Page 45 of Fallen Nocturne

The tavern door explodes inward.

Wood bursts across the room in a storm of splinters. Someone screams. Tables overturn as patrons dive for cover. The hooded informer spins, one hand disappearing beneath her cloak.

Armored warriors pour through the shattered entrance.

Fae warriors.

Black steel covers them from throat to boot, each breastplate engraved with the thorned rose of the Wild Hunt. I know those weapons. I know that sigil.

My former brothers.

They found us.

The first warrior through the door has a face I recognize.

Torvan. I fought beside him for sixty years. We shared drinks after battles more times than I can remember.

His sword is already drawn.

“Herald,” he says, his voice carrying over the chaos. “You are called to answer for desertion and treason against the Fae King.”

I don’t answer. Words won’t help now.

The informer produces twin daggers. She positions herself at my back without discussion.

The Orkan bartender doesn’t flee. She plants herself behind the bar, axe ready, eyes calculating.

Across the room, one of the patrons overturns a table and ducks behind it. Two others scramble to join him, dragging chairs into the gaps to form a makeshift barrier. Smart. They have no part in this fight, and they intend to keep it that way.

Torvan advances through the wreckage. Five warriors fan out behind him, moving with precision. Every one of them wears the black and crimson I once wore.

“Stand down,” Torvan orders, his sword held ready at his side. “Come peacefully and the king may show mercy.”

“The king.” I let shadows curl around my fingers. “Or the thing controlling him?”

His expression flickers. Surprise first, followed by fear, both quickly concealed behind a soldier’s discipline.

So he knows. They all know something is wrong. But they’re still here, following orders.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Torvan says, and I believe him. There’s regret in his voice. “But I will.”

“I know.”

The moment stretches between us. Torvan’s grip tightens around his sword while the warriors behind him shift into attack formation. We trained together. I know how each of them moves, where they leave openings and which direction they favor when they strike.

Beside me, the informer’s breathing changes as she prepares herself.

I reach into the darkness and call my shadow lynxes. They emerge soundlessly around my feet, their bodies taking shape from smoke and night. They were made for close quarters, for swift attacks and quicker retreats.

Torvan gives the signal.

I move first.

A lynx launches at the nearest warrior and knocks him from his feet before he can raise his blade. I am already moving past him, flowing through the shadows as another sword cuts through the space I occupied a heartbeat earlier.

The informer meets two warriors at once. Her fighting style is strange and graceful, every turn carrying her just beyond the reach of their weapons. Her daggers flash between them. One warrior staggers back, clutching a wound in his arm, while the other presses forward and forces her toward the bar.

Torvan comes at me with fire. Blue fae flame races along his free hand, bright and hungry, forcing me away from him. My shadow lynxes hiss and recoil as the light scorches through their half-formed bodies.