Chapter 38: The HenPocalypse Now

The hall smelled of roasted meat, spiced wine, and a hundred different perfumes elves insisted on wearing even when drunk out of their minds. Music floated through the air, light and playful, and everywhere I turned there were grins, laughter, and people twirling about like they had never known sorrow.

And in the middle of it all, there was me. Their so-called queen. Crownless, barefoot, holding a goblet I’d already refilled too many times, pretending I belonged here. Spoiler: I didn’t. But damn, I wasn’t going to let them outdrink me either.

To my right, Serine was giggling, her cheeks pink, her hands folded neatly like she was desperately trying not to look like she was enjoying herself too much. I leaned over, ruffled her hair—because she hated that—and whispered, “Careful, little dove. If you smile that wide, people might think you’re actually having fun.” She swatted at me, but there was no bite to it. Her eyes were glassy, like she was storing tears behind them. I pretended not to notice.

Across from us, Cassian was sitting stiff as always, broad shoulders hunched like he carried everyone’s problems on his back, nursing a single drink as if the world might implode if he let himself relax. “For crying out loud,” I called over, “if you grip that cup any harder, it’s going to file a complaint for harassment.” A faint smirk cracked his stormy eyes, which was as close to belly-laughing as Cassian ever got.

Arkanthos, of course, was in his element—perched in the middle of the table like some grotesque centerpiece, regaling a circle of wide-eyed elves with tales of forgotten battles and ancient loves, occasionally throwing in a bawdy joke that made them gasp, then blush, then laugh harder. It was absurd, really. Five thousand years dead and still more charming than half the living.

Splinterbutt stood silently by the door, eyes of cold flame scanning the hall. Not a soul dared step too close, but honestly, he looked like a proud father watching his brood enjoy themselves. Which was both creepy and… well, comforting.

And Cluckles… oh, Cluckles. That skeletal chicken was in the middle of the dance floor, flapping bony wings and clacking along with the drums, surrounded by elves who had either lost their minds or just accepted that their queen’s monstrous pet bird was now the star of the evening. “Of course he’s the life of the party,” I muttered, taking another sip. “All it takes to steal the spotlight from me is a dancing corpse-chicken. Figures.”

I laughed, but it came out a little too sharp, a little too close to something else.

Because the truth was gnawing at me, under the warmth of the wine and the laughter. This—this stupid, beautiful, ridiculous mess of people around me—was my family. My pack of strays. My little wolf cubs. And if the plan with Grimmy McDrama-Cape actually worked… well. Let’s just say there’s a reason I was drinking faster than usual tonight.

I raised my goblet, a little shakily, and called out louder than the music. “To the people who put up with me! Which, frankly, deserves sainthood or at least free therapy. To my cubs, my misfits, my—” my voice cracked, and I swallowed it down with another gulp of wine. “—my everything.”

The elves cheered. My friends just looked at me in that way I hated—too soft, too knowing.

So I laughed, sharp and loud. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not dying tonight. Probably. Now, drink, dance, someone feed the damn chicken before he starts a rebellion.”

And with that, I drowned whatever was left of the lump in my throat with more wine.

The revelry stretched past midnight, music growing sloppier, laughter louder, and wine sweeter—or maybe that was just me getting drunk enough not to care. In the far corner of the hall, the box still sat on its pedestal, humming faintly, glowing faintly, radiating heat like a small sun. Nobody went near it. The air around it shimmered, and the elves kept stealing wary glances like children eyeing a monster under the bed.

Finally, I pushed back my chair, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of my cup. I cleared my throat—loud, sharp, cutting through the music like a blade. The hall hushed instantly.

I noticed Serine and Aelith, both lowering their gazes, their faces shadowed with worry. They already knew. They could read me better than I liked. Cassian and Arkanthos closed their eyes almost at the same time, the synchronized acceptance of men who’d seen far too much. Splinterbutt banged his massive axe against the floor with a deafening clang, the sound rolling through the hall like a war drum, demanding silence.

