The winds bucked once, then yielded. The storm softened to a breeze, the shrieking gusts collapsing into a sigh.
The South Wind’s magic settled deep into her bones, joining the Huntress’ Gift. The faint golden light sank into her skin until only she remained—panting and shaken.
Her heart hammered. The courtyard lay in ruin, strewn with splintered beams, groaning men, and stunned silence. Her ears still rang with the roar of wind, though the world had gone eerily quiet.
“Alena?” a deep voice called.
A man cautiously stepped forward from the hushed crowd of slaves. Tall, broad-shouldered, but hollowed by hunger and toil. His limp was pronounced, his frame wasted beneath a tattered tunic clinging to sharp bones.
Yet it was his autumnal eyes that struck her still—eyes she hadn’t seen since Camp Bessi.
Her breath caught. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.
The voice she’d heard in the courtyard, the one that had called her name?—
It was Scylas.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ALENA
Alight beard peppered his jaw and upper lip, but the rest of his face remained unchanged. His eyes, though, held a new hardness—a consequence of the horrors he must have endured under the Rasennans.
“Leave,” he said roughly. “We’ll hold them back. Go before they take you as well.”
“I can help.” Alena’s pulse thundered in her ears. Wolves still lingered around the quarry, and if she called, they would come. And Phoebe would return soon. Together, they could organise a defence. “They’ve likely already sent messengers. More soldiers will swarm this place before sundown. You can’t fight them all.”
“Perhaps,” he said flatly, almost hollow. “But I’d rather die on my feet than continue living on my knees.”
Scylas—once a councilman’s son and the future leader of Camp Bessi—now stood gaunt and broken, a shadow of his former self.
Her chest ached as her gaze swept over the battered faces behind him. These weren’t strangers. These were her people. The Freefolk. The ones she’d left behind.
“Scylas,” she whispered, pleading, “let me help.”
A harsh cry rang out from the far end of the barracks. One of the injured slaves writhed on the frozen ground, blood pouring through the rags two women pressed against his chest.
The South Wind’s Gift had done that.
No—shehad done that.
Scylas’ jaw clenched. “You’ve done enough.”
The words cut deep. Shame and guilt pricked at her skin like needles. She’d unleashed magic she couldn’t fully control, and now a man was paying with his life.
The crowd thickened. Slaves poured from the barracks, drawn by the noise. Many were armed now, gripping looted swords and spears with white-knuckled resolve. But among them, a familiar face stood out—Leywani. She stopped short when she saw them.
Scylas spoke again, his voice sharp as a blade. “Why did their army cross the Deep River? Why did they march straight into Freefolk Lands?” His stare pierced her like frostbite. “Did you tell them how to find us?”
Cold seeped into Alena’s gut. She drew a long, shaky breath. “No. It wasn’t me.”
The answer hung between them like a curse.
It was Katell.
Laran’s Chosen. The new leader of the Black Helmets.
Alena had refused to believe it, but she couldn’t deny it any longer. Katell had told the Rasennans about the Freefolk.
