Page 199 of Fallen Nocturne

Finnbheara looks at her like she’s speaking another language.

“Parley?” Disbelief twists across his face before fury consumes it. “You believe there is still something left to negotiate after all the blood spilled today?”

Sanguisyl feels the change in his rider. The red wyvern’s wings snap wider, and a growl rolls from his chest with enough force to vibrate through the air between us. Smoke curls from his nostrils as he bares his teeth at Dorcha.

“My father is gone,” Finnbheara says, each word louder than the last. “My warriors are dead. The ground below us is drowning in fae blood, and you come before me asking for peace?”

His second-in-command shifts closer, watching the prince carefully, but makes no attempt to calm him.

“There will be no parley. This ends when every elf in Aelfheim is dead or bound in chains. When your kingdom is ash and your people finally understand what it costs to defy Avalon.”

For the first time, I see the king he might become. Not the grieving son or Landon’s old friend, but something colder, raised on conquest and ancient pride. The wind tears at his dark hair and Finnbheara looks every inch the Fae King already.

He gives a slow, final shake of his head.

“Then I challenge you to an Oryth rite,” Rhianelle says.

Landon goes deathly pale. His remaining hand tightens around Dorcha’s harness, and for one terrible moment I think his injuries have finally caught up with him.

I look between them, waiting for Balthazar’s cursed necklace to explain what has just happened. It takes its sweet fucking time. Then the meaning settles into my mind.

Finnbheara goes still. “What did you say?”

“I challenge you,” Rhianelle repeats, louder now. “By the old laws and the blood of the Firstborns who walked these lands. I, Rhianelle Wiolant, Queen of Aelfheim, challenge you, Finnbheara, Prince of the Fae, to the sacred trial of Oryth. The winner decides the fate of both our peoples.”

Fear claws through me before I can stop it. I have watched Rhianelle face gods, death, and monsters, but Finnbheara is a warrior forged by centuries of battle. Every instinct in me demands that I drag her away and take her place.

I force my hands to unclench.

Rhianelle knows what she is doing. She has to.

Finnbheara stares at her. Then he starts laughing.

“You want to fight me?” he says between laughs. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for your vampire companion to issue the challenge? He’s a warrior, a creature of darkness and violence. At least that would be a fair fight.”

“The challenge is mine,” Rhianelle says. “Not his.”

Finnbheara’s laughter dies. “Do you even understand what you’re proposing? Do you understand what a trial by Oryth means?”

Rhianelle nods firmly.

“Tell me what you think you’re agreeing to,” Finnbheara demands.

“We fight in a circle of ash.” Rhianelle’s voice doesn’t waver. “The circle binds us. Neither can leave until one of us is dead. No surrender, no mercy, and no escape.”

The last of my confidence fractures. I look sharply at Landon, hoping to find some sign that she has misunderstood the rite or left out a hidden path to survival. Instead, the herald’s face has gone ashen. The fear in his eyes is worse than anything twisting inside me.

“Both sides have lost so much already,” Rhianelle says, her gaze dropping briefly to the battlefield below. “So many dead and wounded. How many more? My people are dying. Your people are dying. The orcs, the dwarves, everyone caught in this war, and for what? For your father’s ambition?”

“For honor,” Finnbheara says coldly.

“Then let’s settle it with honor,” Rhianelle presses. “You and me. If you win, you can have Aelfheim. But when I win, you call off the invasion. You take your forces and go home. You let us rebuild and live freely.”

“When you win?” Finnbheara repeats, and he sounds almost amused now. “You’re very confident.”

The fae prince studies her for another long moment. “I could simply kill you here and end this farce.”

Not if we kill you first, Coinneach whispers in my head.