Prologue Landon #2
Lord Theron's eyes gleam with delight. "Splendid. We will strike from sky and sea simultaneously. Their coastal cities will burn while their inland fortresses face our wyvern-riders."
The excitement in the chamber is palpable. I can see it in their faces, the anticipation of conquest, the lust for battle and the certainty of victory.
The words are out before I can stop them. "You're all fools if you attack now."
The chamber falls silent. Every head turns toward me. Finnbheara goes very still beside me, and I feel the weight of his stare.
I have to speak. What I saw at Tavan changed everything.
"Before we commit our forces to this campaign, there is something you must know.
Something I witnessed at the ruins of Tavan earlier today.
" I turn to address the entire assembly, making sure my words carry to every corner of the chamber.
"I was returning from the negotiations with Akaloth when I came upon the battlefield. "
Theron's dark eyebrows rise slightly. "The orc rebellion in the western provinces? What concern is that of ours?"
"Victory was certain for the Orkan rebels. They outnumbered the elves and the fortress was impenetrable. Their mages had summoned creatures from the void realms to slaughter the elves. The rebels had already won."
I pause.
"Until the Elven Queen took the field."
Finnbheara straightens in his chair.
"A queen with silver hair and pale eyes. She spoke a single word and the fire came."
"You're mistaken," Morgaine denies, but uncertainty flickers in her eyes. "Our spies said the elven queen is a soft healer."
"What I saw was nothing of the kind." I meet each gaze in turn. "She walked through the battlefield like death itself. No arrow could touch her, and the very air bent to her will."
Murmurs ripple through the assembly.
"I watched from Dorcha's back." My jaw clenches at the memory. "The queen raised her hand just once and spoke a single word in the language of the First Ones. Every Orkan mage on that battlefield simply ceased to exist."
"Impossible," King Mavren hisses. "The battle-mages of Orkan are not so easily killed."
"They weren't easily killed," I agree with a sigh. "These were shamans who could split mountains, who wore bones of power passed down through generations. Yet she destroyed them with a gesture."
I can still see the moment in my mind. Their souls were unraveled like threads pulled from a tapestry. Six of the most powerful Orkan mages I have ever seen, reduced to empty air in the space of a heartbeat.
"She didn't just burn them," I say to the court. "She unmade them. Their skin melted from bone before they could scream."
Lord Kael speaks, his voice tight. "If what you say is true, that kind of power belongs to—"
"To the Firstborn, the Unyieldings," I finish darkly, my voice steady despite the tremor in my chest. "Power that was supposed to have disappeared during Casimir's conquest."
The silence now is heavier. Even Morgaine has stopped smiling. Several Fae Lords exchange troubled glances.
"You're suggesting that the Elven Queen possesses Firstborn magic?" the king says slowly, his voice carrying a dangerous edge.
"I'm not suggesting it, Your Majesty. I witnessed it." I meet his gaze directly. "The very air around her shimmered with power. Dorcha, who has faced leviathans and frost-giants, trembled beneath me like a newborn colt."
The silence stretches until Morgaine's laughter rings out. "But surely you don't expect us to abandon our plans based on a single display of elven theatrics?"
Her words break the spell of fear that has settled over the assembly.
Warchief Urzak steps forward. "The boy speaks of one elf-witch against our combined might. Even if she possesses such power, she is but one being. Our armies number in the tens of thousands."
"Aye," rumbles Thane Borin, though I notice his weathered hands tremble slightly. "My weapons are forged with protection runes."
But not all share their confidence. Lord Kael's silver tattoos swirl frantically across his pale skin. "The Ancient Ones are not to be taken lightly, Your Majesty. If Queen Rhianelle truly commands such power, perhaps we should reconsider our timeline."
The enchantress leans close to the king, her voice honey-laced with venom. "It's a trick, designed to delay your rightful conquest."
The king sits upon his throne of bone and iron, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"I know what I saw," I insist. "If you attack the elves thinking them weak, you march to your doom."
