"Aye," rumbles Thane Borin, though I notice his weathered hands tremble slightly. "My weapons are forged with protection runes."
But not all share their confidence. Lord Kael's silver tattoos swirl frantically across his pale skin. "The Ancient Ones are not to be taken lightly, Your Majesty. If Queen Rhianelle truly commands such power, perhaps we should reconsider our timeline."
The enchantress leans close to the king, her voice honey-laced with venom. "It's a trick, designed to delay your rightful conquest."
The king sits upon his throne of bone and iron, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"I know what I saw," I insist. "If you attack the elves thinking them weak, you march to your doom."
"Father, perhaps we should reconsider," Finnbheara says carefully. "If the queen truly wields ancient magic—"
"Reconsider?" Morgaine's eyes flash dangerously. "We have spent years preparing this alliance, gathering our strength while Aelfheim grows complacent. Their armies are scattered, their defenses weakened by internal strife. To delay now would be to throw away our greatest advantage."
I find my voice again, urgent with the need to make them understand. "And what advantage will we have against power that can unmake a dozen mages with a single word? Your Majesty, I counsel patience. We need time to study this threat and prepare proper countermeasures."
"You sound like a coward, Landon." Warchief Urzak laughs. "My warriors have faced demons and dragons. A little elven sorcery won't turn their hearts to water."
The chamber erupts into heated debate. Orkan war-chiefs pound fists on tables and roar for immediate blood, their voices drowning out the Avalon generals who try to argue for scouts and preparation time. The dwarves fracture between those who trust their runecraft that has never failed them, and those who remember older songs with warnings about Astefar's ancient powers. The noise builds until I can barely hear my own thoughts.
Through it all, Eirik Bloodhound sits silent upon his Obsidian Throne. Finally he raises a single hand. The chamber falls silent as if he has stolen the very air from our lungs.
"Enough," he dismisses. No one in the room dares to speak.
Prince Finnbheara breaks the silence. "Our herald speaks wisdom, Your Majesty. If even half of what he witnessed is true, we march not to conquest but to slaughter. If the elves have awakened the old magics—"
"You forget a crucial truth, my son." The king's voice is cold and final. "We are not mere mortals to cower before ancient powers. We are the inheritors of shadow and flame. If the Elven Queen commands Firstborn magic, then let her. We shall seehow well such power serves her against the combined might of our alliance."
He rises from his throne and the shadows seem to rise with him.
"The elves have held themselves above us for too long." His voice carries to every corner of the vast hall. "They name us lesser beings, monsters and savages. They cage us with their rules and their righteousness. No more."
The war-chiefs roar their approval. Morgaine's smile grows triumphant. But I see doubt in other faces. Kael, Finnbheara, and even King Mavren.
"There will be no parley. No treaties. Only ash." Eirik spreads his arms wide. "The elves will burn. Their time has ended and a new era begins. An era of shadow and fire."
The roar of approval that follows is deafening. Orcs beat their weapons against their shields and the dwarves stamp their iron-shod boots. Even the shadows on the walls seem to writhe in anticipation.
But I feel none of their joy or their hunger for battle.
"The Wild Hunt rides again," the Fae King declares.
Cheers and bloodlust fill the room.
At the center of the hall, the floor trembles at the king's summon. A circular platform rises from the depths, its ancient mechanisms groaning to life. Atop it rests a pedestal of black marble and upon that pedestal lies the Horn of Valdyr.
Bone-white, gleaming, and curved like a crescent moon. It was carved from the tusk of the first dragon to fall in the War of the First Age.
Eirik's cold eyes fix on me. "Sound the call, Herald."
For a heartbeat I do not move.
The command settles over the chamber like falling ash. Every gaze shifts toward me. Finnbheara's fingers tighten at his sides,just slightly, as if he means to step forward to object. His throat works. But no words come. The prince knows what this means.
Eirik does not look away. There will be no changing his mind. No stopping what comes next.
I force my feet to move.
Each step echoes too loudly against the stone, as though the chamber itself resists what I am about to do. I mount the shallow steps, aware of the silence pressing in from all sides.
