Chapter 10 Svenn
The elves are not ready.
Their armies have improved from the scattered forces Rhianelle inherited. But against Eirik Bloodhound infantry? Against orc berserkers who feel no pain? They would die in droves, and their queen will blame herself for every fallen soldier.
And yet they still have time for this.
For spectacle and outrage to punish a single dwarf, while the borders bleed.
The colosseum opens before us, vast and loud.
Thousands of elves fill the tiered seats, their voices creating a thunderous hum that reverberates through the circular arena.
A raised dais of black marble sits at the center.
I stand beside Rhianelle in the viewing box reserved for the queen and her consort.
Her fingers rest lightly on the marble balustrade.
"They've already decided," she murmurs.
"I know."
Guards escort a figure onto the platform below. Hrolf stands with his eyes covered and his ears sealed by Mhlaryan elven enchantment. He cannot see the crowd or hear their fury.
The moment the dwarven prisoner appears, the colosseum erupts.
"Kill the dwarf!"
"Make him pay for Dunrovin!"
Their voices crash over us like a violent tide. Thousands of fists pump in the air, demanding blood for blood. Fathers hold children on their shoulders so they can see the terrorist who murdered their kin. They scream themselves hoarse chanting for the dwarven warrior's death.
I watch Rhianelle's jaw tighten. Her lilac eyes fix on Hrolf's helpless form. She knows as I do that this trial was orchestrated long before we arrived.
From the shadows of the arena's eastern archway, four hooded figures emerge with measured steps.
The Aeonian elders. Ancient beings who claim to be the guardians of elven purity and tradition. Their robes are deep purple, embroidered with gold thread in elven runes. The first elder raises a gnarled staff. Silence falls over the colosseum.
When they speak, their voices carry to every corner of the arena. "People of Aelfheim. We gather today to witness justice for the crimes committed against our realm."
A second elder steps forward. Their hood conceals everything except a glimpse of pale chin. "The prisoner before you is Hròlfr Dravorin, architect of death. He is the creator of the weapon that has spilled rivers of elven blood across Dunrovin."
The crowd roars. They demand torture. They call for his execution to be drawn out for days.
"He is a terrorist who armed our enemies!" the third elder shouts, voice cracking like a whip across the arena. "A monster who delights in elven suffering!"
The sound that follows is feral.
I know the truth they will never speak aloud. The Fae Prince was right. Hrolf was trying to liberate his enslaved kin from elven mines and workshops. To the dwarves, he's not a terrorist. He's their savior.
But truth has no place in this theater of vengeance.
The fourth elder, smaller than the others, steps to the edge of the dais. "Yet our queen would have you show mercy to this butcher."
Every eye in the colosseum turns toward us.
The eldest Aeonian turns and finds our box with his eyes. "Queen Rhianelle has proposed Aethon Mor."
A trial of single combat with no interference where the gods themselves decide the outcome.
"She asks mercy for the Butcher of Dunrovin," the Aeonian says simply. "She wants to grant the Butcher a chance he did not give our dead."
Thousands of voices shout at once, none of them pleased.
Rhianelle rises. Her movements are graceful despite the weight pressing down on her shoulders. She steps forward to the edge of our viewing box so the entire arena can see her clearly.
"People of Aelfheim," she begins, her voice carried effortlessly by the enchanted acoustics woven into the colosseum's stone. "I stand before you not to defend Hrolf's actions, but to prevent a catastrophe that will cost us far more than justice."
A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd. In the Aldarelfs' box below ours, several council members shift uncomfortably in their seats.
"Hròlfr Dravorin struck a near-fatal blow against my own mother," she continues. "His weapons have taken elven lives. I do not dismiss that pain. I do not forget it."
The crowd murmurs, uncertain where their queen is leading them.
"But if we execute him here today, we do not gain justice.
We guarantee our destruction," she says, voice unwavering amid the chaos.
"Hrolf has reached a near-divine status among the dwarven people.
They call him the Forgefather, the Liberator, the Last Hope of their enslaved clans.
Kill him, and every dwarf in the known realms will take up arms against us. "
"Traitor!" The word explodes from the lead Aeonian. "You would spare our enemies while they sharpen their blades for our throats!"
My hands clench into fists. I'm fighting every instinct to leap down into that arena and tear the elder's throat out. But Rhianelle remains steady, her chin lifted in defiance.