I raised my cup high. “Elves of Liraen,” I said, letting my voice carry. “You’ve called me your queen. Honestly? Not a job I ever applied for, and certainly not one I’d recommend. But here I am, stuck with the crown-shaped problem anyway.”

A ripple of uneasy chuckles ran through the hall.

“I don’t promise to be your queen,” I went on, eyes sweeping the crowd. “I promise to be your protector. That much, at least, I can do. For you. For this forest. For the ones who danced tonight instead of weeping.” I lifted my cup higher, took a long swallow, and slammed it down on the nearest table.

The hall erupted in mirrored gestures—goblets raised, throats tipped back, wine pouring like blood in the firelight.

I grinned, teeth bared. “And now, let’s not forget Elyndor.” I swung my cup toward him, the liquid nearly spilling. The poor half-elf nearly jumped out of his boots, standing stiff with his hands folded in front of him like a schoolboy. “Good work, carpenter,” I said with a crooked smile. “Your little box has survived the trial by fire.” I tilted my head toward the crowd. “Come on, don’t just sit there—applaud him, dammit!”

The hall roared with cheers and whistles, elves stomping their feet and clapping. Elyndor flushed so red he looked ready to faint, his proud little chest puffing out under all the noise.

“But the show’s only just begun,” I said, flashing my teeth in a grin sharp enough to cut glass.

The box shuddered once, and the heat bleeding from it winked out like a snuffed candle. The suffocating warmth in the hall vanished. My magic, withdrawn.

“Open it,” I ordered.

The elves hesitated—still wary, still twitchy—but they obeyed. The lid groaned open.

“Cluckles!” I said, pointing a finger at the oversized sack of rattling bones. “You nearly scared the yolk out of me, you stupid bird.”

Cluck? The skeletal hen tilted her skull, empty sockets gleaming faintly, head wobbling from side to side like she had no idea what I was on about.

I sighed, rolling my eyes. “Don’t give me that look. You’ve been… tolerable these past weeks. Maybe it’s the tiny sliver of my soul you’ve been carting around inside you, maybe I’ve just lost all sense of standards. Either way, I still resent you, featherbag. But tonight? Tonight we share something special—pain. Yours.”

I leveled my hand at the box, voice hard as iron. “Inside. Now. The universe has a role for you, chicken, and it’s bigger than any nest you ever dreamed of.”

There wasn’t a heartbeat of hesitation. With one powerful, bone-creaking leap, Cluckles soared up and landed inside the box, wings spread wide before folding neatly. The lid clattered shut with a decisive thunk.

And then—oh, then—I let go.

Power bled into my hands, my veins, the very air around me. I pulled and pulled, not from the room, not from the forest, not even from this world—deeper, further, until reality itself shrieked in protest. The ground shook as if the forest were trying to crawl away from me. Elves screamed and scrambled, pressed against the walls, their fine silks torn in panic. The chandeliers rattled above us, dust raining from the beams. My companions held their ground, but even they looked pale in the glow that was no longer light but raw, undiluted terror.

And it wasn’t just them. I felt it ripple outward, beyond the hall, beyond Liraen, beyond continents. A shudder that made the universe itself flinch, like some god had just realized a monster far older than it was awake and hungry again.

I forced all of it—every screaming, clawing fragment of energy—into the center of that box, where my skeletal chicken waited, silent and still. The walls of the chamber groaned, the box swelled as though it might rupture and take reality with it.

“Close it!” I barked, my voice hoarse. Elves slammed the lid down, hands trembling.

But the box bulged, trembled, screamed with the magic inside. It would explode. I knew it. Everyone knew it. The end of everything balanced on the hinge of one impossible second.

And I—half broken, exhausted, smiling through the blood in my mouth—pulled again. One last shove, a twist of will, and the box vanished.

Gone. No explosion, no unraveling of existence. Just gone.