"Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere."
The palace doors of Leogaire flew open and an enormous figure strode through. His eyes simmered like hot coals, his hair burned like tongues of fire, and the set of his jaw was as the face of a volcano - black ash in which death did but slumber. Black robes embroidered in gold thread hung from his mountainous frame and when he strode forward in lamellar boots, chain mail rattled. He carried a mace in one hand and in its steel heart smoldered an ethereal fire.
"Andronicus," he rumbled, and when he spake so low and mighty was his voice that it rumbled in the chests of all who listened. "I am Hasuras na-Gerra, Son of Fire, Prince of the Harvest, Emperor of Amol-Kalit, and fae by birth."
He took another step forward, the weight of him audible with a clink of metal on marble.
"Come forward, king of the morning, and give up your crown to one more fit to wield it."
Gerra entered the open marble-floored atrium of the palace and swept the air with a piercing gaze. He knew of Andronicus' illusions, just as he knew of the customs of the Dawn Court and their right of challenge. Any who stood against him in this would breach sacred custom. The king of the Dawn Court would stand or fall on his own. And the parlor would watch. Gerra had made sure of this.
The ruby earrings he wore bore the blood sorcery of Thakath, enabling him to see through the illusions of the fae. As for his mind, well, let Andronicus try to see what purchase he might gain there.
The Slayer of Drakormir feared but few things.
Fae were not one of them.