At the chamber’s heart rests the Obsidian Throne, carved from a single piece of volcanic glass. Upon it sits the old wolf himself—Eirik Bloodhound, Eternal Ruler of the Seven Realms.
His ageless featuresare hewn sharp as winter, his eyes as fathomless as the sea. Power cascades from him in waves. But it's the woman beside him that makes my skin crawl.
Morgaine, his mistress and advisor. She is perhaps the most beautiful creature in a court renowned for its beauty. Yet something about her sets every instinct I have on edge. She doesn't belong in this court, perhaps not in this realm at all. A blade disguised as a rose.
The delegation from Darvan occupies the eastern arc of the circle, their representatives resplendent in the finest craftsmanship their mountain forges can produce. Lord Thane presides over them. His ceremonial armor is a masterwork of overlapping scales and his braided beard adorned with rings of mithril and gems. The runes tattooed across his massive forearms mark his mastery over iron and flame.
Opposite them are the Orkan Warchiefs, the proud warrior-nobles of Myrkheim's clans. King Mavren Aldrath Margoth stands nearly eight feet tall, his skin bearing the ritual scars of a dozen campaigns. His axes are capped with silver along with his armor, courtesy of the Dwarven smiths. Beside him stands Warchief Urzak Bloodfang with his massive war-hammer resting against his shoulder.
The fae lords and nobles complete the circle. Lord Cassius of the Eastern Reach, whose lands sit closest to the elven border. Lady Sylvie with her network of spies that reaches into every court on the continent. And Lord Ulrie the Cruel, our aerial commander, wings folded behind him like a second shadow.
Prince Finnbheara stands among the younger fae nobles. My friend, my brother in everything else but blood. His eyes find mine across the chamber, and relief flickers behind the mask of boredom before he smooths it away. If anyone in this council understands the weight of the words I will soon speak, it will be him.
Beyond him stands a stranger veiled in shadow and silk. A demoness from Hel, here on behalf of Kheirall Balthazar.
All of them are here. Every power that matters.
It seems I have arrived in the middle of the storm.
"Aye," Master Thane rumbles, stroking his beard. "My forges have been working day and night. We've enough dragoniron spears to arm three legions. The new weapon can punch through elven ward-shields like parchment."
Lord Grimmward leans forward. "If the rebels in Tavan do their job, half the elven garrison will be dead before we even arrive. My warriors mass at the borders, ready to pour through the moment you give the word."
"The sea assault is prepared as well," Lady Fireren, the selkie, adds. Her mouth doesn't move, yet her voice somehow comes from multiple directions at once. She touches the seal skin draped on her shoulders to speak to our minds again. "Seventeen of the great serpents have answered our call. The seadragons remember when the elves hunted them for sport. They remember and they hunger for vengeance."
Urzak of Myrkheim shifts, bone tokens clacking on his belt. His leather tabard is streaked with stains too dark to be anything but blood. "I hear Commander Ksatka is back in the Deep Channels."
The selkie nods, a slight smile touching her lips. "She has her seadragons positioned and ready. The elven coastal defenses won't know what hit them."
"The attack will be glorious," Lord Theron says, raising his cup toward the ceiling like he was already toasting the aftermath. He is one of the few pure-blooded fae lords who still holds Eirik's ear.
Glorious?
Those who called war glorious had never watched it up close.
"Landon of the Northern Reaches graces us with his presence at last," King Eirik's voice carries across the chamber.
The assembled council turns toward me and I feel the weight of dozens of powerful gazes. "Your timing is fortuitous. We arejust discussing the final preparations for our campaign against Aelfheim."
"My apologies, Your Majesty." I incline my head in respect. "The shadow-storms over the Whispering Peaks delayed our flight."
"No matter," the king waves a dismissive hand. "Urzak was just explaining his tactical assessments."
I slip into the chamber as quietly as possible, but every eye tracks my movement. The stone floor seems to amplify each footfall as I make my way to the raised seats where the king's inner circle sits. Finn watches my approach with one elegant eyebrow raised, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
"You're late," he murmurs as I take my place beside him.
"Discussions with the rebels ran long," I mutter back, keeping my voice low.
A chuckle cracks his mask of amusement, brief but genuine. Then his attention returns to the chamber floor where General Urzak holds court.
"The elven lands are ripe for conquest, Your Majesty," the general continues. "Our scouts report their armies scattered, dealing with uprisings in their outer provinces. Their western settlements will fall within days."
Murmurs of approval ripple through the assembly. I scan the faces around the Obsidian Throne. Morgaine stands closest to the king, her crimson eyes bright with excitement as she nods along.
Lord Kael straightens in his seat. "And the coastal defenses? Völundr's naval fleet is formidable. Their weaponry is unlike anything we've encountered."
A few council members shift uncomfortably.
