A thought struck. “The wolves,” she said, turning to the men by the graves. “You said they come at night. How many?”
The boy looked up, wiping soot from his cheek. “Two dozen, maybe more. Mostly from the mountains, but we’ve seen others in the forest.” His grip tightened on his spear, youthful bravado in his stance. “They’ll go for our flock next. But I’ll be ready.”
The older man sighed, weary.
Alena closed her eyes, reaching past panic and grief for the quiet thrum of the Huntress’ Gift. A spark of connection flared,then dozens of wolves stirred in her mind like stars blinking to life in a dark sky.
Howls rose through the trees, one after another, until the valley trembled.
The villagers froze. The boy’s eyes went wide, all his bravado gone. “Twelve be damned.”
Alena opened her eyes and met Phoebe’s sharp gaze. “You said we needed an army.” The howls answered for her. “Now we have one.”
To the men, she said, “We need horses and supplies.”
The bearded man hesitated, then nodded towards a narrow path through the grove. “Our settlement’s just beyond the trees. You’ll find everything you need.”
“Thank you.”
She turned towards the path, the scent of ash and pine thick in the air, Phoebe falling into step beside her.
“Wait—” the boy called after them. “What about the wolves?”
Alena sent her magic surging through the bonds, guiding the wolves from the valley, out of the woods, and down the mountain slopes, driving them south towards Dodona.
When she glanced back, the boy stilled. Whatever he saw—her eyes alight with power or the fierce resolve in her expression—made him go rigid.
Phoebe cast her a sidelong look and smirked. “They won’t be a problem anymore.”
The roadto Dodona wound mostly through forest, making it easier for Alena to travel with her army of wolves. Each night, nearly three dozen grey shadows followed at a distance, weaving through the trees and avoiding human eyes.
The last thing they needed was word reaching the Rasennans that she was coming.
Alena and Phoebe rode in tense silence, the uncertainty of San and Kaixo’s fate weighing heavy on them both. Guilt and dread churned through Alena’s thoughts. For days, her heart sat lodged in her throat. Sleep eluded her, and she could barely bring herself to eat.
Phoebe tried to ease the tension with training and sparring during their stops, but it only frayed Alena’s nerves further.
Slaves who worked the mines and quarries had the worst fate of all, Leukos had once said. If the labour or starvation didn’t kill them, the accidents did.
He came to Alena at night in her dreams. His arms wrapped around her just like in their final moments, and she woke each morning with the ghost of his presence lingering beside her, grounding her through the fear.
He had believed in her.You’ll find a way, Alena. You always do,he’d once said, with absolute certainty. That faith lived in her still, a quiet flame in the dark.
She clung to it now. Somehow, she would infiltrate the quarry. She would draw the guards’ eyes elsewhere while she searched for San and Kaixo. Leukos was gone, but his belief in her hadn’t. And she wasn’t alone—Phoebe and the wolves were with her.
It would work.
It had to.
By late afternoon, they reached the outskirts of Dodona. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the valley. A snow-capped mountain loomed in the near distance, its pale crown glinting with the day’s last light.
Alena had expected ruins, but not this haunting silence. The ancient city lay stripped and forgotten, its scattered bones ofstone swallowed by grass and time. A few crumbled foundations jutted from the earth, skeletal remains of a place once full of life.
Her gaze caught on a ruin partially veiled in snowdrops. The delicate white flowers blanketed the ground like fallen stars, nodding gently in the breeze. At its entrance stood a single majestic oak tree, its limbs stretching wide over the ruins it guarded. The air around it felt different, charged with something sacred and old.
Phoebe drew her grey mare alongside Alena’s, the lead rope of their packhorse, laden with supplies, held loosely in one hand.
“The oak of many tongues,” the Amazon murmured. “The priests once believed the Father spoke through its rustling leaves—messages hidden in whispers and patterns fallen to the ground.”
