Page 126 of Fallen Nocturne

The shout shatters the moment. Arescaine and I step apart quickly like we’ve been caught doing something wrong.

Cedwyn comes running across the training grounds. The young fae squire’s face is flushed, his breathing ragged, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my heart stumble.

Something is wrong.

“Cedwyn?” I move toward him. “What’s happened?”

“Your Highness, I—” He bends double with his hands on his knees, gasping. “There’s news. Terrible news.”

Coral lands beside us with a heavy thump, her wing braces folding mechanically. She senses my fear and presses her massive head against my side. I absently stroke her scales while dread coils in my stomach.

Overhead, the sky remains the same pale gold it was when Coral first took flight. Only moments have passed, but that happiness already feels impossibly far away.

“Breathe,” I tell Cedwyn, forcing my voice to stay calm even as panic starts clawing up my throat. “Tell me.”

He straightens and I see sweat streaking his face. “It’s the Herald, my lady. Landon. He’s been captured.”

The world tilts.

“What?” The word leaves me as little more than a whisper.

Arescaine’s hand closes around my elbow, steadying me when my legs threaten to buckle.

“Say that again.”

“Captured,” Cedwyn repeats, and his voice breaks on the word.

“The Fae King,” Cedwyn chokes out. “Landon went to court to demand answers from the king. They say Eirik himself captured him.”

“Where is he?” I interrupt more sharply than I intend. “Where are they holding him?”

“The deep cells beneath the Palace of Bones. No one escapes those cells. They’re meant to hold—”

The sound of hoofbeats cuts him off. Multiple horses race across the training grounds. I turn to see Lord Nemarion thundering toward us on a lathered destrier. His armor is askew, his face haggard, and there’s blood on his surcoat. The war general doesn’t slow down or dismount properly. He practically falls from his horse and staggers toward me.

“Your Highness.” He drops to one knee, breathing hard. “I bring word from our scouts at the border. The Fae King has declared war. His armies are mobilizing as we speak.”

No. It can’t be.

The ground shifts beneath my feet.

I’ve known this was coming. Every council meeting, every border report, and every sleepless night spent staring at maps has pointed toward this moment.

“How certain are your scouts?” I ask, because a foolish part of me is still hoping it’s not true.

“Certain enough that three of them did not return to deliver the warning,” Nemarion says.

That small, desperate hope dies.

“When?” Arescaine’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “How long do we have?”

“A day or less,” Nemarion rasps. “Prince Finnbheara leads the main force, legions upon legions, Your Highness. They’re marching toward the Great Plateau.”

The massive expanse of open ground between Aelfheim and the fae territories offers no advantage to either side. There’s nowhere to hide there, nothing but open space.

“How many?” I ask, my voice steady even though nothing else is.

“All of them.” Nemarion’s hands are shaking. “Avalon, Myrkheim, Darvan and Hel. All of them answer to the fae king. They’re bringing war beasts we’ve never seen before. Woolly mammoths from the southern lands. Shadow drakes, Hellspawns, and even things from deep in the Winterwood of Avalon.”