Page 29 of The Song of Sunrise (The Prentice Teller #1)

Many Tellings of the River Tribe share countless stories of Lady Neda and her Kingfishers, warriors that train from a young age in the cold, icy rivers of the north, forced to hold their breath longer than humanly possible, even for Elven standards.

While she is soft and supple in her exterior, I have a feeling Lady Neda is nothing but, having earned her rank first in their defense force before ascending to the River Tribe throne.

Methods for acceptance as a Kingfisher are extremely intense.

I had to shut my library book twice when reading about their gruesome underwater training sessions with river predators and weighted chains.

Only the most lethal Elves survive long enough to achieve the honorable Kingfisher title.

As if my thoughts conjure them, three huge warriors stomp into the room as if their feet aren’t used to walking on dry land, flanking their royals like seagulls. Their armor is covered in small overlapping metal plates, like fish scales, in shades of blue that would be nearly invisible underwater.

The son of the River Lady, Prince Ladon, stomps over to the spot right next to me, staring almost too intently. He pulls his chair back slowly and seats himself. His blue hair falls forward, shadowing his eyes, as he reaches for the wine decanter.

“My lady,” he says as he pours more wine into my goblet. I almost choke on my own spit. Me? A lady?

It is a bold move. To serve a human, let alone the only human in the room with unknown heritage or political leverage. What is he playing at? I do not know the rules to these political games, but I will play.

I look straight into the center of his river blue eyes. “I am not a lady, Prince Ladon. You can call me Akemi. If you so please, Your Highness,” I add after a slight pause, gesturing to my now full wine goblet.

He raises an eyebrow, impressed by my equally bold response.

“Nice to meet you, Akemi .” He emphasizes my name with his hoarse voice, graveling out every syllable as if uncomfortable breathing air. Perhaps his preferred method of breathing is through the gills on the side of his neck.

A WatchGuard near the door lets out a curt cough, interrupting my thoughts. My heart begins to gallop in my chest, knowing instinctively that if both Elven Tribes arrived, the Underworld is next.

“May I present our first delegate from the Underworld Courts, our closest neighbor underneath the surface of the upper mantle, Lord Rollo of Jord, accompanied by Oksvakt, Ivar and Sigurd, Born of the Rock.”

Not a man, but two tall, near-transparent, wolf-like hounds enter the room, their needle pointed teeth dripping with drool.

They growl and lead their master to the table.

His hair is as black as a moon-covered night, a sneer permanent underneath his auburn beard.

He looks like a boulder, wearing layers of red, brown, and fur.

An entourage enters behind him— they must be the Oksvakt —looking equally intimidating, armed with at least three axes each.

Oksvakt are known to be brutal fighters, specializing in pulverizing their victims with giant axes.

My breath quickens. A large quiver of red-tipped arrows is visible beyond the Jord Lord’s shoulders. An ornate silver axe is slung at his hip.

The same axe that killed so many of my friends as easily as a scythe would grain.

The same red wax arrow that killed Marrow.

I gasp for a breath, not realizing I was holding it. Castor puts a comforting hand on my leg. I grab it instinctively, gripping his calloused fingers with my own sweating palm.

Castor recognizes him too by the way our hands clasp firmly together under the table. Neither of us move. His hand tethers me from spiraling into panic.

No one speaks or offers a chair to the Jord Lord. Even the Elders cast their gazes downward. How can they ignore the fact that a member of the alliance is pillaging our towns? One of the Oksvakt leads the hounds back out of the room, which lowers the tension only slightly.

A throat clears, announcing the last arrival. The room falls silent. The WatchGuard standing at the door looks as if he has seen the devil himself. The tension goes from thick to sharp. There is only one delegate left to enter these halls for the Summit.

“Lords, Ladies. I announce to you our delegate from the lowermost Underworld Territory of the lower mantle, Earth Breaker and Lord of Terraguard, Lord Atlys and his Coredivers, General Damaris and Lord Cadex.”

The ground begins to rumble. Not like the surface level quakes we sometimes experience, but somehow from deep within the earth. The reverberations shake me to my core, from the inside out. The amount of sheer power thrumming through the dining chamber is immense and charged with energy.

Goblets and cutlery clink on the table.

The wine ripples in concentric circles like puddles of pooling blood.

Shadows grow along the wall, perched and waiting.

I weave my fingers through Castor’s and squeeze.

I know barely anything about this Underworld Lord beyond the rumors that he eats the souls of his prisoners.

In public, people call him “Earth Breaker,” but in the privacy and safety of homes he is called “Soul Eater.” A trail of shivers creeps along my spine.

Only years of studying as a Prentice Teller keep my face calm and void of emotion, though the inside of my chest constricts in panic.

The Underworld Lord of Terraguard saunters in casually, as if the demonstration of his earth-shaking power was effortless.

His pale white hair is tied back loosely at his shoulders, where a black cape is clasped at an angle.

Reflective eyes of a thousand crushed mirrors contrast from the thin streak of black paint that covers his eyes, nose, and temples.

Two warriors enter behind him, Coredivers, wearing similar markings on their faces.

They tower over us all, though none are quite as large as Lord Atlys himself, who has to be nearing seven feet.

General Damaris is lean, hair long and flowing, whereas Lord Cadex is broad, muscles bulging around his black tunic, hair styled in short curls falling forward at the top of his head while nearly shaved fully on the sides.

They are all pale and blonde. Creatures created from the bowels of this world that have never felt sunlight on their skin.

The Corediver with long, wavy tresses, General Damaris, takes the cape off his shoulders, revealing more layers of black: leather pants, a silver-studded belt, and a partially unbuttoned black shirt rolled up to the elbows.

Scrolls of glittering tattoos creep across the wide column of his neck.

A silver chain lays heavily against his chest, matching the ornate jewelry hanging from his ears.

“Thank you, General Damaris,” Lord Atlys purrs.

His voice is gruff and silky, powerful and soft, lilting and firm. He is a juxtaposition my mind cannot seem to unravel quick enough. His eyes, jewelry, light skin, and hair contrast so immensely with his black wardrobe, the house color of Terraguard, that the effect is… startling.

I lean into Castor’s warmth to soothe my shivers of pure, undulated shock and fear rippling through my body.

He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer.

I take a shaky sip of my wine, willing myself to remain calm and not show my surprise that I recognize not one, but both of the Underworld Lords.

The one that killed Marrow and the one from the hot springs underneath the Watch.

The male whose silver gaze now stares back at me.