Chapter 33 Svenn
Something changes.
Finnbheara jerks as though something has struck him. His hand tightens around Rhianelle’s and all the color drains from his face. His eyes widen, fixed on something far beyond the ravine.
I feel it too. Not in my body, but in that hidden place where magic gathers and power answers power.
Something vast gives way.
The force of it rolls through me like a dam bursting, releasing everything trapped behind it. It feels like thousands of prison doors swinging open at once.
Thousands of them. Tens of thousands.
The souls of beings that were trapped, sealed, and imprisoned are now released all at once. A flood of power makes the air shimmer.
Astefar.
The seal on Astefar is broken.
Around me, others are feeling it too. Bas staggers, his ancient vampire senses overwhelmed. Shade grabs onto the wolf for support and Garrett curses. Hrolf’s eyes go wide. Even the soldiers around us feel something.
A shift in the world.
“The forest,” Blaire whispers. Her voice carries through the sudden silence, thin with disbelief. “The seal is lifting.”
She stares toward the west, where Astefar lies hidden in shadow and mist. In the rift below, Finnbheara is still holding Rhianelle’s hand.
“Did you—” Finnbheara swallows, struggling to force the words out. “Did you know what you just did?”
Rhianelle doesn’t answer immediately. She simply looks at him with those calm lilac eyes.
“The seal on Astefar,” Finnbheara continues, his voice rising. “It’s broken and all the things that were trapped there, all the monsters, all the gods, all the Un, they’re free. They’re—”
He stares at her hand still clasped in his.
“The creatures of Astefar,” Finnbheara says, his voice barely above a whisper. “You freed them. Everything Casimir locked away.”
“Yes. They can go where they want. Be what they want. Casimir sealed the ancient fae in Astefar and created a curse that lasted for thousands of years,” Rhianelle says.
Finnbheara’s face goes white. “You know. You’ve always known.”
He stares at her like he’s seeing her for the first time. “This serves you no advantage. Why would you do that?”
“Because it was wrong to keep them locked against their will,” Rhianelle says simply. “It was wrong when Casimir did it and it would be wrong for me to continue it.”
A roar tears across the sky.
Every head in the ravine snaps upward. The creatures come from the west. Some fly on wings of smoke and flame. Others drift through the air without wings at all, their bodies formed from darkness like Coinneach.
The first one drops out of the sky like a falling star, trailing fire. It lands at the edge of the ravine and the ground shakes. It stands twice the height of a man, its body made entirely of flame, embers drifting from its shoulders like ash from a bonfire. The soldiers nearest it scatter.
The second comes from the shadows. It moves like Coinneach moves, darkness folding around a shape that is almost but not quite a body. It flows down the ravine wall and pools at the bottom, reforming into something vast and many-limbed.
Then more. A creature of bone and deep water.
Something winged and eyeless that makes no sound when it lands.
One by one they come, settling around the ravine’s edge.
The soldiers retreat as far as the ravine walls allow.
Elves and fae press together without caring which army the person beside them belongs to.
Weapons rise, but every hand holding one trembles.
The ancient creatures pay them no attention. They turn toward Finnbheara. One after another, they kneel. Even the shadow beast bows until its monstrous head nearly touches the ground.
“We remember the old pacts,” the fire creature says. “We recognize the blood of the Wild Hunt. We offer our strength to the new King of the Fae.”
Finnbheara stares at the creatures gathering before him. More shapes continue to circle overhead while others crawl from newly opened rents in the earth. Hundreds already. Perhaps thousands still coming.
“You have our loyalty,” the shadow creature rasps. “Call upon your army in Astefar and we will answer.”
A long-limbed creature unfolds itself from the shadows. Its body is covered in wet black feathers, but beneath them I catch glimpses of pale skin stretched over too many joints. Its face is smooth and eyeless, split only by a narrow mouth filled with needle-thin teeth.
“A warning, my king,” it whispers. “The little elven rat is beloved among the dwellers of Astefar. She fed the hungry, healed the wounded, and befriended things wiser creatures fled from.”
Its sightless face turns toward Rhianelle.
“Many would fight for her. Even the Unyieldings welcomed her among them.” It lowers its voice as though sharing a secret, though every person in the ravine can hear it.
