Chapter 2 Svenn
They call this place Lysander’s Crossing, though the name feels too gentle for what it truly is.
It is where the last fire drake fell and cursed the land with its dying breath.
Nothing lives or grows here. The ground is scorched black and the air tastes of ash even centuries after the beast’s final scream.
Perfect for meetings between those who trust each other as much as wolves trust sheep.
The neutral ground has hosted countless negotiations over the millennia. Statues of long-forgotten gods watch over the proceedings with hollow eyes, their features worn smooth by wind and time.
From my position in the shadows between two towering oaks at the edge of the clearing, I watch the elven delegation arrange themselves across the space below. The trees are ancient, their branches thick enough to conceal my frame while offering clear sightlines to everything that matters.
Rhianelle stands at the center of the formation in midnight blue silk.
The sunlight that streams through the clouds seems to favor my wife above all others, transforming her silver hair into a luminous cascade.
Delicate silver chains adorn her ears in the traditional style of elven royalty, swaying gently when she turns her head to speak with her advisors.
My fangs ache with the need to be closer, to position myself between her and what comes from the north. But we agreed I would watch from afar.
Seneschal Kearne stands to her right, his weathered face bearing the scars of a dozen campaigns, his dark gray hair pulled back.
Behind him, the elven council of Aldarelfs clusters in their formal robes along with delegations of the Aeonians.
Three governing bodies for one kingdom. A pointless and unnecessary tangle of governance that slows every decision to a crawl.
I recognize a few faces. Lady Tierra with her sharp cheekbones and sharper tongue. Lord Ctibor, who never met an issue he didn’t want to complicate. Lord Nemarion, perpetually scowling as if the world personally offends him.
The prisoners stand in carefully guarded formation between the two delegations.
These were captives of the orc rebels, freed when the elves retook Tavan and Celestria.
The fae nobles sit comfortably despite their ankle chains, their postures relaxed as if being captured is merely an inconvenience.
Orkan warriors from Myrkheim remain silent and watchful while the dwarven lords of Darvan hold themselves upright with the stoic endurance of their kind.
Hrolf is not among them. I noticed his absence immediately.
Movement in the southern sky draws my gaze from my wife.
The fae delegation approaches on wings of death and shadow.
Their wyverns descend from the clouds like great birds of prey.
Scales of midnight black cover their serpentine bodies.
Each creature is a vision of beauty, their vast leathery wings casting the ground in living night.
Even the bravest elven soldiers blanch at the sight of those steel-rending talons.
Prince Finnbheara leads the aerial procession on a magnificent beast that dwarfs even its companions. Sanguisyl the Red Rain. The wyvern’s scarlet scales gleam like freshly spilled blood. He must be forty feet of muscle and malice from snout to tail.
When he lands, the ground shudders. Dust rises in choking clouds. Several of the elven guards stumble backward.
The prince himself dismounts with practiced ease, sliding from the saddle as if he’s done it a thousand times. Power bleeds from him in waves. This is what the fae truly are beneath their glamours. Beautiful and terrible.
A band of white gold sits on the prince’s obsidian hair.
I recognize the craftsmanship of the ancient dwarven smiths.
Behind him, six more wyverns descend in formation, their wingbeats creating thunderous crashes of air that send tremors through the ground.
Their riders wear burnished silver breastplates etched with thorned roses, the insignia of Eirik Bloodhound’s army. These are warriors, not emissaries.
Every predatory instinct in me screams at the proximity of these creatures to my wife. The rational part of my mind struggles to remember Rhianelle’s assurances.
This is a parley. No kingdom has ever broken such an oath.
If those wyverns make one threatening move toward her, I will cross the clearing before their riders can scream.
Prince Finnbheara strides forward with the grace that marks all his kind. The orcs maintain their stoic silence, but the fae prisoners cannot hide their relief at seeing their prince arrive. One of them straightens in his chains, hope flickering across his face.
Rhianelle lowers her head in a bow that acknowledges his royal status without diminishing her own. “Prince Finnbheara, you honor us with your presence,” she says politely.
“Queen Rhianelle of Aelfheim,” he responds, barely inclining his head to acknowledge her.
The fucker.
“The Court of Shadows extends its gratitude for your willingness to negotiate the return of our captured kinsmen.”
