“The Court of Shadows extends its gratitude for your willingness to negotiate the return of our captured kinsmen.”
“Your kind words are appreciated, Prince Finnbheara.” Rhianelle’s voice is calm and even. “Though I notice your father didn’t come himself.”
A flicker of something crosses Finnbheara’s face. “The king has pressing matters that require his attention.”
“Of course.”
“Shall we discuss terms?” Finnbheara asks, recovering his composure. “I’ve brought the ransom—“
“No.”
Everyone turns to stare at my wife. Fae, elf, even the prisoners. The world seems to hold its breath.
Finnbheara tilts his head, confusion breaking through his careful mask. “No?”
“No terms or negotiations.” Rhianelle steps forward and I tense. “I’m releasing your prisoners. All of them, without condition.”
The fae prince stares at her as if she’s spoken in a language he doesn’t understand. Behind him, his retinue exchanges bewildered glances. One of them whispers something that gets cut off by a sharp gesture from Finnbheara.
“I confess myself uncertain of your meaning,” Finnbheara says carefully, an edge creeping into his voice.
“They will be returned with full honors, their weapons and personal effects restored.” Rhianelle’s posture shifts subtly. In that moment, she becomes every inch the queen of Aelfheim. “We will provide safe passage guaranteed to your borders.”
She pauses, letting her words settle over the assembly like snow.
Prince Finnbheara’s expression shifts. His dark eyes narrow slightly. “You would release them freely?”
“I would.”
One of Finnbheara’s retinue steps forward carrying an ornate chest carved from obsidian. “As a gesture of good faith, we offer a cask of our wine. It was aged in barrels carved from the heartwood of the First Tree,” the fae says.
I hear the sharp intake of breath from multiple councilors. Mortal legends say the fae brew grants visions of possible futures and halts aging for those who drink it. A single bottle would be worth a king’s ransom. An entire cask represents wealth beyond comprehension.
“Your generosity honors us, Prince Finnbheara. However, I must decline.” Rhianelle’s tone remains pleasant.
“We needed to root out the rebel orcs in Tavan and merely inherited the prisoners in the fortress,” Seneschal Kearne adds, his voice gruff but steady. “It is only right we return them to where they belong. The council has agreed to this.”
The council members nod in agreement, murmuring their support. But then Lord Duvall rises, his voice cold. “There is one prisoner who cannot be released.”
A hush falls over the clearing. Even the wind seems to pause.
“The dwarf Hrolf must remain in elven custody until the completion of his trial for the crimes he committed in Dunrovin,” Ctibor says, and I catch the subtle tension that runs through Rhianelle’s shoulders. She didn’t know about this.
They blindsided their own queen.I see it now in the rigid line of her spine.
“Hròlfr Dravorin son of Durakain remains our prisoner by separate decree,” Lord Ctibor continues, rising to stand beside Duvall. “His crimes are far too severe.”
Prince Finnbheara’s calm mask shatters, revealing something far more dangerous beneath. “That was not part of our agreement. The terms specified all prisoners would be released.”
“The terms did not account for war criminals and dwarven terrorists,” Duvall interjects smoothly. “The Butcher of Dunrovin stays.”
The prince’s hands clench at his sides. “You dare break faith at the moment of exchange? Under sacred truce?”
“We honor the truce by returning your people,” Ctibor responds. “The dwarf’s fate was sealed long before today.”
The careful diplomatic balance of the morning collapses into something far more dangerous. Behind the prince, the fae delegation shifts toward their weapons, hands hovering over hilts that could turn this parley into a bloodbath in seconds.
I’m already moving. If this goes wrong, I need to reach Rhianelle before the first blade clears its sheath.
