Chapter 31 Svenn
The ravine empties.
People pour up the slopes, scrambling over each other in their desperation to escape. Fae warriors who stood proud moments ago now flee like rats. Elven soldiers abandon their posts. Orcs, dwarves, and everyone else runs.
I’m frozen in place, unable to look away.
Coral’s power builds. The light burns brighter and the air around her shimmers with heat. My instinct tells me to run, hide, and get as far away as possible. But I don’t move.
Because Rhianelle is down there.
“Coral,” Rhianelle’s voice cuts through the chaos, soft and gentle. “Coral, stop.”
The wyvern’s glowing eyes flick to her, still wide, her pupils blown dark.
“It’s okay,” Rhianelle says. She’s limping toward Coral now. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m safe. You protected me. You did so well. But you need to stop now. Please. Please stop.”
Her hand reaches out and touches Coral’s snout. The wyvern flinches. But the glow is slowly fading. The power recedes, pulling back into whatever deep well it came from.
Coral’s eyes return to normal and her scales stop glowing. She makes a sound, small and confused as if she doesn’t quite understand what just happened.
Rhianelle wraps her arms around the wyvern’s neck. She presses her face against the pale scales.
“Good girl,” she whispers. “Such a good girl. You’re okay. We’re okay. Everything’s okay.”
Coral chirps and nuzzles back. The moment of devastating power is gone. She’s just a young wyvern again.
But everyone saw.
Everyone knows now what she’s capable of.
Finnbheara stands on the other side of the circle, his sword hanging loose in his hand. His face is pale and shocked.
“You need to die,” Finnbheara says, his voice flat and empty. “I see that now. You and your wyvern both.”
He raises his sword again and starts walking toward Rhianelle.
Rhianelle doesn’t move. I don’t think she can. She’s exhausted and spent. Her leg is barely healed. She just stands there, holding Coral.
Coral lowers her head and paws at the scorched earth. Dust rises around her claws as she scrapes again, harder this time, like a bull preparing to charge. A low growl rolls from her chest.
Finnbheara freezes mid-step. His gaze shifts from Rhianelle to the small wyvern standing between them.
“Isn’t it about time we stop this?” Landon calls from the edge of the circle.
Finnbheara turns toward him. Rhianelle lifts her head and the soldiers who have not yet fled fall silent. Every face in the ravine turns to Landon.
“What?” Landon asks.
“All of this. Don’t you think it’s time we stopped?” He tilts his head toward the ravine around them, the scorched earth and the fleeing crowds.
“The fight isn’t over,” Finnbheara says. “One of us has to die. Those are the rules. The ancient laws. You said so yourself.”
“I did,” Landon agrees. “But I’m asking you now, as your friend. Is this really what you want? Is this really how you want this to end?”
“I want justice,” he says. “For my father. For my people. For—”
“Your father is alive,” Landon interrupts. “And your people... Finn, look around. Your people are terrified. They just watched a wyvern nearly incinerate them all. They’re not thinking about justice anymore. They’re thinking about survival.”
“Then all the more reason to end the threat,” Finnbheara argues. “To kill her and her wyvern.”
“Finn, Rhianelle challenged you knowing she’d lose. Knowing she’d probably die, she did it anyway. To save her people.” Landon’s gaze shifts to Rhianelle, still leaning against Coral to keep herself upright. “You’re better than this. I know you are.”
Finnbheara’s hand tightens on his sword hilt.
“You don’t understand,” he says quietly. “I have to do this. I am the new Fae King. If I don’t, if I show mercy now—”
“Then you show you’re not your father.” Landon takes another step toward him. “That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? That showing mercy makes you weak and walking away from this fight means you’re not fit to rule. But Finn… mercy isn’t weakness. It comes from strength.”
Finnbheara does not lower his weapon, but something in his expression changes. The fury falters. His eyes move from Landon to Rhianelle, then to the frightened faces of the people he is fighting for.
No one dares to move. Everyone seems to hold their breath as Finnbheara stands with Rhianelle’s life balanced on the edge of his blade.
Landon searches Finnbheara’s face for any trace of the friend he knew. Someone capable of choosing his people over his pride.