“Your kind words are appreciated, Prince Finnbheara.” Rhianelle’s voice is calm and even. “Though I notice your father didn’t come himself.”
A flicker of something crosses Finnbheara’s face. “The king has pressing matters that require his attention.”
“Of course.”
“Shall we discuss terms?” Finnbheara asks, recovering his composure. “I’ve brought the ransom—“
“No.”
Everyone turns to stare at my wife. Fae, elf, even the prisoners. The world seems to hold its breath.
Finnbheara tilts his head, confusion breaking through his careful mask. “No?”
“No terms or negotiations.” Rhianelle steps forward and I tense. “I’m releasing your prisoners. All of them, without condition.”
The fae prince stares at her as if she’s spoken in a language he doesn’t understand. Behind him, his retinue exchanges bewildered glances. One of them whispers something that gets cut off by a sharp gesture from Finnbheara.
“I confess myself uncertain of your meaning,” Finnbheara says carefully, an edge creeping into his voice.
“They will be returned with full honors, their weapons and personal effects restored.” Rhianelle’s posture shifts subtly. In that moment, she becomes every inch the queen of Aelfheim. “We will provide safe passage guaranteed to your borders.”
She pauses, letting her words settle over the assembly like snow.
Prince Finnbheara’s expression shifts. His dark eyes narrow slightly. “You would release them freely?”
“I would.”
One of Finnbheara’s retinue steps forward carrying an ornate chest carved from obsidian. “As a gesture of good faith, we offer a cask of our wine. It was aged in barrels carved from the heartwood of the First Tree,” the fae says.
I hear the sharp intake of breath from multiple councilors. Mortal legends say the fae brew grants visions of possible futures and halts aging for those who drink it. A single bottle would be worth a king’s ransom. An entire cask represents wealth beyond comprehension.
“Your generosity honors us, Prince Finnbheara. However, I must decline.” Rhianelle’s tone remains pleasant.
“We needed to root out the rebel orcs in Tavan and merely inherited the prisoners in the fortress,” Seneschal Kearne adds, his voice gruff but steady. “It is only right we return them to where they belong. The council has agreed to this.”
The council members nod in agreement, murmuring their support. But then Lord Duvall rises, his voice cold. “There is one prisoner who cannot be released.”
A hush falls over the clearing. Even the wind seems to pause.
“The dwarf Hrolf must remain in elven custody until the completion of his trial for the crimes he committed in Dunrovin,” Ctibor says, and I catch the subtle tension that runs through Rhianelle’s shoulders. She didn’t know about this.
They blindsided their own queen. I see it now in the rigid line of her spine.
“Hròlfr Dravorin son of Durakain remains our prisoner by separate decree,” Lord Ctibor continues, rising to stand beside Duvall. “His crimes are far too severe.”
Prince Finnbheara’s calm mask shatters, revealing something far more dangerous beneath. “That was not part of our agreement. The terms specified all prisoners would be released.”
“The terms did not account for war criminals and dwarven terrorists,” Duvall interjects smoothly. “The Butcher of Dunrovin stays.”
The prince’s hands clench at his sides. “You dare break faith at the moment of exchange? Under sacred truce?”
“We honor the truce by returning your people,” Ctibor responds. “The dwarf’s fate was sealed long before today.”
The careful diplomatic balance of the morning collapses into something far more dangerous. Behind the prince, the fae delegation shifts toward their weapons, hands hovering over hilts that could turn this parley into a bloodbath in seconds.
I’m already moving. If this goes wrong, I need to reach Rhianelle before the first blade clears its sheath.
But before violence erupts, something else seizes the assembly.
Sanguisyl. The massive wyvern raises his great head from where he had been resting beside his rider. He releases a loud roar. Blood-red scales along his neck begin to rise like hackles on an enraged wolf. His massive form coils and shifts with growing agitation, tail lashing back and forth.
“What madness is this?” Finnbheara mutters, his attention diverted from the prisoner dispute by his mount’s inexplicable behavior. “Sanguisyl, cease!”
But the great wyvern pays no heed to his rider’s words.
He takes a step forward and several elven council members scramble backward with undignified haste.
His massive head lowers until those predatory golden eyes are level with where Rhianelle stands.
A rumbling growl builds in his chest, low and threatening.
Seneschal Kearne interposes himself between the wyvern and his queen, sword already drawn. “Control your beast!” he snarls.