Volcos was no longer in a barn. He was trekking through the wilderness, each step heavy with exhaustion. A worn bag of supplies weighed on his shoulders, a sturdy walking stick in one hand. His boots—tattered, almost worn bare—scuffed against the uneven ground.
Before him loomed a mountain of cold, unyielding granite, its jagged peaks scraping the sky. Not far ahead, another warrior struggled at the base of the climb, clutching at the rock face, his breath ragged. Determination flickered in Volcos’ eyes. Without hesitation, he surged forward.
In the next memory, Alena found herself in the midst of a thunderous horse race.
Volcos was astride a swift bay, its muscles rippling as it tore across the vast meadow.
An arrow hissed past his ear.
He twisted in the saddle, catching sight of a rival closing in fast, bow raised for another shot.
Volcos reached for his own bow, nocked an arrow in one fluid motion, and loosed. His opponent toppled from the saddle with a cry, vanishing into the churned grass.
Ahead, the land sloped upwards into a small hill, where a wooden palisade loomed against the sky. The gates gaped open, the mantel carved with twin horses—just like the ones on the White Mare’s torc.
Volcos swung off his horse, boots hitting the ground with a dullthud, and strode across the threshold.
Inside, druids formed a silent line, their belted robes shifting in the breeze. The temple, open to the sky, held no grand altars or towering statues—only carved wooden pillars and, at its heart, a ritual circle of sticks and bones laid upon the grass.
Volcos stepped forward and knelt in its centre. He bowed his head, whispering a prayer, his breath uneven.
A shimmering purple light enveloped him, flecked with a thousand tiny stars. It swirled around him before sinking into his skin, vanishing into the side of his neck where a new Mark appeared.
The ground trembled.
Thunderous hooves shattered the silence.
From beyond the gates, twelve white stallions burst into the temple, their coats gleaming like liquid silver beneath the sunlight. They moved as one, encircling Volcos.
The druids fell to their knees. “The White Mare has made her choice.”
A rush of air swept through Alena, and when her vision cleared, she found herself in a sprawling marshland bathed in golden sunlight. Her boots sank into cold, murky water, reeds swaying gently in the breeze, their feathery plumesrustling against each other. Mist clung to the earth, curling through shallow pools that shimmered like molten gold under the sun’s warmth.
It was otherworldly. The air carried the crisp tang of the sea, sharp and clean like the day she’d met the South Wind. Beneath the thick mist, unseen frogs croaked like a pulsing heartbeat, steady and endless.
Alena took a tentative step forward, her eyes wide with awe. Then a sound cut through the marsh’s song—a distant whinny, followed by the low, thunderous rumble of hooves.
Her breath snagged in her throat.
Out of the mist, a herd of white horses charged towards her, their sleek coats gleaming like polished silver in the sunlight. They moved with primal grace, muscles rippling beneath glistening hides, manes billowing like sea foam as they galloped across the waterlogged ground.
Alena’s pulse hammered in her ears. She tried to run, but the sucking mud clung to her ankles, dragging her down. With no other choice, she dropped into a crouch, throwing her arms over her head.
The horses split around her at the last moment, their thundering hooves a deafening roar. Water splashed her face, icy droplets mingling with the mud now coating her arms andclothes. The world quaked, the earth itself shaking beneath their hooves.
And then, as quickly as they’d appeared, the horses were gone—vanishing into the distance until only the echo of their hooves remained, swallowed by the mist.
Chest heaving, Alena straightened. Her entire body trembled from the sheer force of what she’d just experienced, though exhilaration coursed through her veins.
A startled, breathless laugh broke from her lips. Wild. Unrestrained. Alive.
She wiped her face with Leukos’ cloak, her hands still shaking.
“Oh my, I wasn’t expecting company.” A voice drifted over the marshland, soft and rich like honey wine, yet threaded with something feral—like the low growl of a beast. “It’s a good thing I sensed your arrival, or you might have been trampled.”
Alena’s head jerked up. Before her stood a woman both radiant and ageless. Her silver hair cascaded down her shoulders in untamed waves, tangled with blossoms and leaves as if the forest itself had crowned her. A circlet of heather and primroses rested upon her brow.
Her dress was not the pristine white Alena had first thought, but the hue of moonlight on water, woven from silken threads and strands of moss. It clung to her form like mist, its edges trailing off into the air.
