Page 226 of Fallen Nocturne

Finnbheara looks over his new army and begins to laugh. The sound starts quietly, then rises until it echoes through the ravine. There is something wild in it that reminds me too much of his father.

He turns back to Rhianelle with a cruel smile.

“We could destroy you now,” Finnbheara says, spreading his hands as though presenting her with a gift.

The creatures behind him snarl their agreement, several openly promising blood and slaughter. They’re begging to be unleashed.

I look at Rhianelle.

She does not tremble. Little fawn stands before the king and his nightmares without the slightest trace of fear.

“I could kill you right now,” Finnbheara says, leaning closer. “I could march on Aelfheim tomorrow with my full army and face no resistance.”

Rhianelle meets his eyes, calm and unafraid.

“Yes, you could,” Rhianelle agrees. “But I hope you won’t.”

Oh, little fawn. Coinneach lowers his head and covers his face with one hand.

Garrett’s shoulders sag. Rainer closes his eyes as if he cannot bear to watch, while Hrolf mutters something beneath his breath. Even Bas looks at Rhianelle with the weary pity reserved for someone far too gentle for the world she inhabits.

A few generals among the fae infantry exchange amused glances. One of them snickers openly, shaking his head at the foolish elven queen who has placed her life in the hands of an enemy.

Hope.

The belief that people might choose peace over destruction. Simple, naive, and impossible.

Everyone else appears to think she has made a terrible mistake. I think so too. But then I look at Finnbheara.

The cruel amusement vanishes from his face. His eyes remain fixed on Rhianelle, and his throat moves as he swallows. He looks almost shaken.

The fae king stares at my little fawn, who just bet everything, her kingdom, her people, and her life, on hope. Rhianelle gave Finnbheara everything and trusted him.

Finnbheara releases her hand carefully. He looks up at the assembled armies on both sides of the ravine. Thousands of soldiers watching and holding their breath.

“By my bond with the Wild Hunt and by everything I hold sacred, no fae under my rule shall raise a weapon against the people of Aelfheim for so long as the elves offer us the same peace.”

He lifts his chin, looking across the gathered host.

“The treaty stands. Any who violate it will answer to me.”

The creatures of Astefar bow as one. Flames bend low. Shadow beasts flatten themselves against the earth, and the winged horrors circling overhead dip their monstrous heads in obedience.

He turns slightly, addressing both armies now. “This war has taken enough from all of us,” he continues. “Gather your wounded. Bury your dead. Return to your homes. The war is over.”

For one suspended heartbeat, no one reacts.

Then a roar erupts from the ravine. Fae soldiers strike their weapons against their shields while others throw their fists into the air. Orcs and dwarves stamp their boots until the ground trembles, and even some of Astefar’s creatures raise their voices in a terrible celebration that shakes the air.

On the elf side, the reaction is quieter and more stunned. They can’t quite believe what just happened. Their queen challenged a fae prince, nearly died, and somehow impossibly won. Not through strength or devastating power.

Through hope.

Finnbheara looks at Landon. “Herald. Witness this. Let it be known that on this day, in this place, peace was chosen freely by both sides.”

“Not your herald yet, but it is recorded,” Landon says, his voice formal but his eyes bright. “Let the histories remember.”

Finnbheara nods once. Then he turns and walks toward the edge of the circle where Sanguisyl waits. The massive red wyvern is still staring at Coral. Finnbheara climbs onto his wyvern’s back and settles into the saddle. He looks back one more time at the circle, at Rhianelle.