“You’re wrong,” he says to Landon. “I’m sure to win against Aelfheim. My army will keep coming, bigger and stronger. From the tall mountains of Darvan to the depths of Hel itself. We have allies across the continent.”
Finnbheara gestures at the fleeing crowds and the devastation around them.
“The elves are broken. Their queen is wounded and their forces are scattered. It’s only a matter of time before Aelfheim falls.”
“You’re probably right,” Landon says, and the agreement surprises everyone. “Yes. If you press the attack, if you commit everything, Aelfheim will fall. The elves will lose.”
Finnbheara nods.
“But they won’t go quietly,” Landon says, his voice dropping. “They won’t surrender without a fight.”
“All wars have costs,” Finnbheara says dismissively.
“Do you know what this will cost?” Landon turns toward Sanguisyl. The massive red wyvern stands where the fight left him, wings tattered and bleeding, head hanging low. “Sanguisyl can level entire cities.”
“Exactly,” Finnbheara says. “We’ll attack seven cities across the thirty-three regions.”
“Coral can do the same,” Landon says, looking at the small pale wyvern. “We just saw it. That devastating, world-ending power. She has it.”
He pauses and lets the words sink in.
Landon is bluffing. But I’m fucking certain a fae can’t lie. The fae part of me confirms it, so I don’t know what the hell Landon is thinking.
I stare at Coral. She is pressed against Rhianelle’s side, chirping softly as if she didn’t almost reduce everyone in this ravine to ash.
None of us knew she had that sort of power until today. The truth is no one knows how to control it. Not me, not Rhianelle, certainly not Coral herself. What happened moments ago was purely accidental, a desperate response to save Rhianelle.
Could she do it again? Maybe. Probably not. Almost certainly not on command, not directed at specific targets, not as a weapon of war.
Coral is just a young wyvern with broken wings and a heart too big for her body.
“I do not know how many cities Coral can attack before she needs to recharge,” Landon says. “I wasn’t the last person to train the young wyvern. You should ask him.”
He points directly at me.
What the fuck?
Every face in the ravine turns my way. I stare at Landon, but his expression gives nothing away.
He is fae. Coinneach whispers. Fae cannot lie. He has reached the limit of how much he can horseshit this.
“I…” I begin.
Five thick fingers rise beside me.
“Five,” Hrolf announces confidently.
A murmur sweeps through the crowd. Finnbheara’s eyes widen.
Shade folds his arms. “Eight when she’s properly motivated. Food usually works. She likes chicken.”
Coral’s head snaps toward him at the word chicken. Her tail begins wagging against the scorched earth.
The fae lords nearest the circle recoil.
“And the vampire can transport her,” Garrett adds, his expression perfectly grave. “He can carry her through the shadows and move her between targets before anyone has time to prepare.”
Coinneach rises behind me, his darkness spreading across the ground. A shadow portal tears open around me, revealing nothing but churning blackness beyond.
The murmuring grows louder.
“A Ysendral,” they whisper.
“That is our contingency plan should the outcome of this trial prove unfavorable,” Garrett says in a single breath.
Thank the gods my friends are such accomplished liars. The fucking lot of them.
“Before Sanguisyl destroys the elven regions, Coral will destroy three, perhaps four fae cities,” Landon says, his words falling into the quiet. “Maybe more if she is desperate, cornered, and afraid.”
He takes a slow step closer to Finnbheara.
“Lethariel first, perhaps. Then Moonhollow. Starweald, Aerdrasil, and Nythalara after that.” Landon holds his gaze, giving him nowhere to retreat. “Every city you love. Every place that shaped you. Gone before you can reach them.”
Finnbheara’s jaw clenches.
“Even if you win and destroy all of Aelfheim, what will you rule? Ashes and ruins?” Landon says quietly without pause.
Finnbheara says nothing. His gaze moves from Coral to Sanguisyl, then toward the fleeing remnants of his army.
I watch from the edge of the ravine, and I see the fae prince weighing the costs.
Coral cannot do any of the shit we are claiming, but Finnbheara doesn’t know that. He sees the glowing scales and the terrified crowds, the overwhelming power that nearly erupted from her.
And he believes.
I can see it in his face. The doubt creeping in.
Finnbheara is different from his father, Rhianelle once said. He is not cruel, ambitious, or hungry for conquest. I see the fear he has for his people.
