Chapter 30 Svenn
Morning comes too soon.
The sky lightens from black and gray to the pale pink of dawn. The time of new beginnings or endings.
Rhianelle didn’t sleep, not really. She dozed fitfully for maybe an hour, her body shaking, her face wet with tears even in unconsciousness. Then she woke before I could convince her to rest longer and began preparing.
She stands before me in full armor and my breath catches.
The armor is mine. Silver plate that I forged weeks ago, shaped to fit her perfectly.
Every curve, every angle designed to protect her while allowing movement.
It gleams in the dawn light, polished to a mirror shine.
I worked through the night to repair the damage from yesterday’s battle, to make it perfect.
She looks like a goddess of war.
At her hip hangs the sword. Hrolf’s masterpiece. Golden-hued Starfall steel with a moonstone pommel. The blade seems to glow from within.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, because I can’t help it.
She tries to smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m terrified,” she admits.
I know that. Her hands won’t stop shaking.
“You’re going to win,” I say in one breath. “Because you’re Rhianelle Wiolant. You crossed the realm of death for me. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”
I pull her close, careful of the armor, and press my lips to her forehead.
A knock sounds against the open door. Landon stands in the corridor, already dressed for the trial with a pouch of white ash fastened at his hip. His face is pale beneath the dark sweep of his hair.
“The circle is prepared,” he says. “We need to leave.”
Rhianelle pulls away from me. The movement is slow, as though even the weight of the armor is almost too much for her exhausted body. Shadows bruise the skin beneath her eyes and her shoulders sag for one brief moment before she forces them straight again.
Everything in me screams to stop her. To take the sword from her hand, strip away the armor and carry her somewhere no king or ancient law could ever find us.
Instead, I release her.
Rhianelle follows Landon into the corridor without looking back. Perhaps she knows that if she does, neither of us will be strong enough to keep walking.
My heart breaks as I watch her go.
The ravine is perfect for the trial. It’s a deep cut in the earth, widening as it rises. Easy enough for spectators to perch along the edges and walls to look down.
Both armies have gathered. Elves on one side of the ravine, those who chose to believe in their queen. Fae on the other along with orcs, dwarves, and others scattered between. Thousands of them. All here to watch.
I stand on the elven side of the ravine.
Garrett is beside me, silent and grim. Shade on my other side, pale but steady.
Hrolf a little farther down, his ancient eyes fixed on the sword he made.
Bas stands with the other healers. My brother has been helping the wounded.
Blaire, Aelfric, and Rainer are here too despite their exhaustion and injury.
A little further along the ridge, the spectators from Hel have claimed their own space. Kheirall Balthazar and Ragnar are settled near the dwarven lords and the Orc King.
I catch pieces of their conversation on the wind.
“Where were you yesterday?” a dwarven lord asks Kheirall. His voice is flat. “Delphine came through with the demons of the Third Gate. You were supposed to flood the field with the Sixth.”
Kheirall considers the question with a grave expression. “Forgive me, I overslept.”
The dwarven lord stares at him with a look of complete disbelief. Even Mavren turns slowly to look at the demon lord. Ragnar pinches the bridge of his nose.
“You overslept?” the dwarven lord repeats.
“It won’t happen again,” Ragnar quickly says to calm the angered dwarf. “The important thing is the Duchess of Hel did what she was supposed to do.”
The bear berserker steps between them before the dwarven lord can rise from his seat. His body grows as he half-transforms into the Bodvar Bjarki.
Ragnar places one enormous hand on the dwarf’s shoulder and the other against Kheirall’s chest, holding them apart with effortless strength. “The battle is over. Delphine came. The demons fought for you. No one needs to start another war before breakfast.”
Mavren grunts in agreement. The dwarven lord continues glaring at Kheirall but settles back into his chair.
Kheirall inclines his head toward the berserker. “Sensibly handled.”
“Do not make me handle you next,” Ragnar warns.
Finnbheara descends into the ravine first. He moves like a predator, confident and graceful. He’s wearing light armor, dwarven-made and probably enchanted. It doesn’t restrict his movement at all. His sword is at his hip, a weapon that’s tasted blood a thousand times.
That fucker looks rested, Coinneach whispers.
Finnbheara appears uninjured and at full strength. While everyone else fought and bled yesterday, he was coordinating from above.
Rhianelle descends on the other side. She moves more carefully. Her exhaustion is visible in every step, in the slight tremor of her hands and the concentration it takes for her not to stumble.
