Eternal Lullaby (Elven Fantasy Romance #4)

Prologue Landon

I am late.

The great horn of Mordun has already sounded thrice, calling the war council to order. Yet I am still circling the outer border of the city like a novice rider who can't find his landing.

Avalon sprawls across the valley below us, more beautiful than any other city on the continent. It sits in the middle of untamed forest like a sparkling jewel. Even from this height, I can see the bustle of people below.

War is coming. Everyone knows it. The only question is when.

"Down," I murmur to my wyvern.

Dorcha snorts once, steam pouring from her nostrils before obeying.

I can feel her irritation through our bond.

She hates being late as much as I do, though for different reasons.

For me it's the growing certainty that decisions are being made without my counsel.

For her it's a matter of pride and precedence among her kind.

My wyvern's wings beat thunder into the sky as we land. Her emerald scales have taken on the darker hue of her surroundings. The natural camouflage marks her as one of the wyverns of the northern reaches.

Other mounts have already settled on their perches in the Grand Aerie.

The massive beasts are arranged in careful hierarchy.

Closest to the central platform crouches the Fae King's own mount, the Nythe.

Wisps of shadow-flame curl from his nostrils.

Lesser drakes and wyverns of the court arrange themselves in concentric circles around him, their riders long since departed for the council chambers.

Dorcha settles onto her designated perch, her claws scraping against the ancient stonework carved with protective runes.

A stablehand approaches with iron fetters dangling from his belt. Standard practice in the Palace of Bones, despite the fact that no restraint has ever held a wyvern intent on freedom.

"Careful," I say, unbuckling the last of Dorcha's saddle straps. "Try to chain her and you may lose your hands."

He freezes mid-step. Smart boy.

Dorcha shifts her weight and fixes one massive golden eye on him. I feel her amusement ripple through our bond. She enjoys terrifying the fragile ones. I slide down from her back, my boots hitting stone still warm from her landing.

"She drinks spring water, not well water," I continue, gathering the braided leather leads. "Two mousedeers only, despite whatever tragic performance she gives you."

The boy takes a step back. He's young, barely past his first century. There's a brightness in his eyes, a clarity untouched by the weight of blood or loss. He must have been born in gentler times.

"Don't cower," I tell him, keeping my voice level. "She'll consider you prey if you do. It's a game to her. Don't fall for it."

His throat bobs as he swallows, but he straightens his spine. "Yes, Commander."

I turn away, already hearing him whisper prayers under his breath as Dorcha snarls at him again.

Be kind, I send through our bond.

Her response is the mental equivalent of a shrug. He smells like rabbits.

I leave them to sort it out and stride toward the archway. The Grand Aerie opens directly into the Court of Nightmare, the great circular chamber where the Fae King holds his most important councils.

Pillars of twisted bone rise to support the vaulted ceiling, ribs torn from the last great dragon. Walls of ancient oak stand beside them. These trees had been singing their slow songs since before the first mortal drew breath.

The air grows colder as I descend, the warmth of the Aerie fading with each step down the spiral stairs. Black banners hang heavy from the vaulted ceiling, embroidered with red roses and silver thorns. The King's sigil is a constant reminder of whose domain this is.

I reach the final step and the doors to the war room groan open ahead of me.

They are all here.

The Masters of the Hunt.

At the chamber’s heart rests the Obsidian Throne, carved from a single piece of volcanic glass. Upon it sits the old wolf himself—Eirik Bloodhound, Eternal Ruler of the Seven Realms.

His ageless features are hewn sharp as winter, his eyes as fathomless as the sea. Power cascades from him in waves. But it's the woman beside him that makes my skin crawl.

Morgaine, his mistress and advisor. She is perhaps the most beautiful creature in a court renowned for its beauty. Yet something about her sets every instinct I have on edge. She doesn't belong in this court, perhaps not in this realm at all. A blade disguised as a rose.

The delegation from Darvan occupies the eastern arc of the circle, their representatives resplendent in the finest craftsmanship their mountain forges can produce.

Lord Thane presides over them. His ceremonial armor is a masterwork of overlapping scales and his braided beard adorned with rings of mithril and gems. The runes tattooed across his massive forearms mark his mastery over iron and flame.