A larger creature beside it turns its massive head toward Finnbheara. “Do not worry, new king. Our loyalty is yours. We are hungry and your enemies have flesh.”
The host of Astefar answers with growls, shrieks, and roars that shake loose stones from the ravine walls. Soldiers recoil, and somewhere behind me, someone begins to pray.
“Whatever path you choose, we are bound to follow,” the larger creature says.
Finnbheara looks over his new army and begins to laugh. The sound starts quietly, then rises until it echoes through the ravine. There is something wild in it that reminds me too much of his father.
He turns back to Rhianelle with a cruel smile.
“We could destroy you now,” Finnbheara says, spreading his hands as though presenting her with a gift.
The creatures behind him snarl their agreement, several openly promising blood and slaughter. They’re begging to be unleashed.
I look at Rhianelle.
She does not tremble. Little fawn stands before the king and his nightmares without the slightest trace of fear.
“I could kill you right now,” Finnbheara says, leaning closer. “I could march on Aelfheim tomorrow with my full army and face no resistance.”
Rhianelle meets his eyes, calm and unafraid.
“Yes, you could,” Rhianelle agrees. “But I hope you won’t.”
Oh, little fawn. Coinneach lowers his head and covers his face with one hand.
Garrett’s shoulders sag. Rainer closes his eyes as if he cannot bear to watch, while Hrolf mutters something beneath his breath. Even Bas looks at Rhianelle with the weary pity reserved for someone far too gentle for the world she inhabits.
A few generals among the fae infantry exchange amused glances. One of them snickers openly, shaking his head at the foolish elven queen who has placed her life in the hands of an enemy.
Hope.
The belief that people might choose peace over destruction. Simple, naive, and impossible.
Everyone else appears to think she has made a terrible mistake. I think so too. But then I look at Finnbheara.
The cruel amusement vanishes from his face. His eyes remain fixed on Rhianelle, and his throat moves as he swallows. He looks almost shaken.
The fae king stares at my little fawn, who just bet everything, her kingdom, her people, and her life, on hope. Rhianelle gave Finnbheara everything and trusted him.
Finnbheara releases her hand carefully. He looks up at the assembled armies on both sides of the ravine. Thousands of soldiers watching and holding their breath.
“By my bond with the Wild Hunt and by everything I hold sacred, no fae under my rule shall raise a weapon against the people of Aelfheim for so long as the elves offer us the same peace.”
He lifts his chin, looking across the gathered host.
“The treaty stands. Any who violate it will answer to me.”
The creatures of Astefar bow as one. Flames bend low. Shadow beasts flatten themselves against the earth, and the winged horrors circling overhead dip their monstrous heads in obedience.
He turns slightly, addressing both armies now. “This war has taken enough from all of us,” he continues. “Gather your wounded. Bury your dead. Return to your homes. The war is over.”
For one suspended heartbeat, no one reacts.
Then a roar erupts from the ravine. Fae soldiers strike their weapons against their shields while others throw their fists into the air.
Orcs and dwarves stamp their boots until the ground trembles, and even some of Astefar’s creatures raise their voices in a terrible celebration that shakes the air.
On the elf side, the reaction is quieter and more stunned. They can’t quite believe what just happened. Their queen challenged a fae prince, nearly died, and somehow impossibly won. Not through strength or devastating power.
Through hope.
Finnbheara looks at Landon. “Herald. Witness this. Let it be known that on this day, in this place, peace was chosen freely by both sides.”
“Not your herald yet, but it is recorded,” Landon says, his voice formal but his eyes bright. “Let the histories remember.”
Finnbheara nods once. Then he turns and walks toward the edge of the circle where Sanguisyl waits. The massive red wyvern is still staring at Coral. Finnbheara climbs onto his wyvern’s back and settles into the saddle. He looks back one more time at the circle, at Rhianelle.
“I’ll send formal terms within the week,” he promises her. “Agreements and proper negotiations. But the war, the war is done.”
“Thank you,” Rhianelle says quietly.
Finnbheara doesn’t respond. He gathers Sanguisyl’s reins and pats the red wyvern’s neck.
“Let’s go home,” he says, then glances toward Landon. “You too, Landon.”
Landon shakes his head. “I’ll join you shortly.”
