Chapter 3 Svenn
The predawn light filters through the curtains of our shared chambers. I watch Rhianelle sleep, her breathing soft and even. One hand curls beneath her cheek like a child’s.
Her eyes flutter open. Lilac meeting black.
She stretches and the sheets slip lower along her shoulders. My gaze betrays me for half a heartbeat. I drag it back to her face and anchor it there.
“How long have you been awake?” she asks.
“I don’t sleep, little fawn.”
“I know that.” She sits up, silver hair tumbling over her shoulders. “I meant how long have you been watching me like that?”
“Only a few hours.”
She laughs. The sound catches me off guard every time, bright and unguarded. It spills into the room like light through an open window. Something in my chest pulls tight around it.
Rhianelle reaches for the robe draped over the chair beside our bed and slips it around her shoulders.
The silk falls in pale folds as she crosses to the window.
Below us, the capital of Aelfheim spreads wide and silvered in the early light.
It’s still mostly dark, but I can see the first stirrings of activity in the streets.
“The Aldarelf council reached a decision yesterday,” she says quietly. “The Aeonian gave their blessing to sanction it.”
There’s a subtle weight to the words. I rise and join her, stopping close enough that the warmth of her body seeps through the thin silk of her robe. “What did they say?”
“They want to strike the rebel orcs at the southern border.” Her reflection in the glass looks tired. “But our army is already stretched thin with the impending war with Avalon. I don’t think it’s wise.”
“No. It isn’t.”
She turns to face me. “Even the capital itself is poorly equipped for war. We’re relying on the ancient wall King Casimir built. Volundr has a naval fleet, but not all the regions in Aelfheim are prepared for what’s coming.”
I can see the weight of it pressing down on her shoulders. The attacks from the rebel orcs are becoming more coordinated and brutal.
I move to her desk and place something small on the polished wood.
“What’s this?” She crosses to look.
The metal butterfly sits there, wings spread. Hrolf’s work. Simple but perfect.
She picks it up. The wings flutter at her touch, moved by some mechanism the dwarf built into the joints. Her smile is bright enough to make me want to burn the world that ever dimmed it.
“It’s beautiful.”
I lean down to kiss her neck, inhaling her scent. Water lily and sunlight. “What are you writing?”
There’s parchment scattered across her desk. Her neat script covers most of it.
“A note of gratitude for the kitchen staff. They’ve been working extra hours with all the refugees from the border towns.”
Of course. She’s always thinking of others.
“Svenn?” She turns to look at me, those lilac eyes seeing too much as always. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, little fawn.”
She studies my face for another moment, then sets the butterfly down carefully. “You’re planning something. Something I won’t like.”
I cup her face, running my thumb along her cheekbone. “Would you like to go see Coral?”
Her expression softens immediately. “You’re using her to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
She rises on her toes and pulls me down for a kiss. “Yes, let’s go see our girl.”
Coinneach responds to my summons immediately, rising from the darkness of my shadow. My familiar spirals upward until he forms an archway of pure darkness in the corner of our chambers. The portal ripples like black water with no glimpse of what lies beyond.
Rhianelle watches with that childlike wonder she always gets. No matter how many times we travel this way, she never loses that sense of awe.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathes.
“Take my hand.” I extend it, palm up. “Whatever you do, don’t let go. The shadow roads aren’t meant for the living.”
Her fingers interlace with mine. Warm against my eternal cold. Together, we step through.
The between-space embraces us. Coinneach wraps protectively around Rhianelle, shielding her from the worst of the void. She gasps softly as her grip tightens on mine.
Then we’re through.
Golden wheat fields stretch in every direction under the morning sun, a sea of amber bending to the wind.
The Clayborne manor rises from a gentle swell of land in the distance, elegant without ostentation.
Its stone warmed to honey in the light. The Claybornes are the second wealthiest noble house in Aelfheim, surpassed only by the Wiolants.
Where Volundr commands power through trade routes, the Claybornes hold something older—land and harvest. Fields that stretch beyond sight.
It is wide and far enough from prying eyes to conceal a fae wyvern without question.
“There.” Rhianelle lifts her hand, pointing toward the distant stables.
Coral is sprawled luxuriously in the field, pale scales gleaming like fresh cream beneath the sun. One wing is half unfurled, basking. She looks entirely at peace.
Until she sees Rhianelle.
Her entire body language shifts from drowsy contentment to eager affection. She scrambles upright and bounds toward us, wheat flattening in her wake. The earth trembles faintly beneath each eager stride.