"Father, perhaps we should reconsider," Finnbheara says carefully. "If the queen truly wields ancient magic—"
"Reconsider?" Morgaine's eyes flash dangerously. "We have spent years preparing this alliance, gathering our strength while Aelfheim grows complacent. Their armies are scattered, their defenses weakened by internal strife. To delay now would be to throw away our greatest advantage."
I find my voice again, urgent with the need to make them understand. "And what advantage will we have against power that can unmake a dozen mages with a single word? Your Majesty, I counsel patience. We need time to study this threat and prepare proper countermeasures."
"You sound like a coward, Landon." Warchief Urzak laughs. "My warriors have faced demons and dragons. A little elven sorcery won't turn their hearts to water."
The chamber erupts into heated debate. Orkan war-chiefs pound fists on tables and roar for immediate blood, their voices drowning out the Avalon generals who try to argue for scouts and preparation time.
The dwarves fracture between those who trust their runecraft that has never failed them, and those who remember older songs with warnings about Astefar's ancient powers.
The noise builds until I can barely hear my own thoughts.
Through it all, Eirik Bloodhound sits silent upon his Obsidian Throne. Finally he raises a single hand. The chamber falls silent as if he has stolen the very air from our lungs.
"Enough," he dismisses. No one in the room dares to speak.
Prince Finnbheara breaks the silence. "Our herald speaks wisdom, Your Majesty. If even half of what he witnessed is true, we march not to conquest but to slaughter. If the elves have awakened the old magics—"
"You forget a crucial truth, my son." The king's voice is cold and final.
"We are not mere mortals to cower before ancient powers.
We are the inheritors of shadow and flame.
If the Elven Queen commands Firstborn magic, then let her.
We shall see how well such power serves her against the combined might of our alliance. "
He rises from his throne and the shadows seem to rise with him.
"The elves have held themselves above us for too long." His voice carries to every corner of the vast hall. "They name us lesser beings, monsters and savages. They cage us with their rules and their righteousness. No more."
The war-chiefs roar their approval. Morgaine's smile grows triumphant. But I see doubt in other faces. Kael, Finnbheara, and even King Mavren.
"There will be no parley. No treaties. Only ash." Eirik spreads his arms wide. "The elves will burn. Their time has ended and a new era begins. An era of shadow and fire."
The roar of approval that follows is deafening. Orcs beat their weapons against their shields and the dwarves stamp their iron-shod boots. Even the shadows on the walls seem to writhe in anticipation.
But I feel none of their joy or their hunger for battle.
"The Wild Hunt rides again," the Fae King declares.
Cheers and bloodlust fill the room.
At the center of the hall, the floor trembles at the king's summon. A circular platform rises from the depths, its ancient mechanisms groaning to life. Atop it rests a pedestal of black marble and upon that pedestal lies the Horn of Valdyr.
Bone-white, gleaming, and curved like a crescent moon. It was carved from the tusk of the first dragon to fall in the War of the First Age.
Eirik's cold eyes fix on me. "Sound the call, Herald."
For a heartbeat I do not move.
The command settles over the chamber like falling ash. Every gaze shifts toward me. Finnbheara's fingers tighten at his sides, just slightly, as if he means to step forward to object. His throat works. But no words come. The prince knows what this means.
Eirik does not look away. There will be no changing his mind. No stopping what comes next.
I force my feet to move.
Each step echoes too loudly against the stone, as though the chamber itself resists what I am about to do. I mount the shallow steps, aware of the silence pressing in from all sides.
The horn is colder than I expect.
It has not been sounded in three thousand years.
I lift it carefully from its cradle. The weight settles into my palms.
I turn and stride from the chamber. Finnbheara's eyes follow me, heavy with unspoken arguments. The council parts before me like a sea. I can feel their stares burning into my back.
The platform stretches before me, open to the storm-dark sky.
Rain begins to fall sharply against my face.
Thunder rumbles in the distance, or perhaps that's just the blood pounding in my ears.
