Part I
Part I The Queen of Fire
1
Prologue Landon
I am late.
The great horn of Mordun has already sounded thrice, calling the war council to order. Yet I am still circling the outer border of the city like a novice rider who can't find his landing.
Avalon sprawls across the valley below us, more beautiful than any other city on the continent. It sits in the middle of untamed forest like a sparkling jewel. Even from this height, I can see the bustle of people below.
War is coming. Everyone knows it. The only question is when.
"Down," I murmur to my wyvern.
Dorcha snorts once, steam pouring from her nostrils before obeying. I can feel her irritation through our bond. She hates being late as much as I do, though for different reasons. For me it's the growing certainty that decisions are being made without my counsel. For her it's a matter of pride and precedence among her kind.
My wyvern's wings beat thunder into the sky as we land. Her emerald scales have taken on the darker hue of hersurroundings. The natural camouflage marks her as one of the wyverns of the northern reaches.
Other mounts have already settled on their perches in the Grand Aerie. The massive beasts are arranged in careful hierarchy. Closest to the central platform crouches the Fae King's own mount, the Nythe. Wisps of shadow-flame curl from his nostrils. Lesser drakes and wyverns of the court arrange themselves in concentric circles around him, their riders long since departed for the council chambers.
Dorcha settles onto her designated perch, her claws scraping against the ancient stonework carved with protective runes.
A stablehand approaches with iron fetters dangling from his belt. Standard practice in the Palace of Bones, despite the fact that no restraint has ever held a wyvern intent on freedom.
"Careful," I say, unbuckling the last of Dorcha's saddle straps. "Try to chain her and you may lose your hands."
He freezes mid-step. Smart boy.
Dorcha shifts her weight and fixes one massive golden eye on him. I feel her amusement ripple through our bond. She enjoys terrifying the fragile ones. I slide down from her back, my boots hitting stone still warm from her landing.
"She drinks spring water, not well water," I continue, gathering the braided leather leads. "Two mousedeers only, despite whatever tragic performance she gives you."
The boy takes a step back. He's young, barely past his first century. There's a brightness in his eyes, a clarity untouched by the weight of blood or loss. He must have been born in gentler times.
"Don't cower," I tell him, keeping my voice level. "She'll consider you prey if you do. It's a game to her. Don't fall for it."
His throat bobs as he swallows, but he straightens his spine. "Yes, Commander."
I turn away, already hearing him whisper prayers under his breath as Dorcha snarls at him again.
Be kind,I send through our bond.
Her response is the mental equivalent of a shrug. He smells like rabbits.
I leave them to sort it out and stride toward the archway. The Grand Aerie opens directly into the Court of Nightmare, the great circular chamber where the Fae King holds his most important councils.
Pillars of twisted bone rise to support the vaulted ceiling, ribs torn from the last great dragon. Walls of ancient oak stand beside them. These trees had been singing their slow songs since before the first mortal drew breath.
The air grows colder as I descend, the warmth of the Aerie fading with each step down the spiral stairs. Black banners hang heavy from the vaulted ceiling, embroidered with red roses and silver thorns. The King's sigil is a constant reminder of whose domain this is.
I reach the final step and the doors to the war room groan open ahead of me.
They are all here.
The Masters of the Hunt.