Opposite them are the Orkan Warchiefs, the proud warrior-nobles of Myrkheim's clans.

King Mavren Aldrath Margoth stands nearly eight feet tall, his skin bearing the ritual scars of a dozen campaigns.

His axes are capped with silver along with his armor, courtesy of the Dwarven smiths.

Beside him stands Warchief Urzak Bloodfang with his massive war-hammer resting against his shoulder.

The fae lords and nobles complete the circle.

Lord Cassius of the Eastern Reach, whose lands sit closest to the elven border.

Lady Sylvie with her network of spies that reaches into every court on the continent.

And Lord Ulrie the Cruel, our aerial commander, wings folded behind him like a second shadow.

Prince Finnbheara stands among the younger fae nobles.

My friend, my brother in everything else but blood.

His eyes find mine across the chamber, and relief flickers behind the mask of boredom before he smooths it away.

If anyone in this council understands the weight of the words I will soon speak, it will be him.

Beyond him stands a stranger veiled in shadow and silk. A demoness from Hel, here on behalf of Kheirall Balthazar.

All of them are here. Every power that matters.

It seems I have arrived in the middle of the storm.

"Aye," Master Thane rumbles, stroking his beard. "My forges have been working day and night. We've enough dragoniron spears to arm three legions. The new weapon can punch through elven ward-shields like parchment."

Lord Grimmward leans forward. "If the rebels in Tavan do their job, half the elven garrison will be dead before we even arrive. My warriors mass at the borders, ready to pour through the moment you give the word."

"The sea assault is prepared as well," Lady Fireren, the selkie, adds.

Her mouth doesn't move, yet her voice somehow comes from multiple directions at once.

She touches the seal skin draped on her shoulders to speak to our minds again.

"Seventeen of the great serpents have answered our call.

The seadragons remember when the elves hunted them for sport.

They remember and they hunger for vengeance. "

Urzak of Myrkheim shifts, bone tokens clacking on his belt. His leather tabard is streaked with stains too dark to be anything but blood. "I hear Commander Ksatka is back in the Deep Channels."

The selkie nods, a slight smile touching her lips. "She has her seadragons positioned and ready. The elven coastal defenses won't know what hit them."

"The attack will be glorious," Lord Theron says, raising his cup toward the ceiling like he was already toasting the aftermath. He is one of the few pure-blooded fae lords who still holds Eirik's ear.

Glorious?

Those who called war glorious had never watched it up close.

"Landon of the Northern Reaches graces us with his presence at last," King Eirik's voice carries across the chamber.

The assembled council turns toward me and I feel the weight of dozens of powerful gazes. "Your timing is fortuitous. We are just discussing the final preparations for our campaign against Aelfheim."

"My apologies, Your Majesty." I incline my head in respect. "The shadow-storms over the Whispering Peaks delayed our flight."

"No matter," the king waves a dismissive hand. "Urzak was just explaining his tactical assessments."

I slip into the chamber as quietly as possible, but every eye tracks my movement.

The stone floor seems to amplify each footfall as I make my way to the raised seats where the king's inner circle sits.

Finn watches my approach with one elegant eyebrow raised, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"You're late," he murmurs as I take my place beside him.

"Discussions with the rebels ran long," I mutter back, keeping my voice low.

A chuckle cracks his mask of amusement, brief but genuine. Then his attention returns to the chamber floor where General Urzak holds court.

"The elven lands are ripe for conquest, Your Majesty," the general continues. "Our scouts report their armies scattered, dealing with uprisings in their outer provinces. Their western settlements will fall within days."

Murmurs of approval ripple through the assembly. I scan the faces around the Obsidian Throne. Morgaine stands closest to the king, her crimson eyes bright with excitement as she nods along.

Lord Kael straightens in his seat. "And the coastal defenses? Volundr's naval fleet is formidable. Their weaponry is unlike anything we've encountered."

A few council members shift uncomfortably.

"Not to mention an attack on Volundr means war with Kashran as well. The Elven Queen carries Kashran blood through her mother. That alliance runs deep. They will come to her aid."

Lady Fireren rises from her seat. Her smile reveals rows of needle-sharp teeth. "All the seadragons of the Varan Trenches have pledged their aid, Your Majesty. Our leviathan Lady Ksatka herself has sworn to lead them."