Where was everyone?
The boy vanished through a door left ajar. She hurried forward—but before she could push inside, magic surged against her senses.
A soft rustle—like feathers sliding across stone—brushed the air. Shadows deepened, swallowing the torchlight.
Alena spun on her heel, cold creeping through her veins. “Show yourself.”
From the darkness, a figure emerged. A man—no, a deity—stepped into the dim light with ethereal grace. A frost-dusted beard framed a face of marble-cut beauty, his eyes a piercing, unnatural blue that locked onto her and didn’t let go. Purple feathers arched over his broad shoulders, wings folded tight behind him, their iridescence catching faint glimmers of torchlight. A simple purple chiton hung open at the chest, revealing skin polished and cold as carved stone.
“You must be the Omega,” the man said, his voice smooth as silk. His lips curled into a cruel smile that flooded her with dread.
“The North Wind,” she greeted, refusing to drop her gaze.
“Correct.” The word rolled from his tongue with smug satisfaction.
“Where am I?” she asked, forcing calm. “And what have you done to Leukos?”
He tilted his head, wings shifting with a dry whisper of feathers. “I didn’t bring you here. He did. As for what I’ve done to him… well, he invited that himself.”
Alena clenched her fists. “He didn’tinvitelosing control.”
A low, mocking chuckle escaped him. “I suppose not. But then again, he has you to help him. He’s just too scared to accept the truth.”
Before she could press him, a scream tore through the silence, sharp and metallic as a blade.
Her head snapped towards the sound. “What was that?” The marble walls seemed to close in, pressing the air from her lungs.
The North Wind stepped closer, his presence expanding like a shadow spilling over her. His smile remained, but there was no warmth in it—only malice. “Do you know what drives your little prince? What carved him into someone who must be the strongest, no matter the cost? What keeps him from ever failing again?”
Alena’s blood ran cold as the pieces clicked into place. “The Megarian massacre.”
The truth lodged in her throat. She was standing in Megara’s royal palace, moments before the Rasennan assassins struck. “No. Why would you show him this?”
The North Wind’s smile twisted. “Years ago, hebeggedto see the massacre, to see his mother’s final moments. I granted that wish. And since then? He’s returned here on his own. Again and again. I don’t even have to bring him.” His hand lifted in a lazy flick. “Now you get to watch, too.”
Alena’s heart clenched. The thought of Leukos being trapped in this nightmare over and over made her breath catch.
“Then why areyouhere?” she asked.
For the first time, the North Wind hesitated. A flicker—something like vulnerability—passed across his face before it was gone. His wings shifted, purple feathers sweeping the dark marble floor. “Because,” he said at last, his voice carrying unexpected weight, “the little prince isn’t the only one bound to that day. I come to seeher.”
Realisation dawned, and her heart sank. “The queen,” she murmured. Leukos’ mother—a devoted worshipper of the North Wind.
A distant clash of steel shattered the stillness. Screams and shouts swelled, echoing off the palace walls. The massacre had begun, and she knew what came next—the final, desperate cries of those who would not survive the night.
She reached for the door, her hand trembling, but before she could push it open, the North Wind’s voice came again, lower—almost human.
“Tell him to keep honing his control. He may be the most talented warrior I’ve ever Gifted, but he is still mortal. He will break, like all mortals do, if he lets this consume him.”
His words lingered. Leukos had spent years burying the pain of this night beneath layers of strength and discipline.
“He’s stronger than you think,” Alena said, her voice quiet but firm. “He won’t break.”
She half-expected a scoff or cutting remark, but when she turned, the North Wind was gone. The corridor stood empty, his presence evaporating like a cold breath on the wind.
Alena pushed the door open—and her heart stilled.
The queen sat at a table scattered with pots and vials, her beauty pale and luminous, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders—the same shade as Leukos’. A silver dagger gleamed in her hand, catching the torchlight as she waited, composed and resigned to her fate.