Sanguisyl spreads his injured wings. The torn membranes tremble with the effort as he lowers his body and prepares to launch. Before he can push away from the ground, his great head turns toward Coral one final time.
The small pale wyvern chirps and paws at the dirt. Coral has not realized the fight is over. She lowers her head as if she is still prepared to charge him.
You better run.
Sanguisyl answers with a low, rumbling call. I cannot tell whether it is a promise or a goodbye. Coral tilts her head, clearly understanding none of it.
The red wyvern surges forward and launches himself from the ravine.
His battered wings catch the wind, each powerful beat carrying him higher despite his injuries.
Finnbheara rises with him until king and wyvern become a dark shape against the morning sky, flying toward Avalon and the fae lands beyond.
Landon watches them disappear before crossing the circle toward Rhianelle. Hrolf’s Starfall sword lies near the broken line of ash. He retrieves it and presents it to her with both hands.
“Your Highness.”
Rhianelle accepts the weapon. Before she can withdraw her hand, Landon bows and presses a kiss to her knuckles. A faint golden light passes from his lips into her skin, so subtle that I almost miss it. Some of the strain leaves her face, and her injured leg steadies beneath her.
He has healed her. Not completely, but enough to keep her standing.
“Until we meet again,” Landon says.
Rhianelle plants the sword point-first into the earth and leans against the hilt, using the blade as a crutch. “Goodbye, Landon. Thank you for everything.”
He steps away and disappears into the retreating fae ranks.
The remaining forces begin to withdraw. Fae banners turn toward the road to Avalon as the ancient creatures of Astefar follow their new king into the west. The dwarves come next, their enormous war machines groaning as they pivot and begin the long journey back toward the mountains.
The Demon lord, Kheirall pauses before leaving. His dark gaze settles on Rhianelle. He gives her a single respectful nod. She returns it softly.
The orcs disperse in smaller groups, some following the fae and others heading in their own directions. King Mavren and Prince Vayne exchange one long look, a conversation without words before separating. The battlefield empties gradually like a tide retreating.
Through it all, Rhianelle stands in her battered armor, her weight on Hrolf’s sword. The barely-healed shin threatens to give out. Her injured leg keeps shaking beneath her. Still, she stands with her head high, her back straight, every inch the queen.
Because the armies are still dispersing and watching. She can’t, won’t show weakness now. Not until they’re gone and it’s safe.
Coinneach slips away from me. He’s there beside her. The shadow holds her up, keeping her from falling.
Thank you, I say to him.
When the last soldier turns, Rhianelle finally allows herself to waver. Her legs start to give out. The strength that’s been holding her up begins to crumble.
My shadows tear free. Wings unfurl from my back and carry me over the edge of the ravine, down toward the broken circle and the girl struggling to remain on her feet. I land beside her as her knees begin to buckle.
“It’s all right,” I say as I reach her. “You can let go now.”
She looks at me, those lilac eyes wet with tears she hasn’t allowed herself to shed.
“You did it,” I tell her, pulling her close. I gather her against my chest and take her full weight before her legs can fail. One arm wraps around her waist while the other cradles the back of her head. “They’re all going home. You stopped the war.”
Fate was right after all. It was Rhianelle and Landon who ended this war.
The sword falls from her hand and clatters to the ground. She crashes into me. All the strength and desperate will that kept her standing are gone.
I catch her and lower us both to the ground. Rhianelle is sobbing now. Great, heaving sobs that shake her entire frame. Her hands clutch at my cloak and she presses her face against my chest.
“I was so scared,” she gasps between sobs. “I was so scared, Svenn. I thought Finnbheara was going to kill me.”
He would have.
“I’m so tired,” she whispers. “Svenn, I’m so, so tired.”
“I know,” I say again. “I know, my love. You can rest now.”
Around us, I hear footsteps. Our friends are approaching. Aelfric. Rainer. Bas. Garrett. Shade. Blaire. Hrolf. All of them coming to help, to support and carry their queen home.
But in this brief moment, it’s just us. Two people who crossed death itself to be together.
I hold her as the sun climbs higher above the ravine.
Its light spills across the ruined battlefield, touching broken weapons and abandoned banners.
The shadows of war retreat beneath the new morning.
Rhianelle lifts her tear-streaked face toward the warmth.
Her eyes close and her body softens against mine.
Against all odds, my little fawn did it.