Page 211 of Fallen Nocturne

“You have to,” Rainer says grimly. “For her. You have to.”

His voice is steady but the hand at his side is clenched so tightly that blood runs from where his nails have cut into his palm.

Rainer wants to reach her too. I see it in the rigid set of his shoulders and the helpless fury in his eyes. But like me, he can do nothing except stand here and watch her suffer.

In the circle, Finnbheara raises his sword. The blade gleams in the morning light. He positions it over the vulnerable gap between the armor plates on Rhianelle’s back.

One thrust. That’s all it would take. One thrust and this is over.

“I’m sorry,” Finnbheara says, and he sounds like he means it. “Truly. You were braver than I gave you credit for.”

He pulls back, preparing to strike.

“Wait!” Landon’s voice cuts through everything.

Finnbheara pauses and looks up at his friend standing at the edge of the circle.

“What?” he asks.

“The Duel of Oryth has specific rules,” Landon says quickly. “It has not been fulfilled.”

“We have followed the rules,” Finnbheara says slowly. “What do you mean?”

“The trial dictates that each combatant must bring forth every power, weapon, and bond that is an extension of themselves,” Landon continues. His gaze moves toward the sky. “You are one of the Night Herons. Call upon your wyvern.”

Finnbheara stares at him. “What?”

“You must call Sanguisyl,” Landon says firmly. “The fight isn’t just between warriors. It’s between bonded pairs. That’s the rule and law.”

Finnbheara lowers his sword slightly and looks down at Rhianelle. Then his gaze rises to Landon. “Are you serious? Look at her. She’s finished and defeated. You want me to bring my wyvern into this?”

“Rules are rules,” Landon says simply.

That bastard Landon, Coinneach hisses. What is he thinking?

Finnbheara shakes his head. “This is pointless.”

Laughter ripples through the fae side again. They think this is hilarious.

“That’s overkill.” A dwarf lord guffaws so hard he nearly falls from his chair. “This is mercy! Finnbheara is giving her a quick death!”

“I am the Herald. I witness this fight. And I say, the Duel of Oryth requires both combatants to call their wyverns,” Landon insists, his expression giving nothing away. “You must call Sanguisyl, King Finnbheara. That is the law.”

“She’s an elf.” I hear King Mavren mutter as he covers his face with one hand. “Elves don’t have wyverns. Just end it quickly. Don’t let the girl suffer.”

Ragnar gives a grim nod in agreement.

But the fae spectators keep cheering and laughing.

Finnbheara looks at them. “Very well.”

He sheathes his sword and raises his hand to whistle. A terrible roar splits the sky. The red wyvern descends from above, where he’d been circling. Sanguisyl lands and enters the arena, the ground shaking with his weight. A mountain of scales, muscle, and primal fury. His breath steams in the cool morning air. Each exhale could incinerate a person.

Finnbheara walks toward his bonded companion and places a hand on the massive snout.

“Gently, old friend,” he murmurs. “You are here only to fulfill the condition. You will not need to fight.”

The fae spectators begin to chant.