Page 147 of Fallen Nocturne

The floor vanishes beneath us.

I reach for the wall, but my fingers pass through the bone as if it has become smoke. We plunge into darkness. Enchantments tear across my skin as we fall through layer after layer of ancient magic, dragged toward the heart of the palace.

Svenn’s shadow surges beneath us at the last moment, spreading into a vast dark canopy that slows our fall. We still hit the floor hard enough to scatter across the chamber, but none of us break our necks. I strike the stone hard enough to drive the breath from my lungs. Pain flashes through my ribs. I force myself up and roll to my feet with my sword already drawn.

We have fallen into a vast throne room. Silver branches twist across the high ceiling, tangled with ancient oak roots that have grown through the bone-white walls. Green flames burn inside suspended skulls, casting a sickly light across the chamber.

At the far end stands a throne made from silver and blackened oak, its branches curling around the seat like grasping fingers. A long table stands at the center of the room, and the figures seated around it make my blood run cold.

The Fae King, Eirik Bloodhound, sits at its head.

Beside him sits another figure, a human—no.

A vampire with eyes lined with kohl.

“Bas,” Svenn whispers, and I hear the anguish in his voice. “Brother, what have they done to you?”

The vampire looks at Svenn with eyes full of sorrow and recognition, but he does not speak.

“He cannot answer you,” a voice says from the shadows. “But I can, brother. Welcome home.”

A man steps forward, tall and dark-haired, with features similar enough to Svenn’s that the blood between them is unmistakable.

“Ruthven,” Svenn says, and the name sounds like a curse.

“Surprised to see me?” Ruthven grins, revealing fangs. “You shouldn’t be. Where else would I be but at the side of my beloved?”

A woman materializes beside him. Morgaine. The Fae King’s human enchantress.

“Lilith,” Rhianelle breathes.

The thing wearing the mistress’s body smiles. “Hello, little queen. How kind of you to accept my invitation.”

“This was all you.” Rhianelle takes a step forward, fury cutting through her fear. “You possessed the king’s mistress. You’ve been controlling the Fae King. You orchestrated this entire war.”

“I did.” Lilith laughs. “But do not grant me glory I have not earned. Eirik summoned the Hunt long before I borrowed his precious little witch. Aelfheim was doomed for war with or without me.”

Lilith moves behind the Fae King and trails her fingers over his cheek in a mockery of tenderness. Ruthven’s smile tightens as he watches her touch the king.

“Isn’t that right, my love?” Lilith asks.

Eirik jerks against the enchantment holding him. For one fleeting moment, something lucid enters his eyes. “Give Morgaine back to me,” he snarls.

Lilith’s smile disappears. “Behave.”

She takes a knife from the table and drives it through the back of his hand, pinning him to the wood. Eirik roars in pain but does not retaliate. His free hand curls into a fist, trembling with the effort of resisting what holds him.

“What do you want?” Svenn demands.

“What I’ve always wanted, my darling creation.” Lilith moves toward him, her movements serpentine. “To reclaim what was stolen from me. I want you back.”

I don’t understand what she means, but I see Svenn’s face go white.

Beside me, Rhianelle begins to tremble. Her eyes are fixed on something beyond the throne. I follow her gaze to the far wall, where a body has been mounted like a trophy upon the massive dead tree that spreads across the bone-white surface.

Landon.

The Herald of the Wild Hunt hangs from the tree behind the throne, his arms spread wide, iron stakes driven through his palms. His right arm is missing below the elbow and his body is covered in wounds.