Page 217 of Fallen Nocturne

“Five,” Hrolf announces confidently.

A murmur sweeps through the crowd. Finnbheara’s eyes widen.

Shade folds his arms. “Eight when she’s properly motivated. Food usually works. She likes chicken.”

Coral’s head snaps toward him at the word chicken. Her tail begins wagging against the scorched earth.

The fae lords nearest the circle recoil.

“And the vampire can transport her,” Garrett adds, his expression perfectly grave. “He can carry her through the shadows and move her between targets before anyone has time to prepare.”

Coinneach rises behind me, his darkness spreading across the ground. A shadow portal tears open around me, revealing nothing but churning blackness beyond.

The murmuring grows louder.

“A Ysendral,” they whisper.

“That is our contingency plan should the outcome of this trial prove unfavorable,” Garrett says in a single breath.

Thank the gods my friends are such accomplished liars. The fucking lot of them.

“Before Sanguisyl destroys the elven regions, Coral will destroy three, perhaps four fae cities,” Landon says, his words falling into the quiet. “Maybe more if she is desperate, cornered, and afraid.”

He takes a slow step closer to Finnbheara.

“Lethariel first, perhaps. Then Moonhollow. Starweald, Aerdrasil, and Nythalara after that.” Landon holds his gaze, giving him nowhere to retreat. “Every city you love. Every place that shaped you. Gone before you can reach them.”

Finnbheara’s jaw clenches.

“Even if you win and destroy all of Aelfheim, what will you rule? Ashes and ruins?” Landon says quietly without pause.

Finnbheara says nothing. His gaze moves from Coral to Sanguisyl, then toward the fleeing remnants of his army.

I watch from the edge of the ravine, and I see the fae prince weighing the costs.

Coral cannot do any of the shit we are claiming, but Finnbheara doesn’t know that. He sees the glowing scales and the terrified crowds, the overwhelming power that nearly erupted from her.

And he believes.

I can see it in his face. The doubt creeping in.

Finnbheara is different from his father, Rhianelle once said. He is not cruel, ambitious, or hungry for conquest. I see the fear he has for his people.

“You can destroy each other,” Landon says softly. “Burn everything. Leave nothing but graves and memories. But to what end, Finn? Deep down you know that this war is wrong. This is your chance to end it with your honor intact.”

Finnbheara doesn’t answer. He simply stares at Coral, the small wyvern who could maybe, possibly, if the stars align, level his cities.

The silence stretches.

Finally, Finnbheara speaks.

“One of us still needs to die today,” he says quietly. “The rules of the trial are sacred. You said so yourself, herald. The Duel of Oryth requires a death. Blood must be spilled to break the circle.”

“Then spill mine.”

Rhianelle pushes herself away from Coral, though one hand remains on the wyvern for support.

“I entered this circle knowing what it might cost me,” she says to Finnbheara. “If blood is required, let it be mine. But you must promise you will leave my people unharmed.”