A dual pov narrative from both main characters-Loki and Annalise. If you enjoy slow burn, immersive stories, with a good plot and the long awaited spice, then stop your search. Here is the story for you!
As the newly crowned king of Jotunheim, Loki...
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The safety of my soldiers come before my own, and though it wrenches my heart to order them back into their cells—even with the locks unlatched—the ask is necessary.
The plan I've crafted depends on their concealment. If even one elf discovers they're free, the bloodshed will begin before I can set my plan in motion.
Once inside their unlocked cells, I tell them to wait, to listen for the signal—a blaring noise that will let them know it's time to rise and storm the palace from the ground up. Their faces reflect wariness, but they trust me, following orders like the loyal soldiers they are, relying solely on me to see this through.
As I dim the lamp, plunging them back into darkness, I whisper a soft prayer, "Vannaheim forever." And through the silence, their voices rise in unison, echoing back to me, "Forever Vannaheim."
A tear slips down my cheek as our age old chant rings through the air. Vannaheim is forever, alive in our hearts and pulsing through our veins. I will not forsake them—they can trust me, their queen.
Climbing the staircase, I pause near the top, straining my ears for any sound. I expect to hear the mutterings of roamers, the chatter of elves, or even the telltale clang of clashing swords. But I hear nothing. Beyond this door, only silence pervades.
It's unnerving.
Unusual.
But with slight hesitation, I push against the heavy steel doors, easing them open to slip into the hallway beyond.
My ears hadn't deceived me; an eerie stillness blankets everything. Rendering my palace like a ghost town. It's strange. The last time I walked these halls, held prisoner, they teemed with elves, and roamers. Now, they stand hauntingly vacant, devoid of any signs of life.
A crawling unease begins to manifest down my spine, and now I can't help but think that something is wrong.
So terribly wrong.
With my gut twisting in warning, I pull my dagger from its sheath and steady it in my grip, preparing myself for whatever danger I know will come.
I slink along the walls, my steps phantom-like, mimicking the unsettling quiet. For a fleeting moment, it feels as though I'm wandering freely through my own palace, before all this chaos ensued. If it were not for the lingering scent of elves—that potent aroma of pine trees, mixed with Tarryd's obsession with sanitiser—my mind might trick me into believing it so.
But I know Tarryd is here.
Beyond just his scent, I sense his presence. It's like feeling an impending storm, knowing rain will fall even before dark clouds gather. That's Tarryd—an ominous churning in your gut. One that just won't go away.
Footsteps suddenly echo through the corridor, and I dart into hiding, heart pounding. I wait, peering from the shadows, anticipating movement at the junction ahead.
