He spat into the mud. “I don’t give a damn about the Emperor. What I care about are his legions at our border. And the armies gathering along the Rodanos, ready to turn our rivers red.” Volcos jerked his chin towards the distant hills. “But if you’re so determined to seek our goddess, go ahead. Waste your time. The closest temple is a three-day ride south.” He tugged atthe cloak draped around his shoulders and tilted his head. “It’s where she chose me to be the next leader of the tribes, their chief commander.”
A deep violet Mark belonging to the White Mare crawled up the side of his neck.
“Come back when you have her answer,” Volcos dismissed her. His men’s laughter rose around them, grating and smug.
Alena’s fists clenched, her nails digging into her palms. It was the same story, over and over. Men like Volcos measured her worth by what she wasn’t. Not powerful enough, not Western enough, not a man.
But she was done asking for permission.
Her sharp voice cut through the derision like a knife. “If I speak with the goddess, then you’ll obey our alliance and grant my friend and her companion their lives?”
Volcos stared at her, incredulous, then barked out a laugh. “Of course. I’ll even invite you to our war council.”
He thought she was a joke. A girl on a fool’s errand.
She raised her chin and stepped closer, stopping inches from his face. “Perfect.”
Volcos’ grin faltered. “What are you doing?—?”
“I don’t need a temple to speak with her.” Alena’s smile was razor-sharp. “I just need you.”
She pressed her fingers against his neck, directly over his Mark.
And the world shattered into blinding light.
CHAPTER FIFTY
ALENA
Images flickered before Alena’s eyes, fleeting and disjointed—fragments of Volcos’ past—until one scene sharpened into focus.
A campfire in the forest. Rasennans in red tunics sitting and eating, some standing guard. Beyond the fire’s reach, shadows shifted. Volcos and his warriors moved through the trees, their approach swift and precise. Then—chaos.
The Westerners struck like a storm, their ambush tearing through the unprepared Rasennan soldiers. Steel flashed, bodies collided, shouts and screams tangled in the night air.
A soldier lunged at Volcos from behind. One of his warriors spun around, parrying the blow with his shield before driving his blade through the soldier’s gut. Hazel eyes blazing with determination. A young Alcaros. Chest rising with steady breaths, Volcos met his gaze and gave the youth a nod of gratitude.
The image shifted.
A barn, the air thick with the scent of grain and dust. Sacks of wheat were piled against the wooden beams, but it was thetable at the centre that held focus. Western warriors gathered around it, their faces grim, voices low.
“They’re sending scouts into our lands,” one of the warriors muttered, brow furrowed. “Ignoring the treaty.”
“They never meant to honour it,” Alcaros spat from across the table. “Atrixtos signed it under threat of death.”
“You’re being paranoid,” a redheaded warrior countered, shaking his head. “The Rasennans are too busy fighting the Ice Kingdoms. Their focus is elsewhere.”
“Until it isn’t,” Volcos cut in, his voice steady, unyielding. Firelight flickered across his face, casting deep shadows. “The White Mare has called for another trial to choose the next chief commander. The druids have announced it. I’ll take part and prove my worth.”
The redhead shook his head. “To enter, the goddess demands each participant travel southon footto her temple. And once there, the trials last as long as she wills it. You could be gone for months. We need you now.”
“No.” Volcos’ jaw tightened. “The Rasennansarecoming. Maybe not this year, maybe not the next. But the Emperor isn’t done with us. What we need is a new leader.”
Arms crossed over his broad chest, Alcaros spoke up. “Someone to succeed Andrasta. Whoever the White Mare chooses… all the tribes will follow them.”
Volcos grinned. “Exactly.”
The world lurched. Colours bled and twisted, shifting like ink in water. Then, suddenly—clarity.