I stand alone at the edge, rain soaking through my clothes.
The emptiness around me feels vast and terrible.
I think of silver hair and lilac eyes. My allies are so certain of victory, but none of them was there. They didn't see how she summoned the ancient fire and the air itself bent to her will. Doubt crashes over me like a wave.
But I am the Herald of the Wild Hunt. My king has given his command.
I raise the horn to my lips.
And I blow.
The sound that erupts is not music. It's a declaration and a promise of annihilation. The horn pulls the breath from my lungs and keeps pulling, drawing from somewhere deeper. I pour everything I have into it and it takes everything I give. My vision whites at the edges and the horn releases me.
I stagger, barely keeping my feet. My ears ring and my chest feels hollow, as if the horn has pulled something vital from inside me.
A blast surges outward in a rolling shockwave, rippling across mountains and seas. Stone trembles beneath my feet. The call does not fade long after I stop.
Silence falls and the world goes quiet.
Then the answers begin.
In the cold northern mountains, the dwarven lords are the first to respond. One by one, beacons flare to life on the summits of Darvan Mountain. I can see them from here, distant pinpricks of fire against the dark night.
Dorcha throws back her head and screams her answer to the sky. The other wyverns take up her call, and the palace shudders with it. Somewhere in the peaks of Ironwick, the rest of the Night Herons paint the horizon in blood and fury.
From the abyssal depths of the Varan Trenches, the seadragons respond. I feel them before I hear them, their call rolling up through bedrock and bone, carrying nothing but ruin.
Then Myrkheim answers along with Hel. Their war drums pounding like the heartbeat of a terrible beast.
One by one, the allies of the Fae King answer his summons.
"It's done," I whisper to the wind.
I stand frozen on the platform, the horn still clutched in my trembling hands as I watch the world prepare for war.
What have I done?
I've condemned us all.
Somewhere in the battlefield of Tavan, the silver-haired queen will hear this call and know that death is coming for her kingdom.
I return to the Court of Nightmare, drenched from head to toe. For a heartbeat no one in the chamber moves.
Then the Fae King strides toward me and claps a heavy hand against my back. "We ride for blood and vengeance."
His voice fills the chamber. Approval answers it, with cheers, the pound of fists against armor, and the scrape of steel against stone.
War banners are unfurled and messengers sprint from the hall before the echoes have faded, carrying word to every corner of the kingdom.
Centuries of waiting and these warriors have been starving for exactly this.
Cups are raised and drained and raised again.
First blood hasn't been shed in this war yet but they celebrate like their victory is carved on stone.
As the assembly begins to disperse into smaller groups to discuss tactical details, I remain frozen in place staring at the Obsidian Throne.
The king's arrogance will lead us all to slaughter.
Finnbheara falls into step beside me as the council begins to file out. Just before we pass beneath the archway, he catches my arm.
"You're certain of what you saw?" he whispers. "The elven queen has Firstborn magic?"
"I have never been more certain of anything in my life. She raised her hand and the flames answered her," I reply.
A slow tide of grey drains the warmth from his face.
"I heard this queen is different," he says after a moment. "She's not without sense. I hope she chooses peace."
Hope?
Something inside me hardens.
"That's na?ve, Finn," I say, pulling my arm free. "We just challenged a queen who commands the Unyieldings."
I resume walking, leaving him standing there with his fragile little hope clutched to his chest. The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh.
As if hope has ever shielded a kingdom from annihilation.
Well I hope it keeps him warm when the Unyieldings come through our lines.
We are marching to war against a power we don't understand, led by pride and blinded by ambition. Somewhere in Aelfheim, the silver-haired queen waits. Her ancient magic coils like a sleeping behemoth.
The taste of ash fills my mouth as I walk back to my wyvern.
Dorcha waits with restless wings on the landing platform. I take another look at the Palace of Bones against the dark sky.
Soon the slaughter will begin. I feel it in the very marrow of my being. Death approaches on swift wings and we're flying straight into its maw.