Chapter 64
Solveig jumped to her feet, hands flying to her daggers. She gripped the hilts and manoeuvred through the crowd to stand beside Westley, in front of North and her mothers.
Westley hadn’t been allowed to arm himself for the walk behind his future queen, so Solveig passed him one of her blades. He flipped it in his hand and braced himself.
“Munin?” North asked from behind Solveig.
The nondescript male gave Solveig pause as she took him in. His clothes were ragged, and at first glance, he appeared small and weak.
But his skin was clean and his eyes were alert. This was not a broken male.
Solveig narrowed her eyes, unease spreading rapidly through her as he looked everywhere in the room except at his mate.
Her magic stood on guard, hovering within reach should she need to strike quickly.
Ragnvald took another step towards them and clapped his hands together. “Oh good, I’m just in time.”
His chipper words were a stark contrast to the evil in his soul. As he took a step forward, the room grew colder, darker. The sunlight that had been streaming in, warming the room, was replaced by clouds of swirling grey.
Solveig sent her magic out, but it was not strong enough to get a feel on him without direct contact. She would be damned if she laid a finger on him unless it was to cut his throat.
A low growl emanated from her, Westley’s warning rumble joining hers.
“What is the meaning of this?” North asked, much more calmly than Solveig would have thought.
“Yes, Ragnvald, we would also like to know,” Koa said coldly.
“I am not invited to my own granddaughter’s coronation, and you have the nerve to ask me why I’m here,” he said, his temper looming behind his words.
“You know why you were not invited,” Westley said through his teeth.
“Ah, my disappointing grandson.” He sniffed the air. “Still unmated I see.”
Solveig hissed.
“But not unprotected,” he amended with a cruel smile in her direction. “He managed to convince you of his innocence then? So kind of you to view naivety as a strength,” he condescended.
As he took another step inside, more followed after. Idavoll dignitaries and soldiers, as well as Ragnvald’s own guards from Hel. Bringing up the rear was Maddock and what looked like an entire Jotunheim legion.
All at once, severed heads were tossed on the ground. Solveig recognized them as spies from Asgard and Vanaheim. Her heart clenched at the thought of more of her people suffering for her actions.
“My son and his beloved wife were murdered, and I thought to myself, how convenient. There must be a grand plot afoot. And sure enough, we unearthed these traitors. I had no other choice than to save Idavoll from corruption,” he explained, his voice calm like he was speaking to younglings.
“You are treading on thin ice, Ragnvald,” Aelfsi said, her hands clasped together in front of her.
“I do believe you are mistaken, my dear Aelfsi. It is you who ought to watch where you step.”
More soldiers filtered in, the sacred throne room filled to the brim with violence waiting to boil over.
“What do you want, Grandfather?” North asked. Solveig was impressed at her attempt to keep her composure.
“I want your crown,” he said simply.
“You cannot have it,” Easta chimed in.
Ragnvald pretended she hadn’t spoken. “You will not win this fight, my dear northern star,” he said to North. “Give the crown to me, and we will allow you and your followers to leave Idavoll, exiled as opposed to dead.”
“That is no choice,” North answered.
“There is always a choice.”
“I will not subject my people to death.”
“Then hand me your crown.” Ragnvald extended his hand. North picked up the crown from the ground and held it close to her chest.
“You mistake my words, Grandfather. You are not the true ruler of Idavoll. The throne and crown will reject you, and the power of that rejection will crumble our fragile people.”
Ragnvald’s eyes lit up with the challenge, a twinkle of surety replacing some of the malice. “We shall see.”
“I will not let you touch this crown. On your head, it would sentence my people to a worse fate,” she said, raising herself to full height. The ground quaked beneath their feet as North sent her power into the earth.
Surprise flashed on Ragnvald’s face, his gaze meeting Solveig’s.
“You’ve been busy, witch,” he sneered. Solveig gave no response.
But Ragnvald did not need anyone to converse with. He needed only himself. “I have been busy too,” he threatened. “I would rather not show my hand just yet, so I’ll ask you one more time, North. Hand me your crown.” It was not a question.
“No.”
“Not even for a trade?” Ragnvald quirked a brow. “Not even for the life of your mate?”
He waved his hand and a guard gripped Munin by the arm and dragged him over, forcing the male to his knees before them.
When North did not move forward, the guard pressed a sharp blade to the back of Munin’s neck, making him bow in submission. Her sharp inhale was her only response.
Shuffling feet came from behind Solveig, and Sten’s cold hand rested on her shoulder. Unease settled over her—this was as close to a warning as he’d given in months.
Something isn’t right, she thought to Westley. He slid closer, his hand brushing hers.
None of this is right.
No, it’s something else.
North hissed as the blade sliced, the scent of Munin’s blood filling the air, pulling her forward to take an involuntary step.
She placed a hand on Westley’s and Solveig’s shoulders, a request to let her pass.
Westley moved immediately under the silent order of his queen, crowned or not. But Solveig remained where she was.
“General Tordottir,” North said in a commanding voice. Still, Solveig did not move—North was not her queen.
“It’s a trap, North,” Solveig said quietly under her breath so only North could hear.
The would-be queen glanced back, a question in her eyes, but Solveig couldn’t explain. She silently urged her to not accept, but when the blade rose, it jerked North’s attention back to her mate.
“Wait!” North cried. She rushed forward, dropping to her knees in front of Munin.
“The crown,” Ragnvald ordered, holding his hand out again.
A sob wracked through North as she shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Then your mate dies.” The scrape of a sword being unsheathed was amplified by the intake of breath.
“Forgive me,” North whispered, and relief washed over Solveig. She would not trade her crown, even for her mate.
“Forgive me,” North said again, tears streaming down her face. She embraced Munin, who took her into his arms.
Solveig held her breath, her heart slicing in two at the sacrifice North was about to make.
Ragnvald chuckled and shock blasted through Solveig as North, without looking, placed the crown in her grandfather’s hand.
He settled the crown on top of his head and power surged through the throne room.