“Hello, beautiful.” Rhianelle opens her arms. “Have you missed me?”
Coral barrels into me first. Hard enough to knock a lesser being over.
“Gentle,” I grunt, scratching behind her horn nubs where she likes it.
She wasn’t meant to survive. Born premature with too-soft wings and undeveloped fire ducts. I found her dying at Avalon, starving. I almost left her. But then she opened one eye and looked at me like she knew I had come to save her.
Now she headbutts me like it’s her life’s calling.
Then she moves to Rhianelle with completely different energy. Soft and gentle. She nuzzles against my wife’s leg, careful to control her strength despite her enthusiasm. Her rumbling purr vibrates through the morning air.
Rhianelle runs her hands along Coral’s neck and shoulders, examining the wyvern for any signs of injury. Coral submits to the inspection patiently, occasionally pressing her snout against Rhianelle’s cheek.
“She looks well.” Rhianelle scratches beneath the wyvern’s jaw. Coral’s tail thumps once in pleased approval.
Each scale is perfect, opalescent, but there’s something fragile about them. Her wings are translucent enough to see the delicate bone structure beneath.
Butterfly wings on a creature meant to rule the skies.
Where her kin are colossal dark-scaled behemoths, Coral is merely horse-sized.
A cluster of bells chime softly from the stable doors. We both turn toward the sound.
Lady Siofra steps into the sunlight. One hand rests protectively against her visibly swollen belly. The other braces lightly against the wooden frame as she descends the stable step with measured care.
I know some of her story. Her previous husband, an elven lord with a talent for cruelty, left her body mapped in scars and her voice gone.
Mavren the Orc King ended him personally, cleaved him in two when he found Siofra chained and half dead.
Darstan married her after. The healers had warned them that pregnancy would be unlikely given what her body had endured.
So this child is nothing short of a miracle.
Her free hand reaches to touch Coral’s head gently. The wyvern leans into the touch, recognizing a friend.
“How are you feeling?” Rhianelle asks, concern immediate in her voice.
Siofra smiles. She lifts her free hand and moves it in answer. “Well enough.”
She cannot speak. Her first husband ensured that when he severed her vocal cords to silence her defiance.
“The little one has been good company.” Her hand brushes Coral’s cheek again. “I examined her wings yesterday.”
Rhianelle stills, bracing for another thing the world might try to take.
“The bone structure is too delicate. It’s twisted in places.” Siofra pauses, meeting Rhianelle’s eyes before finishing. “I don’t think she’ll ever fly, Your Highness. I’m sorry.”
The wind moves softly through the wheat.
Rhianelle nods once. She already knew. We both suspected it, but hearing it confirmed still hurts.
“She’s perfect as she is,” Rhianelle says firmly. Her palm smooths along Coral’s neck as if sealing the truth into her scales.
Siofra smiles at that. “Indeed she is. And clever, too. Watch what she did yesterday.”
Rhianelle’s concern snaps back instantly. “I don’t want you exerting yourself,” she says, stepping closer. “You should be resting.”
“I need the exercise,” Siofra signs. “Coral keeps me entertained. Show them, sweet girl.”
Coral perks up, prancing back a few steps. She opens her mouth and Rhianelle tenses, waiting for fire that will never come.
Instead, Coral does something I’ve never seen a wyvern do.
She picks up a stick in her jaws and drags it across the flint stones near the stable. Sparks cascade from the friction. After several attempts, the kindling catches fire.
“Oh, clever girl!” Rhianelle claps her hands, genuinely delighted. “You found a way around it! My brilliant, clever darling!”
Coral preens, clearly understanding our approval.
She presses her brow to Rhianelle’s shoulder first, then turns and bumps her head against mine as if demanding equal acknowledgment.
Wyverns can’t eat unroasted meat. She cannot ignite flame from her lungs, so she makes it herself.
She has forged her own way like a firebird.
Good girl.
Siofra’s hands move, eyes bright with the telling. “We’ve been roasting everything for her. But now she can hunt and do it herself when she’s hungry.”
I pull the chicken from the satchel I brought. Coral’s eyes lock onto it immediately. She stares at the raw meat, licking her nose.
I summon a small wreath of hellfire in my palm, carefully roasting the bird while she prances impatiently.
Rhianelle laughs, the sound that makes everything worthwhile. “She’s getting better at waiting.”
Barely.
The chicken is perfectly charred. I toss it up. Coral catches it mid-air, swallowing it whole.