Page 1 of Elf Shot

PROLOGUE

Far above the arctic circle, in the northern reaches of Finnmark, an area that crowned the top of Scandinavia and Finland, wild and mythical creatures still roamed.

If you went there, you could feel the deep magic in the land and knew that it didn’t quite sit in the same reality as the rest of the world.

The human shamans and magicians always found themselves in the north, called by the magic, and when they returned to their warmer southern homes, they always carried a touch of that wildness within them.

There the trolls walked; the shapeshifting wolves and bears made their dens, and the elves quietly governed. They moved through their lake and forest portals, visiting the nine worlds of Yggdrasil as quickly as they would any other country in Midgard.

The fae came out in England with brutal purpose and dazzling force. The elves in the far northern wilds watched on, horrified and amused at their fae brothers' lack of tact and open hostility.

They didn't understand the fae's desperation because they had never left their lands and had never been forced by the humans to go. They moved seamlessly from their worlds of Alfheim and Svartalfheim and into ours, much as they had done since the beginning of time.

They never had to make peace treaties with the humans. They had always been there, and the humans knew it. They could feel the magic in those places and respected it without needing to see the proof of the beings that lived there.

When the fae returned, the elves made themselves known more openly, but Finnmark had always been their land and always would be.

They would never negotiate their right to be there, and they certainly wouldn't let a fallen god take it from them.

1

Arne Steelsinger, Prince of the Light Elves of Alfheim, hadn't traveled the dark paths of Yggdrasil for three hundred and twenty-four years. Despite that, his feet and magic still remembered the way, the portals moving him seamlessly to the heart of the World Tree.

The heart was a waypoint, and not everyone could find it. It had a series of portal doorways that accessed all the branches of the Nine Worlds. Then there were the darker paths that led to the underworlds—Niflheim and Urd's Well. The latter was his destination, though he didn't know why.

Arne had woken two days ago, a rune burning on his palm, and he knew he was being summoned by beings too powerful to deny.

The timing couldn't have been more shit for a quest. Arne was still trying to undo the damage to his relationship with the fae princes and the Ironwoods. Well, one Ironwood in particular.

Fucking Arawan and his big mouth,Arne cursed that damn god every day. Not that the Lord of Annwn gave a shit about Arne's world exploding and making him live his greatest fear.

It had taken Bayn a week to take his calls. When Arne finally had a chance to explain, the fae prince had cuffed him in the back of the head and told him not to hide shit like that from them.

Bayn and Freya were his friends again, and Arne was on his way to building a solid alliance with Kian and his fae army.

The summit for the light and dark elves was only a fortnight away, and Arne was still trying to convince their chosen human ambassador to come.

Layla Ironwood. The source of all his misery. He had gone straight to the Ironwood manor to try and fix the damage Arawan had caused. Having Layla call him a liar was like getting knifed in the chest. He had still refused to give up. There was only one small problem.

The woman wasgloriouslystubborn.

Arne had sent emails and text messages and had even tried calling her twice. He hadn't left a voice mail; hearing her voice on the recorded message had gutted him both times, and he had hung up before getting a word out.

Worry about it later,Arne scolded himself. He needed to focus. The paths of Yggdrasil seemed quiet and peaceful, but only fools would believe that. Usually, dead fools.

The rune on Arne's palm pulsed with power, and he opened the doorway it led him to. It revealed a dark staircase. He rested a hand on the hilt of his dagger and stepped through the door.

In the pitch black, he placed his sigil-burned palm on the cold stone wall, and pale crystals hanging from the roof lit up at once. They were mixed with sharp stalagmites that would fall on trespassers who didn’t wear the rune of passage.

How he was in a cave and walking a path twisted with the roots of the World Tree was one of Yggdrasil's many mysteries that he refused to think about too hard.

The elves were all born with an innate sense and acceptance of magic around them. They could feel it in the elements and in others. They could bend and twist that magic to shape the world around them.

There was some magic that not even the elves could fight, and as he reached the bottom of the path, he prepared himself to face it.

The power of the Norns hit Arne first. It was a rolling, pulsing thrum like he was standing inside a thunderclap. His palm was burning, but he didn't stop walking. He passed through a carved stone archway and stopped by a deep, black pool.

Twisted roots framed and dipped into the pool, and he didn't dare look into its inky depths in case it looked back. The chamber was lit with more glowing crystals. There were no fires in that place, but it wasn't cold. The air was warm, moist, and laden with so much magic that he could taste it on his tongue.

---