Spray burst high, misting the air. Alena flinched, heart pounding against her ribs, the roar of the god still echoing in her bones.
But then, amid the ruin, two shapes moved with unnatural calm.
The Makhai.
Each raised an impossibly long arm, darker than shadow, and without sound, they struck the river itself. The current tore apart under their touch, waves suspended midair, twisting and writhing as if in pain.
The river fought back. Waters surged and collided, swirling around the Makhai, thrashing with the rage of a beast. Spray hissed and thundered against their dark forms, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed the god might reclaim itself.
But the Makhai held fast, their grip unyielding. With a final bone-jarring shudder, the river god collapsed, its massive form unravelling into mist and current, folding back into the waters from which it had risen.
Alena stood frozen, her breath shallow.
The river seethed, restless and angry, but the demons were stronger—arms raised, magic anchoring the parted torrent.
The path lay open.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
ALENA
Katell moved first. She stepped into the hollow riverbed, boots sinking into slick stone and mud, crimson cloak trailing behind her—a streak of blood against the grey. Black magic shimmered at her ankles, curling upwards in restless coils.
Behind her came Dalmatius, a general of gold and crimson, flames flickering at his fingertips, face half concealed by his helmet.
Line upon line of Rasennan soldiers followed, pouring from the tree line—shields raised, spears gleaming, red-crested helms ablaze in the morning light. The earth quaked beneath their advance.
Dozens became hundreds, a sea of men in bronze and leather, chanting “Rasenna” and their Emperor’s name as if he were a god in his own right. They marched into the defiled riverbed, wading through the parted waters, ready to confront even the Western gods if they dared oppose them.
“Well, that’s one way of breaking the treaty,” Nik said, unsheathing his sword and lifting the shield from his back.
Before Alena could reply, the sharp blare of Western horns pierced the gathering storm. Thunder answered in kind, low and rolling, a sound that vibrated through her bones.
“The other tribes have returned,” Leukos said, distracted, his gaze locked on the river path, shoulders taut.
Then—shouts. Screams.
The distant clash of steel.
What had begun as a signal became something more—a warning, a cry of panic.
The first cold drops of rain struck Alena’s skin like pinpricks. She looked back towards the hill.
Chaos had erupted.
Soldiers stood in disarray, their backs turned from the river instead of towards it. Smoke from the pyres billowed up, obscuring her view, yet she caught flashes of steel and frantic movement amid the turmoil.
“What’s happening?” she asked, fear creeping in.
Leukos followed her line of sight, brow furrowed. Thunder cracked once more, louder this time, as if the sky were splitting apart. Nik vanished in a swirl of wind.
Alena stood frozen, breath caught in her chest. All she could do was listen. Metal against metal. Horns blaring, discordant.
Then a ragged shout tore above it all: “Retreat!”
Nik reappeared, drenched through, blond hair whipping wildly across his face. His skin was pale beneath the storm-lit sky.
“They’ve been turned,” he said, voice strained.
