Page 200 of Fallen Nocturne

“You could,” Rhianelle agrees. “But you won’t. Because I issued the challenge before your herald. You cannot refuse without dishonor.”

Finnbheara looks at Rhianelle for a long, measuring moment. “A little elven queen who probably weighs less than my sword wants to fight me in the Oryth trial. What do you think, Landon?”

Landon forces a shrug, but the movement is too stiff to look convincing. “I don’t know what to think,” he says with studied carelessness. “But she issued the challenge according to the old laws. You must answer her.”

“Please,” Rhianelle adds, and the word is soft. “Enough people have died. Let’s end this.”

“Your summoning will not work against me. You’ll die within minutes,” Finnbheara says flatly. “Maybe seconds if I’m feeling merciful and end it quickly.”

“Then you have nothing to fear,” Rhianelle replies.

Finnbheara’s gaze returns to Landon, searching the face of his oldest friend for some warning or deception. Landon gives him nothing. The prince then looks toward his second-in-command, who inclines his head once. The challenge is lawful. There is no honorable way to refuse it.

“Fine. I accept your challenge, Rhianelle Wiolant,” he says finally. “We’ll fight at dawn. When I kill you and your kingdom falls, I will hunt every elf. That’s the price of your foolishness. Set up the ash circle, herald.”

“The ravine makes a perfect fighting pit,” Landon says, gesturing into the darkness beyond the battlefield. “Three miles east of here. It’s wide enough for proper combat and isolated enough that any interference will be obvious.”

Finnbheara considers this, then nods. “The ravine. Agreed.”

Rhianelle nods like this is exactly what she expected. My wife is unbothered that she just agreed to fight to the death against a fae prince who has probably been training for centuries.

I want to grab her and demand she take this back. But I trust her. Even though it’s killing me that I won’t be able to protect her.

“Blow the horn and call a ceasefire, Landon,” Finnbheara tells his herald. “Let them gather their dying.”

Landon pulls a horn from the satchel secured to Dorcha’s saddle. It’s massive and curved, made from some creature’s horn, etched with runes that glow faintly in the darkness. He puts it to his lips and blows.

The sound that emerges is like nothing I’ve ever heard. It’s loud, echoing across the entire battlefield. The note is ancient and primal, sinking beneath flesh to reverberate through the heart and bones.

It’s the sound of the Hunt itself.

Below us, the fighting stops instantly. Warriors lower their weapons and look up, searching for the source of that sound.

When Landon speaks into the horn, it seizes his voice and hurls it across the battlefield. Every word rolls over the armies below, clear enough to reach the farthest ranks.

“By order of Finnbheara, the new Fae King of Avalon, a ceasefire is declared,” his voice booms. “Gather your wounded. Tend your dying. Bury your dead.”

Another blast of the horn.

“At dawn, the Oryth challenge will commence. Rhianelle Wiolant, Queen of Aelfheim, will face Finnbheara, Fae King of Avalon, in a fight to the death. The victor will decide the fate of both kingdoms.”

One final blast.

The horn’s sound fades, echoing into silence.

Slowly and hesitantly, the armies begin to move. They’re no longer fighting or attacking. Elven soldiers rush to their fallen comrades and fae warriors kneel beside their wounded. Healers emerge from both sides. White-robed figures move between the bodies, searching for those who can still be saved.

I turn toward the new Fae King. Finnbheara is not watching the armies or the wounded gathering below. His attention rests entirely on Rhianelle, his expression cold and unreadable.

“Know this, young queen. When dawn comes and we enter that circle, I will show you no mercy.”

Finnbheara wheels Sanguisyl around and flies back toward his forces. His second follows, casting one last glance at us before disappearing into the smoke.

“It’s done,” Landon says quietly, lowering the horn. “The ceasefire holds until dawn.”

I see Prince Vayne lower his blade. King Mavren does the same. The Maiden of Arawynn collapses to her knees, her shields finally dropping. Exhaustion hits her all at once. But she’s alive.

Lady Siofra and Darstan still lie where they fell, hands clasped. Elven soldiers approach them gently, ready to carry them home.