood backstage, trading money and laughing while ushering the next soldier on stage.
Solveig’s hopes deflated at his skittish movements and the fear in his eyes.