The crowd begins to chant. Their voices merge into a single, terrifying demand. "Kill the dwarf! Kill the dwarf!"
"Traitor queen!"
"Elf-blood before stone!"
The sound builds into something monstrous.
I realize with growing dread that this trial was never about Hrolf at all. This public spectacle is a trap designed to destroy my wife. The elders have orchestrated every detail to corner her. They force her into a position where any choice she makes will mark her as either weak or treasonous.
The fourth elder steps closer to the platform's edge. "Perhaps our people deserve to know more about the queen who would show such mercy to our enemies."
Their words slither through the arena like a serpent seeking prey. I feel Rhianelle tense beside me. Her fingers grip the marble balustrade until her knuckles turn white.
"Traitor," the lead elder repeats, savoring each syllable. "Yes, that is what stands before you. A queen who values dwarven lives above elven blood. But perhaps treachery runs deeper than we knew."
The crowd's chanting dies to a murmur of anticipation. Even the wind seems to still.
"Tell us, Your Majesty," the second elder calls out, their voice dripping with false reverence. "How many centuries of wisdom guide your merciful decision?"
A trap. I can see it closing around her like the jaws of some great beast.
"The law is clear," the third elder announces to the crowd. "Only a High Elf may rule Aelfheim. Only one who has lived at least two hundred years and gained the wisdom that comes with true maturity."
Lord Halburt of the Eastern March suddenly stands in the council section. His weathered face flushes with indignation. "Our queen has lived for more than a thousand years! She bears the weight of ten centuries of experience!"
Several other council members nod vigorously, echoing his defense.
But the elders' laughter cuts through their protests like steel through silk.
"A thousand years?" The fourth elder's voice rises with mock amazement. "How fascinating. And yet..."
The lead elder lifts his staff. Ancient sigils run the length of it, carved deep into the wood.
"Let no lie survive us today."
The runes wake one by one. A thin lattice spreads outward from the staff and moves through the arena.
When it reaches me I feel it brush the edges of my mind.
Above the dais, smoke rises from nothing and bends itself into elven script.
The letters form slowly, deliberately, as if the magic understands the weight of what it is writing.
The crowd reads it before the elder speaks.
"Queen Rhianelle Wiolant is sixty-nine years old," the elder declares.
For a moment, absolute silence reigns.
Then the colosseum comes apart.
"Impossible!"
"She's an elfling!"
"We have a child on the throne!"
The sound builds on itself, thousands of voices finding the same note of outrage and shock.
"Your queen has spent nine hundred years cowering behind temple walls," the second elder declares over the chaos. "Protected from every real choice. Every real consequence. She does not carry the wisdom of a High Elf. She carries the inexperience of a child given a crown she has not earned."
Council member after council member rises to protest. Their voices are lost in the growing tumult.
Lady Tierra of Elwood shouts above the din. "You speak the impossible! No one could survive that long in temple isolation. The longest recorded stay is two hundred years."
But the runes on the staff glow brighter. A truth spell cannot be disputed.
Rhianelle remains standing, though I can see the effort it costs her. The revelation cuts deep because it exposes not just her age, but her deepest fear—that she might truly be unfit for the crown thrust upon her.
"Tell us, little elfling," the fourth elder croons, their voice honeyed with false concern. "How can you lead a nation when you have barely lived at all?"
The word elfling sounds like an insult. It's not just a marker of age. It implies naivety and weakness.
I step closer to Rhianelle, letting my presence remind her she is not alone. But I can feel the elders' trap tightening with each passing moment. They've orchestrated this perfectly, revealing her youth at the exact moment when it would make her appear weak for showing mercy.
The lead elder spreads their arms wide, addressing the crowd directly. "Perhaps it is time for new and wiser leadership. Does anyone wish to invoke the Archon?"
Red moves through the crowd below. He was the last contender who challenged Rhianelle's throne before swearing to protect it.
The knight vaults over the barrier separating spectators from the arena floor.
"Clayborne." The lead elder's voice cuts across the arena. "Do you stand to call the Archon? Step forward and say so."
Red ignores the question entirely. He turns his back on the dais and faces the crowd. "Honorable council members. Before we condemn our queen for her youth, perhaps we should examine our elders too."