Chapter 28 Svenn
We pass over the battlefield and the devastation below tears the breath from my lungs.
I’ve lived through centuries of war. This is nothing new to me. I’ve walked through fields of the dead and through cities burned to ash.
But I know this is a first for Rhianelle. I watch her face as she takes in the scene below. Grief washes over her features. Her eyes go wide and her mouth parts on a silent breath. Even from here, I can see the tremor running through her.
She’s seeing her kingdom die.
I follow her gaze downward.
The battlefield stretches for miles. What was once probably farmland or forest is now churned into mud. The ground is covered with bodies. Elven silver armor lies mixed with fae scarlet, orcish iron, and dwarven steel.
No one is winning.
Fires burn everywhere as the few remaining wyverns on both sides breathe flames indiscriminately, setting friend and foe alike ablaze.
The screaming reaches us even up here. A constant roar of agony, rage, and terror.
I see Blaire.
She’s on the front lines, fighting desperately. Her armor is stained red. She’s not wielding a weapon. Instead, she’s using her borrowed magic to create shields of light, protecting clusters of elven soldiers from incoming arrows.
The girl is exhausted. I can see it in the way her shields flicker. A fae arrow punches through, striking an elf in the chest. She can’t keep this up much longer.
Vayne, the orc prince who pledged his allegiance to Aelfheim, is on the front line too. Mavren Aeldrath Malgorth fights him with his blade raised. The Orc King of Myrkheim.
They’re dueling. I know Vayne is a skilled fighter. I fought him once in Tavan. But Mavren is bigger. Blood streams down Vayne’s face from a cut across his forehead. His armor is dented and his movements slowing. The watching orcs cheer for them.
My gaze shifts again, drawn by a familiar scent.
Lady Siofra. The elven lady who trained Coral. Who stood as Rhianelle’s protector, her mentor, her friend. She’s on the ground and she’s not moving. Arrows bristle from her back, her beautiful hair matted with blood and mud. Beside her is Darstan. The taciturn knight who rarely spoke.
Darstan is gone too, with just as many arrows in him.
They fell together, it seems. Their hands are clasped together, fingers intertwined.
They must have been on the front line and the first ones hit when the assault began.
Even at the end, neither abandoned the other.
They held the line for the kingdom they had sworn to defend and met death hand in hand.
I hear a broken, wounded sound.
Rhianelle.
She’s seen them. Her face crumples, and tears stream down her cheeks, whipped away by the wind almost as soon as they fall.
“No,” she whispers. “No, no, no...”
But there’s more. I see Landon’s legion. The warriors who followed him from the Fae Kingdom. They’re fighting for Aelfheim. The wyvern riders are defending elven soldiers and covering retreats. But it has cost them.
So many of them are dead. Their bodies scattered across the field along with their wyverns.
This is a fucking slaughter.
I look back at Rhianelle. Tears streak her face, and her lips move around words. The wind steals them before I can hear. Prayers, perhaps. Or apologies to every soul she believes she failed to save. This is the weight she carries on those small shoulders.
She’s about to walk into a parley with the prince commanding the forces doing this, and beg him to stop.
Landon was right. It’s impossible. But I understand now why she has to try.
Dorcha banks left, heading toward the largest concentration of fae forces where Finnbheara must be. I follow on shadow wings into the heart of the enemy.
We don’t have to search for Prince Finnbheara. He finds us. A massive shape bursts through the smoke ahead, red scales gleaming like blood in the firelight.
Sanguisyl.
Finnbheara’s wyvern. The beast that makes even Dorcha look small by comparison. The red wyvern is a monster. Scars crisscross his scales, old wounds from a lifetime of battle.
I’ve only seen the prince once before. He is tall and lean, with dark hair swept back from a face carved into severe lines. Nothing about him is soft. Black-and-silver armor covers him from throat to heel, marked by soot and fresh blood. But his eyes are ancient. Hard. Unforgiving.
Sanguisyl circles us, forcing Dorcha to adjust her flight path. The red wyvern makes a low, threatening sound. It’s a warning to the smaller dark emerald wyvern to submit. Dorcha snarls back but doesn’t challenge. Finnbheara’s eyes lock onto Landon first and his expression softens, just slightly.
“Landon, I thought you’d fallen,” he says, his gaze dropping to the empty space where Landon’s right arm should be. Something shifts in his face before the coldness returns.
“I nearly did,” Landon replies. “Your father saw to that.”
Before Finnbheara can answer, another wyvern glides out of the smoke behind Sanguisyl.
