I need more specifics. Numbers, timing, weak points in their strategy. Anything I can use to prepare our defenses.
The music shifts again, becoming more insistent. The rhythm seems to reach inside my chest and squeeze. Around me, fae nobles sway and laugh to the hypnotic symphony.
I miss Svenn.
I wish I could dance with him to this beautiful melody. His hand would be at my waist and his eyes on mine. He would give me that rare smile that softens his face.
But he's not here.
He's chained in some mountain cave, fighting his own battle. The ache of missing him catches me off guard.
I need to clear my head and get out of here. Just for a moment.
I slip away from the main platform. The corridor I find is quieter and the music fades to a dull throb behind me. Doors line both sides of the hallway. I pause, uncertain which one to try. They all look the same.
The third one on the left, the Un whispers. I thank my dark patrons silently.
My hand finds the brass handle and turns it. The door opens without sound, revealing a small chamber lit by a single lamp. It appears empty. Just a few chaises and an oval table.
I step inside and close the door behind me. My hands tremble as I reach up and lift the mask from my face. The relief is immediate. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The cool air feels like mercy.
Cruel laughter echoes through the chamber.
What?
I look around frantically for somewhere to hide.
Oh no. Oh no.
Curtains are the worst cover. The table is solid with no space underneath. There's nothing, no place to hide.
A large serving trolley sits in the corner.
It's laden with half-empty platters and draped with cloth that hangs nearly to the floor. Someone brought food here earlier and never cleared it away. I dive for it, dropping into a crouch and pressing myself into the small space. The cloth provides imperfect coverage. It will have to do.
I force myself to be still.
Through a gap in the fabric, I can see the far end of the room. This is a war room and the fae commanders are having a meeting. They move into the antechamber where I'm hiding, completely unaware of my presence. I slow my breathing, making each inhale and exhale as quiet as possible.
The curtain is pulled aside and figures emerge.
First comes Mavren, the orc king. He's seven feet tall and his shoulders are broad enough that he has to turn slightly to fit through the doorway. He wears Myrkheim formal court clothing of leather and fur. Two tribal leaders walk with him, their faces painted with war markings.
Behind him come two dwarf lords. They're shorter than Mavren but no less dangerous. Their axes hang at their belts.
And then I see them.
My breath catches in my throat. Kheirall and Ragnar.
Kheirall looks more weary than the last time I saw him in the human world. He was so carefree back when he officiated my wedding ceremony in the forest. Exhaustion haunts the elegant lines of his face and his membranous wings fold tight against his back.
Ragnar moves gracefully beside him, dressed more simply than the others in practical black leather. But his presence fills the room nonetheless.
They serve Eirik Bloodhound. But they're also… complicated. Friends isn't the right word. But not entirely enemies either.
"We should strike immediately," the Orkan warrior sitting next to Mavren suggests. "Every day we wait, the elves fortify further."
My fingers dig into my palms.