This isn’t fair.
It’s not even close to fair, Fenrir growls in my head.
At the bottom of the ravine, Landon works.
He moves his hands, scattering ash from a pouch. Hawthorn ash, he’d said. It’s sacred to the fae. He must have started before dawn. The white line already stretches across most of the ravine, curving around the boulders and uneven ground as he completes the final section.
I don’t understand why the circle needs to be so large. Only Finnbheara and Rhianelle are fighting, not a pair of giants that need half the ravine to move.
Perhaps Landon is giving her room. Space to retreat, summon, or find some advantage against an opponent who outmatches her in strength and reach. If that is his intention, I could almost forgive him for making me stand here and watch this.
By the time he closes the circle, it encompasses nearly the entire ravine floor. The ash is pure white against the dark earth. As he walks, he speaks words I don’t understand.
When he’s done, Landon stands in the center and raises his voice.
“By the old laws and the ancient pacts, by the blood of the Firstborn who walked these lands, this circle is drawn,” Landon declares, his voice booming across the ravine. “This challenge is witnessed.”
He turns toward Rhianelle and extends one hand.
“Rhianelle Wiolant, Queen of Aelfheim.”
Then he faces the other side.
“Finnbheara, eternal ruler of the Seven Realms and Fae King of Avalon.”
Landon pauses, letting the names settle.
“The Circle of Oryth will bind you,” Landon continues. “Once you step inside, you cannot leave. Your bodies will refuse to cross the boundary and the magic will prevent your escape. The circle can only be broken by death. One of you must bleed. One of you must die.”
Silence descends over the ravine, heavy and oppressive. Even the thousands gathered along its edges seem afraid to breathe.
“The victor will decide the fate of both kingdoms.” Landon looks between the two combatants. “Do you understand the terms?”
“I understand,” Rhianelle says. Her voice is steady. Stronger than I expected.
“I understand,” Finnbheara echoes.
“Then step into the circle, and may the gods have mercy on your souls.” Landon lowers his hand and retreats beyond the ash boundary.
They both step into the circle. I expect something to happen the moment their feet cross the white ash line. A flash of light, a surge of magic or some visible sign that the ancient spell has awakened. Nothing happens. The ashes remain dull and white against the earth.
But I understand that some ancient magic binds them to the ground inside that circle and traps them within its borders.
No escape now. Not for either of them.
Finnbheara stands in the center, relaxed. His hand rests casually on his sword hilt. A warrior through and through. He was born to this.
Across from him stands my wife.
My Rhianelle.
She wanted to be a baker, spending her days making bread and pastries until our cottage smelled of cinnamon and honey. My little fawn is soft, kind, and gentle.
She’s not supposed to be in a fae trial circle with someone like Finnbheara.
“That fucker should be facing me instead,” I mutter.
“Yes.” Garrett’s gaze remains fixed on the circle. “So why the fuck aren’t you down there?”
“Rhianelle made me promise,” I continue, my voice tight. “She made me swear I wouldn’t interfere. That this was her fight. Her choice.”
I watch Rhianelle adjust her grip on Hrolf’s sword and take a deep breath. Her hands are still shaking.
She’s terrified.
Yet she’s about to fight for all our lives.
Landon raises his hand. The crowd goes silent. Every eye is fixed on the circle below.
“Let the Duel of Oryth begin!”
The moment Landon’s shout fades, Rhianelle moves. She doesn’t draw her sword immediately. Instead, she drops into a crouch and drags the point of her dagger through the earth, carving the first lines of a summoning circle.
She’s borrowing strength from Astefar, trying to level the playing field.
But Finnbheara doesn’t give her the chance.
The Fae Prince moves like lightning. He closes the distance between them, his sword already drawn and swinging.
The attack comes so fast that without my Strigon eyes, I would have missed it.
It’s a horizontal slash aimed at Rhianelle’s neck, meant to decapitate.
He meant to end this in one stroke.
Rhianelle’s eyes widen. She abandons the summoning, her hands dropping to her sword. She draws it barely in time, bringing it up to block.
Their blades meet with thunderous force. The impact drives Rhianelle backward. Her feet slide in the dirt. The summoning is broken.
“No,” I breathe.
Finnbheara doesn’t relent or pause. He presses forward, his blade a blur of motion. Strike after strike after strike. Rhianelle blocks and parries every thrust, desperately trying to keep his blade away from her. But she’s on the defensive.