Smaller, but still built for war. Its rider keeps close to the prince’s flank, his assessing gaze moving over each of us.
Judging by the way he positions himself between his prince and any threat, he must be Finnbheara’s second-in-command.
The prince’s jaw tightens. “My father’s presence is gone. I know you and your new companions had something to do with it.”
“We didn’t kill him,” Landon says quickly.
“Then where is he?” Finnbheara’s voice rises. “What did you do with the king?”
“The Fae King is not dead,” Rhianelle speaks up and Finnbheara’s eyes snap to her for the first time. His face goes cold and murderous.
“Rhianelle Wiolant, the Elven Queen. You have some nerve showing your face in front of me,” he breathes. His gaze cuts back to Landon. “You keep strange company these days, old friend.”
“Your father is alive,” Rhianelle says calmly, unmoved by the hatred in his stare. “He was sent into another realm by the Unyieldings.”
Finnbheara’s eyes narrow. He exchanges a brief look with the warrior at his flank, a silent conversation passing between them. “And you expect me to believe that?”
“Rhianelle had nothing to do with it,” Landon says. “I swear it on the Hunt, Finn. She did not harm your father.”
Finnbheara scoffs, but some of the murderous tension leaves his face.
“The Elven Queen of Aelfheim wishes to speak,” Landon adds. “Please, Finn. Hear her.”
Finnbheara stares at Landon for a long moment.
“For you, I’m willing to hear what she has to say,” he says, his cultured voice carrying easily over the wind, refined even with anger sharpening every word. His gaze cuts to Rhianelle. “That does not mean I will believe whatever poison comes from her mouth.”
The longer this fae prince speaks to Rhianelle, the more I want to tear him from his saddle. Let’s see how refined he sounds with my hand around his throat.
“Thank you for hearing me out. That's all I ask,” Rhianelle says. “Prince Finnbheara, I request parley. Let us find a way to end this without more bloodshed.”
Finnbheara looks at her like she’s speaking another language.
“Parley?” Disbelief twists across his face before fury consumes it. “You believe there is still something left to negotiate after all the blood spilled today?”
Sanguisyl feels the change in his rider. The red wyvern’s wings snap wider, and a growl rolls from his chest with enough force to vibrate through the air between us. Smoke curls from his nostrils as he bares his teeth at Dorcha.
“My father is gone,” Finnbheara says, each word louder than the last. “My warriors are dead. The ground below us is drowning in fae blood, and you come before me asking for peace?”
His second-in-command shifts closer, watching the prince carefully, but makes no attempt to calm him.
“There will be no parley. This ends when every elf in Aelfheim is dead or bound in chains. When your kingdom is ash and your people finally understand what it costs to defy Avalon.”
For the first time, I see the king he might become. Not the grieving son or Landon’s old friend, but something colder, raised on conquest and ancient pride. The wind tears at his dark hair and Finnbheara looks every inch the Fae King already.
He gives a slow, final shake of his head.
“Then I challenge you to an Oryth rite,” Rhianelle says.
Landon goes deathly pale. His remaining hand tightens around Dorcha’s harness, and for one terrible moment I think his injuries have finally caught up with him.
I look between them, waiting for Balthazar’s cursed necklace to explain what has just happened. It takes its sweet fucking time. Then the meaning settles into my mind.
Finnbheara goes still. “What did you say?”
“I challenge you,” Rhianelle repeats, louder now. “By the old laws and the blood of the Firstborns who walked these lands. I, Rhianelle Wiolant, Queen of Aelfheim, challenge you, Finnbheara, Prince of the Fae, to the sacred trial of Oryth. The winner decides the fate of both our peoples.”
Fear claws through me before I can stop it. I have watched Rhianelle face gods, death, and monsters, but Finnbheara is a warrior forged by centuries of battle. Every instinct in me demands that I drag her away and take her place.
I force my hands to unclench.
Rhianelle knows what she is doing. She has to.
Finnbheara stares at her. Then he starts laughing.
“You want to fight me?” he says between laughs. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for your vampire companion to issue the challenge? He’s a warrior, a creature of darkness and violence. At least that would be a fair fight.”
“The challenge is mine,” Rhianelle says. “Not his.”
Finnbheara’s laughter dies. “Do you even understand what you’re proposing? Do you understand what a trial by Oryth means?”
Rhianelle nods firmly.
“Tell me what you think you’re agreeing to,” Finnbheara demands.
“We fight in a circle of ash.” Rhianelle’s voice doesn’t waver. “The circle binds us. Neither can leave until one of us is dead. No surrender, no mercy, and no escape.”