Why would Dalmatius take her to Kisra? To meet the Emperor? Was she still their ally—or a prisoner?
They believed her to be Laran’s Chosen, so surely they wouldn’t harm her. But when it came to the Emperor, Alena wasn’t sure of anything. If Katell posed even the slightest threat to his plans, he wouldn’t hesitate to dispose of her—just as he had with her parents.
After days of waiting, they had finally received a summons from Volcos, but nothing was going as expected.
At least Kaixo was safe at the rebel camp with Nik and Elishat, far removed from the mess they were about to walk into. Alena had refused to leave him behind alone, and Nik had promised to stay with the boy, joining them only when it was safe.
She snapped out of her thoughts and leaned closer to Leukos. “If Alcaros is there, he’ll help us.”
Leukos lowered his hood, letting his frown speak for him. “I don’t like him.”
Alena fought the urge to roll her eyes. “You don’t like him because he’s untrustworthy… or because you were jealous?”
His silence was all the answer she needed, and a small smile tugged at her lips. “Thought so.”
She urged her horse forward, her wolves slinking ahead. Apollo sniffed at the muddy path leading into the village, ears twitching as he caught the scent of something unfamiliar. Otxoa padded beside him, her keen gaze sweeping their surroundings.
“Alena,” Leukos growled from behind, his horse’s hooves splashing through the mud while the others followed her lead.
The rain pounded, soaking through their cloaks. The horses slogged forward towards the distant torchlights, the wooden palisade looming through the mist.
Danaos and Despoina had already ferried Pelagios and half the army to the Falcons’ hillfort, where the Western forces readied themselves for the inevitable Rasennan attack. Still, the twins had insisted on joining the meeting with Volcos—and if Theo was right, the danger waiting for them might be greater than they realised.
No one came to meet them at the flimsy gates, manned by only two guards.
Theo sighed and swung down from his horse, boots squelching through the mud. He strode over to one of the men, exchanged a few words, and returned, his expression tight. “We’re to wait here.”
“They’re not inviting us inside?” Danaos sputtered. “I am the King of Tiryns, Leukos is a prince, and Alena is the Rebel Queen’s daughter—not to mention the Omega. And they’re keeping us out here like sheep? Volcos is disregarding the rules of hospitality?—”
“Our titles mean nothing to the Westerners,” Leukos cut in from beneath his hood. “And the legend of the Omega even less. Let’s keep it that way.”
It was the first time Alena had heard Danaos speak of her with genuine respect. She shot him a grateful look, and he returned it with a firm nod.
The gates groaned open, and from the mist, a dozen white horses surged forward, hooves churning the mud. They fanned out in a perfect semicircle, corralling the Achaean group.
At the centre of the formation, astride a towering white stallion, was a giant of a man. His stern eyes swept over them, assessing, weighing.
Volcos.
His face was rugged, weathered by the elements, with sharp cheekbones and a jaw set like stone. Damp blond hair clung to his shoulders, and a long beard framed his chin.
Beside him rode Alcaros. Relief flared in Alena’s chest—then vanished at the sight of his expression. His face was pale, muscles taut with tension, and he kept his gaze fixed elsewhere, refusing to meet hers. In his grip, a rope stretched behind him, dragging two figures through the sludge. The rain and darkness made them little more than blurred shapes—a man and a woman, hunched and shivering. The way they stumbled, feet slipping in the mud, spoke of exhaustion and defeat.
Prisoners? Spies? Or something worse?
“Which one of you is Leukos, Prince of Megara?” Volcos’ voice rumbled through the air, deep and authoritative as rolling thunder.
Leukos swung down from his horse, and though his boots sank into the mud, his movements were smooth, betraying none of the tension simmering beneath his calm exterior.
He pulled back his hood. “That would be me.”
Volcos dismounted next. The man looked as though he’d been carved from stone, his deep green tunic and chain mail vest soaked but unyielding. A thick woollen cloak hung from his shoulders, fastened by a bronze clasp shaped like a snarlingboar. Around his waist, a belt supported a gleaming sword with an intricately decorated hilt and a blade honed to a razor’s edge. Strapped to his back rested a large, round shield.
The circle of riders tightened, their eyes watchful, the air heavy with suspicion.
Leukos broke the silence first. “This is a strange greeting between allies.”
“Allies?” Volcos scoffed, his thick brows drawing together. “You promised me an army, and you came with barely five hundred men.”
