Page 128 of Fallen Nocturne

Blaire’s husband.

Vayne, the third prince of Myrkheim, is here too.

Blaire herself stands at the opposite end of the table, eyes on the map and nowhere near him.

“Your Highness.” He bows stiffly. Blaire doesn’t look at him or acknowledge his presence.

I move to the table where the maps show our borders, the fae territories, and the vast empty space of the Great Plateau between them.

Rainer steps forward. “Our scouts sent word by raven thirty minutes ago.” He points to the markings on the map, red pins advancing like a plague. “The Fae King’s forces left Hellsmouth at dawn. This is a full assault, Rhianelle. Everything they have.”

“Prince Finnbheara commands the vanguard,” Garrett adds, his usually warm face grim. “He rides Sanguisyl, and behind him comes an army the likes of which we haven’t seen since the Age of Monthor.”

Lady Siofra unfurls a sketch on the table.

It’s rough, drawn in charcoal by one of our scouts. The image shows creatures that belong in nightmares, in ancient stories told to frighten children. I know them. These are the ones that live in the darkest corners of the forbidden forests.

“Woolly mammoths,” Siofra signs, tapping the largest shapes. “Three dozen of them in the front lines, maybe more. From the Winterwood territories south of the fae lands. The fae have armored them in steel and mounted siege towers on their backs. Each one carries thirty archers.”

That’s hundreds of archers with elevated positions, raining death from above before the ground forces even engage.

“What else?” I force myself to ask.

“Shadow drakes.” Darstan’s voice is flat and emotionless, but I know him well enough to hear the fear underneath. “Smaller than wyverns, but vicious. They don’t breathe fire, but their teeth can tear through plate armor. They hunt in flocks and descend on their prey together.”

“Myrkheim is bringing trolls from the Stormcrags and direwolves from the northern forests,” Rainer continues. He looks at Vayne for confirmation.

Vayne nods.

“And the fae legions themselves?” Aelfric asks.

“They’ve called in every vassal, collected every debt, and invoked every alliance going back centuries,” Vayne says. “There are dwarven war machines, orcish berserkers, demons from Hel, and lesser fae numbering in the thousands.”

“How many demons?” My voice sounds distant. It’s the only way I can process this without screaming.

“They’re opening the gates to the sixth level of Hel,” the Orc Prince says quietly.

Every head turns toward him.

“A demoness, one of the four lords who guards the gates, has agreed to empty them. Fifty thousand demons will be released to fight for the Fae King.”

Kheirall Balthazar was telling the truth. It was never up to him.

Fifty thousand. Even if I called in every able-bodied elf, every knight, and every guard, we would still be hopelessly outnumbered.

“They’re converging on the Great Plateau,” Siofra signs, dragging my attention back to the map. “It’s the only terrain between here and the fae territories that can support an army that size.”

Darstan nods. “It’s open ground with solid bedrock beneath the soil and clear sight lines for miles. It’s a killing field.”

“When will they arrive?” I ask.

“Our scouts estimate they’ll reach the Plateau by nightfall,” Rainer says. “The mammoths are slow, but everything else is moving at full speed.”

He shakes his head. “They want to hit us fast, before we can fully prepare.”

I lean over the map, studying the terrain. The Great Plateau is exactly what Siofra said. It’s a massive expanse of relatively flat grassland, dotted with occasional rock formations and scraggly trees.

“They have wyverns too,” Aelfric adds quietly. “But not as many as we’d feared.”