Page 209 of Fallen Nocturne

Landon raises his hand. The crowd goes silent. Every eye is fixed on the circle below.

“Let the Duel of Oryth begin!”

The moment Landon’s shout fades, Rhianelle moves. She doesn’t draw her sword immediately. Instead, she drops into a crouch and drags the point of her dagger through the earth, carving the first lines of a summoning circle.

She’s borrowing strength from Astefar, trying to level the playing field. But Finnbheara doesn’t give her the chance. The Fae Prince moves like lightning. He closes the distance between them, his sword already drawn and swinging. The attack comes so fast that without my Strigon eyes, I would have missed it. It’s a horizontal slash aimed at Rhianelle’s neck, meant to decapitate.

He meant to end this in one stroke.

Rhianelle’s eyes widen. She abandons the summoning, her hands dropping to her sword. She draws it barely in time, bringing it up to block.

Their blades meet with thunderous force. The impact drives Rhianelle backward. Her feet slide in the dirt. The summoning is broken.

“No,” I breathe.

Finnbheara doesn’t relent or pause. He presses forward, his blade a blur of motion. Strike after strike after strike. Rhianelle blocks and parries every thrust, desperately trying to keep his blade away from her. But she’s on the defensive.

She tries to step back and create space. But Finnbheara follows. His longer legs eat up the ground and his superior reach keeps her pinned.

He swings again. A massive overhead strike that would cleave her in half if it connected. Rhianelle brings her sword up horizontally above her head.

She locks it and her sword shines. The golden blade erupts with light, the Starfall steel responding to the impact and absorbing the force. Finnbheara’s blade slides off harmlessly to the side. His eyes widen just slightly with surprise.

Beside me, Hrolf makes a sound. It’s a pleased grunt, and he beams with pride.

“Starfall steel,” he mutters. “Finest in the world. No enchanted fae blade can match it.”

But even as he speaks, I see the truth.

The sword is magnificent, a product of superior craftsmanship and the best weapon Rhianelle could possibly have. But a weapon is only as good as its wielder. Rhianelle is losing. She is not a close combat fighter.

Finnbheara realizes it too. I see it in the way his initial surprise fades. He adjusts his strategy and stops trying to overpower her with single massive strikes. Instead, he switches to speed and precision, trying to wear her down. His blade becomes a serpent, striking from every angle and testing her defenses.

Rhianelle meets him blow for blow. Her sword work is better than I expected. Siofra trained her well, but she’s small. So small compared to him and exhausted. Every parry costs her. Every block drives her backward.

Rhianelle sees an opening and tries to counter. She thrusts forward. Finnbheara sidesteps easily. His blade comes around and slams into her armored shoulder.

The silver plate holds. My work holds. But the impact drives her to one knee.

“Get up,” I whisper desperately. “Please, get up.”

She scrambles back to her feet, breathing hard now. Finnbheara presses relentlessly. Rhianelle blocks and parries, but she’s giving ground, retreating toward… the rocks.

Large boulders are scattered around the ravine floor, natural formations that provide cover. Rhianelle is running for them. She breaks away from Finnbheara’s assault and sprints. Her armor clanks and her breath comes in ragged gasps. She reaches the nearest boulder, placing it between herself and the fae prince.

Just long enough for her to catch her breath.

Laughter erupts from the other side of the ravine, loud, mocking, and cruel.

“Look at her run!” someone shouts.

“Coward!” another calls.

“The Elven Queen fights like a rat!” a dwarf shouts.

More laughter. It spreads like a disease.

I look at our side. They’re not laughing.