“The Thunder will fight with us,” Alcaros said, gazing up at the churning clouds, voice softening with awe.
Nik didn’t look up. His tone was dry, but tension sharpened it. “I’d sooner have a few thousand more Tirynthian blades at our backs.”
Theo nodded in agreement, frustration etched across his face.
“I had hoped our northern tribes would come,” Alcaros admitted, his focus still fixed on the sky. “The Tribe of the Forest Men are a strange lot—refusing trade from other tribes and never feasting or drinking—but they have the strongest and most disciplined warriors of all.”
“Sounds like the Lakonians.” Nik scoffed, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. “If only they hadn’t pissed off the Sea God and vanished, three hundred of them could’ve easily taken on a whole legion.”
Alena perked up at the mention of the Lakonians—infamous warriors from Achaea, whose arrogance had led to their downfall. They had challenged Megara for control of the land,and the Sea God had retaliated with a devastating earthquake that wiped out their city. What remained of them had scattered across the Great Sea, rudderless ships without a captain.
“I heard they set up a colony in Rasenna,” Alena added, curiosity getting the better of her.
Nik grunted. “Rumour was they went to the Western Lands.”
It was Alcaros’ turn to scoff. “If that were true, I’d have made sure they were fighting here today.”
“They’re long gone,” Leukos cut in. “But we’re not.”
A flicker of movement caught Alena’s eye across the river—the faintest shift in the trees, shadows creeping closer.
“They’re coming,” she warned.
Leukos swung his horse around. “Theo, stay with Pelagios. Help coordinate the defences. Tell Volcos we’re holding the riverbank and drawing Katell in, as planned.”
“I’ll take the archers,” Alcaros added, his horse pawing at the sand as if it sensed the building storm. “My Gift won’t help here. May the river gods crush them all.” He turned and galloped away.
Nik watched him go, one eyebrow raised. “Wait—he has a Gift?”
Alena was just as surprised. Had Alcaros been Gifted by the White Mare, like Volcos?
“Eyes forward,” Leukos ordered.
From the shadowed forest, Rasennan soldiers emerged—rank-and-file infantry, a few officers, and a towering Black Helmet with shimmering amber eyes, dragging a captured Westerner. One of Volcos’ scouts.
Dalmatius followed, gleaming in a golden breastplate and crimson cloak.
Then a third figure stepped into the light, and Alena froze, breath catching.
Katell.
At first glance, she appeared unchanged—same dark red tunic, black leather breastplate, and helmet. But when Alena met her gaze, her sister’s moss-green irises were gone, drowned in black.
Exactly as Leywani had warned.
“By the Moon…” Her throat tightened. She swung off her horse, heart hammering, her focus locked on her sister across the water.
“Alena,” Leukos called, but she was already moving, feet sinking into the soft, pebbled sand, Apollo and Otxoa flanking her.
Gusts of wind lashed at her hair and stung her cheeks. Overhead, dark purple clouds churned, a bruise spreading across the sky. The wind was no longer a breeze but a warning of the storm bearing down on them.
Alena raised an arm to shield her face and pushed forward.
A blur of steel stepped into her path, and Nik appeared, one hand lifted. “Alena, don’t.”
She stopped short, fists trembling at her sides. “Move, Nik.”
“No.” His gaze stayed locked on hers. The wind whipped at his cloak, the shield on his back cutting off the river behind him. “Don’t let them see you like this.”
