“Wait—”
She tightens her fingers around mine.
“Rhianelle, something is eating them alive.”Her voice trembles like it did back when we were in the forest.
"It's all right,"I tell her gently.
"How can you be so calm?" she whispers, pressing closer against me. Her whole body is shaking.
I watch as the final tendrils of shadow slip through the windows, carrying with them the last traces of our enemies. A smile touches my lips at the familiar presence I feel within the darkness.
"Do not be afraid of the shadows," I tell Blaire softly. "That's just my husband."
3
Chapter 2 Svenn
They call this place Lysander’s Crossing, though the name feels too gentle for what it truly is. It is where the last fire drake fell and cursed the land with its dying breath. Nothing lives or grows here. The ground is scorched black and the air tastes of ash even centuries after the beast’s final scream. Perfect for meetings between those who trust each other as much as wolves trust sheep.
The neutral ground has hosted countless negotiations over the millennia. Statues of long-forgotten gods watch over the proceedings with hollow eyes, their features worn smooth by wind and time.
From my position in the shadows between two towering oaks at the edge of the clearing, I watch the elven delegation arrange themselves across the space below. The trees are ancient, their branches thick enough to conceal my frame while offering clear sightlines to everything that matters.
Rhianelle stands at the center of the formation in midnight blue silk. The sunlight that streams through the clouds seems to favor my wife above all others, transforming her silver hair into a luminous cascade. Delicate silver chains adorn her ears in thetraditional style of elven royalty, swaying gently when she turns her head to speak with her advisors.
My fangs ache with the need to be closer, to position myself between her and what comes from the north. But we agreed I would watch from afar.
Seneschal Kearne stands to her right, his weathered face bearing the scars of a dozen campaigns, his dark gray hair pulled back. Behind him, the elven council of Aldarelfs clusters in their formal robes along with delegations of the Aeonians. Three governing bodies for one kingdom. A pointless and unnecessary tangle of governance that slows every decision to a crawl.
I recognize a few faces. Lady Tierra with her sharp cheekbones and sharper tongue. Lord Ctibor, who never met an issue he didn’t want to complicate. Lord Nemarion, perpetually scowling as if the world personally offends him.
The prisoners stand in carefully guarded formation between the two delegations. These were captives of the orc rebels, freed when the elves retook Tavan and Celestria. The fae nobles sit comfortably despite their ankle chains, their postures relaxed as if being captured is merely an inconvenience. Orkan warriors from Myrkheim remain silent and watchful while the dwarven lords of Darvan hold themselves upright with the stoic endurance of their kind.
Hrolf is not among them. I noticed his absence immediately.
Movement in the southern sky draws my gaze from my wife. The fae delegation approaches on wings of death and shadow. Their wyverns descend from the clouds like great birds of prey. Scales of midnight black cover their serpentine bodies. Each creature is a vision of beauty, their vast leathery wings casting the ground in living night. Even the bravest elven soldiers blanch at the sight of those steel-rending talons.
Prince Finnbheara leads the aerial procession on a magnificent beast that dwarfs even its companions. Sanguisylthe Red Rain. The wyvern’s scarlet scales gleam like freshly spilled blood. He must be forty feet of muscle and malice from snout to tail.
When he lands, the ground shudders. Dust rises in choking clouds. Several of the elven guards stumble backward.
The prince himself dismounts with practiced ease, sliding from the saddle as if he’s done it a thousand times. Power bleeds from him in waves. This is what the fae truly are beneath their glamours. Beautiful and terrible.
A band of white gold sits on the prince’s obsidian hair. I recognize the craftsmanship of the ancient dwarven smiths. Behind him, six more wyverns descend in formation, their wingbeats creating thunderous crashes of air that send tremors through the ground. Their riders wear burnished silver breastplates etched with thorned roses, the insignia of Eirik Bloodhound’s army. These are warriors, not emissaries.
Every predatory instinct in me screams at the proximity of these creatures to my wife. The rational part of my mind struggles to remember Rhianelle’s assurances.
This is a parley. No kingdom has ever broken such an oath.
If those wyverns make one threatening move toward her, I will cross the clearing before their riders can scream.
Prince Finnbheara strides forward with the grace that marks all his kind. The orcs maintain their stoic silence, but the fae prisoners cannot hide their relief at seeing their prince arrive. One of them straightens in his chains, hope flickering across his face.
Rhianelle lowers her head in a bow that acknowledges his royal status without diminishing her own. “Prince Finnbheara, you honor us with your presence,” she says politely.
“Queen Rhianelle of Aelfheim,” he responds, barely inclining his head to acknowledge her.
The fucker.
