The horn is colder than I expect.
It has not been sounded in three thousand years.
I lift it carefully from its cradle. The weight settles into my palms.
I turn and stride from the chamber. Finnbheara's eyes follow me, heavy with unspoken arguments. The council parts before me like a sea. I can feel their stares burning into my back.
The platform stretches before me, open to the storm-dark sky. Rain begins to fall sharply against my face. Thunder rumbles in the distance, or perhaps that's just the blood pounding in my ears. I stand alone at the edge, rain soaking through my clothes. The emptiness around me feels vast and terrible.
I think of silver hair and lilac eyes. My allies are so certain of victory, but none of them was there. They didn't see how she summoned the ancient fire and the air itself bent to her will. Doubt crashes over me like a wave.
But I am the Herald of the Wild Hunt. My king has given his command.
I raise the horn to my lips.
And I blow.
The sound that erupts is not music. It's a declaration and a promise of annihilation. The horn pulls the breath from my lungs and keeps pulling, drawing from somewhere deeper. Ipour everything I have into it and it takes everything I give. My vision whites at the edges and the horn releases me.
I stagger, barely keeping my feet. My ears ring and my chest feels hollow, as if the horn has pulled something vital from inside me.
A blast surges outward in a rolling shockwave, rippling across mountains and seas. Stone trembles beneath my feet. The call does not fade long after I stop.
Silence falls and the world goes quiet.
Then the answers begin.
In the cold northern mountains, the dwarven lords are the first to respond. One by one, beacons flare to life on the summits of Darvan Mountain. I can see them from here, distant pinpricks of fire against the dark night.
Dorcha throws back her head and screams her answer to the sky. The other wyverns take up her call, and the palace shudders with it. Somewhere in the peaks of Ironwick, the rest of the Night Herons paint the horizon in blood and fury.
From the abyssal depths of the Varan Trenches, the seadragons respond. I feel them before I hear them, their call rolling up through bedrock and bone, carrying nothing but ruin.
Then Myrkheim answers along with Hel. Their war drums pounding like the heartbeat of a terrible beast.
One by one, the allies of the Fae King answer his summons.
"It's done," I whisper to the wind.
I stand frozen on the platform, the horn still clutched in my trembling hands as I watch the world prepare for war.
What have I done?
I've condemned us all.
Somewhere in the battlefield of Tavan, the silver-haired queen will hear this call and know that death is coming for her kingdom.
I return to the Court of Nightmare, drenched from head to toe. For a heartbeat no one in the chamber moves.
Then the Fae King strides toward me and claps a heavy hand against my back. "We ride for blood and vengeance."
His voice fills the chamber. Approval answers it, with cheers, the pound of fists against armor, and the scrape of steel against stone. War banners are unfurled and messengers sprint from the hall before the echoes have faded, carrying word to every corner of the kingdom. Centuries of waiting and these warriors have been starving for exactly this. Cups are raised and drained and raised again. First blood hasn't been shed in this war yet but they celebrate like their victory is carved on stone.
As the assembly begins to disperse into smaller groups to discuss tactical details, I remain frozen in place staring at the Obsidian Throne.
The king's arrogance will lead us all to slaughter.
Finnbheara falls into step beside me as the council begins to file out. Just before we pass beneath the archway, he catches my arm.
