Page 198 of Fallen Nocturne

“No,” she whispers. “No, no, no...”

But there’s more. I see Landon’s legion. The warriors who followed him from the Fae Kingdom. They’re fighting for Aelfheim. The wyvern riders are defending elven soldiers and covering retreats. But it has cost them.

So many of them are dead. Their bodies scattered across the field along with their wyverns.

This is a fucking slaughter.

I look back at Rhianelle. Tears streak her face, and her lips move around words. The wind steals them before I can hear. Prayers, perhaps. Or apologies to every soul she believes she failed to save. This is the weight she carries on those small shoulders.

She’s about to walk into a parley with the prince commanding the forces doing this, and beg him to stop.

Landon was right. It’s impossible. But I understand now why she has to try.

Dorcha banks left, heading toward the largest concentration of fae forces where Finnbheara must be. I follow on shadow wings into the heart of the enemy.

We don’t have to search for Prince Finnbheara. He finds us. A massive shape bursts through the smoke ahead, red scales gleaming like blood in the firelight.

Sanguisyl.

Finnbheara’s wyvern. The beast that makes even Dorcha look small by comparison. The red wyvern is a monster. Scars crisscross his scales, old wounds from a lifetime of battle.

I’ve only seen the prince once before. He is tall and lean, with dark hair swept back from a face carved into severe lines. Nothing about him is soft. Black-and-silver armor covers him from throat to heel, marked by soot and fresh blood. But his eyes are ancient. Hard. Unforgiving.

Sanguisyl circles us, forcing Dorcha to adjust her flight path. The red wyvern makes a low, threatening sound. It’s a warning to the smaller dark emerald wyvern to submit. Dorcha snarls back but doesn’t challenge. Finnbheara’s eyes lock onto Landon first and his expression softens, just slightly.

“Landon, I thought you’d fallen,” he says, his gaze dropping to the empty space where Landon’s right arm should be. Something shifts in his face before the coldness returns.

“I nearly did,” Landon replies. “Your father saw to that.”

Before Finnbheara can answer, another wyvern glides out of the smoke behind Sanguisyl. Smaller, but still built for war. Its rider keeps close to the prince’s flank, his assessing gaze moving over each of us. Judging by the way he positions himself between his prince and any threat, he must be Finnbheara’s second-in-command.

The prince’s jaw tightens. “My father’s presence is gone. I know you and your new companions had something to do with it.”

“We didn’t kill him,” Landon says quickly.

“Then where is he?” Finnbheara’s voice rises. “What did you do with the king?”

“The Fae King is not dead,” Rhianelle speaks up and Finnbheara’s eyes snap to her for the first time. His face goes cold and murderous.

“Rhianelle Wiolant, the Elven Queen. You have some nerve showing your face in front of me,” he breathes. His gaze cuts back to Landon. “You keep strange company these days, old friend.”

“Your father is alive,” Rhianelle says calmly, unmoved by the hatred in his stare. “He was sent into another realm by the Unyieldings.”

Finnbheara’s eyes narrow. He exchanges a brief look with the warrior at his flank, a silent conversation passing between them. “And you expect me to believe that?”

“Rhianelle had nothing to do with it,” Landon says. “I swear it on the Hunt, Finn. She did not harm your father.”

Finnbheara scoffs, but some of the murderous tension leaves his face.

“The Elven Queen of Aelfheim wishes to speak,” Landon adds. “Please, Finn. Hear her.”

Finnbheara stares at Landon for a long moment.

“For you, I’m willing to hear what she has to say,” he says, his cultured voice carrying easily over the wind, refined even with anger sharpening every word. His gaze cuts to Rhianelle. “That does not mean I will believe whatever poison comes from her mouth.”

The longer this fae prince speaks to Rhianelle, the more I want to tear him from his saddle. Let’s see how refined he sounds with my hand around his throat.

“Thank you for hearing me out. That's all I ask,” Rhianelle says. “Prince Finnbheara, I request parley. Let us find a way to end this without more bloodshed.”