A soft whimper broke the morning stillness, a keening sound escaping Kaixo’s lips—a common occurrence since San’s death. Alena gathered him closer, stroking his hair until his breathing steadied.
Soon, they would depart Tiryns for the Western Lands. Alena hoped she could find Kaixo a quiet home, far from war and the threat of the legions—somewhere safe for him to grow while she carried out her mission as the Omega.
If she survived it.
Kaixo remained at her side, a quiet solace against the storm gathering ahead. His warmth steady against her brought comfort, and for now, that was enough.
“Better.”Phoebe leaned against the twisted trunk of an ancient olive tree in a secluded corner of the palace gardens. Her silver eye kept a keen watch on Alena, who summoned the Cyprian’s armour once more. It came easier now, thanks to Phoebe’s relentless training since the surprise attack on the Twelfth Legion.
A brilliant flare lit the gardens as the mother-of-pearl scales of her armour unfurled, covering her body in a luminous display. At the same time, a vortex of wind swirled around her, lifting loose petals and stray leaves, making them dance in the current.
“That was much faster,” Phoebe noted. “Now, hold it steady. Feel the threads of magic within you. Keep them under control.”
The South Wind’s warm breezes wrapped around Alena’s legs with effortless familiarity, as though they had always belonged to her. But the armour was different—sustaining it was much harder.
Phoebe’s voice snapped her back to the present, cutting through the haze of memory. “Now, feel the Huntress’ magic. Your bonds with the wolves. Start with Apollo, then Otxoa.”
Alena blinked, exhaustion clouding her thoughts. “Who’s Otxoa?”
“The white female—Kaixo named her,” Phoebe replied impatiently. “Focus. Try to summon both.”
Alena closed her eyes, searching for the threads of magic linking her to Apollo. The Cyprian’s power churned in her core,consuming her energy and focus, leaving little room for anything else. The winds around her wavered, dwindling to a soft breeze.
“You’re losing it,” Phoebe observed.
“I—” Sweat dripped down Alena’s temples. Her limbs trembled as she struggled to maintain the armour, her breath shallow and uneven.
But the Cyprian’s magic slipped from her control and unravelled in a flash of light. The luminous scales vanished like shattered glass, and the wind died in an instant, leaving the courtyard still and silent.
Alena collapsed backwards onto the grass, her body sagging as if a great weight had been lifted. She gasped for air, chest heaving, vision swimming from the strain.
Phoebe stepped forward, arms crossed. “I saw you summon the armour and wield gusts strong enough to flatten the enemy—while also controlling the Huntress’ pack. You can do better than this.”
Alena groaned in frustration. “I know,” she muttered, wiping sweat from her brow. “But I was in the midst of battle. I didn’t even realise what I was doing until… I was doing it.”
She hadn’t focused on the magic surging within her when they’d attacked the Twelfth Legion in the dead of night. Pelagios, Nik, and Theo had led the troops to the Maiden’s barrier, forcing the Twelfth to meet them—only for Danaos and Despoina to drop Alena, Leukos, and Phoebe in the centre of the camp, where the Huntress’ hounds unleashed chaos. She’d been acting on pure instinct. “I didn’t realise how draining the Cyprian’s armour was.”
“The adrenaline helped you sustain your Gifts. But that’s exactly why you need to keep training,” Phoebe explained, impatience edging her tone. “You can’t afford to be drained of magic in battle, or you’ll be dead. Think about your pretty boy, and what happened when he overdid it.”
Alena winced, recalling how the North Wind’s magic had consumed Leukos. She’d barely managed to help him dispel it in time. Even now, she had no real idea how she’d done it. And no one seemed to have any answers for her except,You’re the Omega.
Phoebe extended a hand and hauled Alena to her feet. “Summon the Cyprian’s armour again and hold it as long as you can. Keep doing it every day, and it’ll become second nature. Most Gifted need years to summon an immortal weapon or armour for more than a few moments. You don’t have that luxury.”
The rebels were preparing to return to the camp by the lake in the coming days. Danaos and Despoina had already transported supplies with their magic and planned to ferry as many groups of soldiers as possible.
News of the Twelfth Legion’s defeat had spread quickly, and Theo expected an attack on the Western Lands in retaliation. The Emperor now knew the rebels were in Tiryns, and it would take time for them to join Volcos.
Time was against them, and as much as Alena wanted to aid their Western allies, the aftermath of the siege demanded their focus. Over a thousand Rasennan soldiers had surrendered—an eclectic mix from across the Great Sea, most more interested in coin than loyalty to the Empire.
Leukos had given them a choice: join the Tirynthian army or labour in the newly expanded fields. Tiryns, long plagued by scarce resources, now had three times its territory after the Maiden’s barrier widened. Fields needed planting before the spring ended, and the task was urgent.
Pelagios and Nik were tasked with vetting the new recruits, many of them Achaeans who’d enlisted in the imperial legions after their homeland’s conquest, lured by the promise of steady pay.
“What about your mother’s torc?” Phoebe tossed a waterskin from her spot beneath the olive tree, snapping Alena out of her thoughts. “Any progress?”
Alena caught it against her chest, nearly fumbling with her tired hands. She raised it to her lips and drank in greedy gulps, the cool water spilling down her chin. Every muscle in her body ached from the morning’s drills.
She remembered slipping it on once in the mountains, late at night, half on a whim. When nothing happened, she’d felt foolish—wearing a necklace that was never meant for her. Phoebe had later advised her to channel magic through it, but the torc had remained inert.