“You can destroy each other,” Landon says softly. “Burn everything. Leave nothing but graves and memories. But to what end, Finn? Deep down you know that this war is wrong. This is your chance to end it with your honor intact.”
Finnbheara doesn’t answer. He simply stares at Coral, the small wyvern who could maybe, possibly, if the stars align, level his cities.
The silence stretches.
Finally, Finnbheara speaks.
“One of us still needs to die today,” he says quietly. “The rules of the trial are sacred. You said so yourself, herald. The Duel of Oryth requires a death. Blood must be spilled to break the circle.”
“Then spill mine.”
Rhianelle pushes herself away from Coral, though one hand remains on the wyvern for support.
“I entered this circle knowing what it might cost me,” she says to Finnbheara. “If blood is required, let it be mine. But you must promise you will leave my people unharmed.”
My hands curl into fists. Even now, barely able to stand, she is trying to save everyone.
Finnbheara’s expression tightens. “Those are the laws, the ancient pacts. We cannot simply walk away.”
A smile slowly spreads across Landon’s face. “Of course you can.”
Rhianelle blinks at him. Finnbheara turns sharply, disbelief flashing across his face.
Landon walks toward the white ash circle. He stops near its eastern edge, kneels and brushes a thin layer of dirt away with his fingertips.
Beneath it, the ash line appears.
But a narrow gap, barely visible and easy to miss, lies where the ends fail to meet.
“You should not have trusted me to draw the circle,” Landon says.
A collective gasp rises through the ravine. Warriors crane their necks to see the break while shocked whispers pass through both armies.
Landon stands and brushes the dirt from his hand. “The Circle of Binding requires an unbroken line. Otherwise, the magic does not hold and the rules do not apply. Your duel is not valid.”
“The tournament is false,” Finnbheara mutters under his breath.
Landon nods. “No one needs to die today. No ancient laws are being broken.”
Finnbheara stares at him and takes a breath. “You sabotaged the circle. You lied to me, herald.”
“I cannot lie,” Landon says. “But I did trick you. We fae have always loved a good trick. You assumed the circle was complete, and I simply allowed you to keep believing it.”
Finnbheara’s face darkens. “You are my herald. You were bound to oversee the trial fairly.”
Landon gives a short laugh. “I was your father’s herald, Finn. Not yours. There is an oath, a binding, and an entire ceremony required before a king can appoint one. You have done none of them.”
The new fae king fixes Landon with a murderous stare.
Landon meets it without so much as blinking. “The choice is yours now, Finn. Do you wish to continue this fight?”
Finnbheara’s hand tightens on his sword as he looks at Rhianelle, the small, exhausted elven queen leaning against her wyvern for support. My body tenses. If that sword rises even an inch toward her, I will cross the circle and kill him before anyone can stop me.
But slowly, he sheathes it. The sound of the blade sliding home echoes through the ravine.
Rhianelle pushes away from Coral and stands on her own. Her legs are shaking. The injured shin can barely support her weight but she stands, and she raises her hand.
She extends her hand to Finnbheara. Her hand trembles in the air, visible from where I stand. She is shaking so badly I’m afraid she’ll collapse before Finnbheara can respond.
Finnbheara gazes at her hand and her face. He doesn’t move.
That fucker. That absolute fucker, making her wait like this.
Rhianelle’s hand stays raised. She’s barely holding on, her legs threatening to give out. I’m halfway to jumping into the circle when Finnbheara finally moves.
Slowly, he moves closer toward Rhianelle. With visible resignation, he reaches out and takes her hand.
Their hands clasp. Elf and fae. Queen and King. Enemy and enemy.
For a heartbeat, they just stand there, hands joined and looking at each other.
But then Finnbheara’s eyes go wide. His whole body goes rigid.
Rhianelle does not flinch. Her breathing slows and the strain disappears from her face, replaced by a calm that unsettles me more than Finnbheara’s shock. Then she closes her eyes.
“What is this?” he breathes. His hand tightens on Rhianelle’s.
Finnbheara’s eyes are still wide, fixed on Rhianelle and their joined hands. He is seeing something that none of us can see. Something that’s changing everything.
“You—” he starts.
The world holds its breath.