Her fists curled. All those refugee families in the camps, already broken by war, had been dragged back into chains because of her sister.
The weight of that betrayal tore at Alena’s heart, reopening raw wounds from their disastrous summer encounter.
How could Katell have been so cruel?
A flicker of hurt crossed Scylas’ face, carving a hollow pit in her stomach. She almost whispered an apology, but the stern set of his jaw silenced her. Words couldn’t undo Katell’s treachery.
Above them, clouds thickened, swallowing the weak winter sun. Amid the gloom, a flash of silver caught Alena’s attention. Phoebe stood beside a shack, sword in hand, her lone eye fixed on her.
Alena nodded. Across the yard, Scylas was already turning away, barking orders as the slaves armed themselves and moved towards the gate.
Alena bent to retrieve the sword she’d lost during the praefect’s attack. The hilt was ice-cold in her grip.
“I wasn’t even gone that long,” Phoebe muttered when Alena reached her. “What happened?”
Alena shook her head, jaw tight. “Later. Is Kaixo safe?”
“I found shelter in the temple ruins. The wolf’s guarding him.”
“Good.” Alena turned back to the courtyard, heart heavy. The man she’d struck down was gone—only a dark smear of blood soaking into the frozen ground. She swallowed against the stab of guilt. “Let’s get away from here.”
Phoebe gave her a questioning glance but didn’t press. Without a word, they slipped through a crack in the ruined barricade, their steps quick and quiet. Two wolves lingered near the fence—a striking white one and a smaller grey. Alena called them, and they padded into step beside her. If soldiers gave chase, they’d need the extra protection.
Across the open plain, the first drops of rain fell, as if the sky itself mourned. From behind them rose faint cheers—or shouts—the sound curdling in Alena’s chest.
She didn’t look back.
Her people—Scylas, Leywani, the Freefolk—remained behind, trapped in ruin, clinging to a freedom that would never last. And she was walking away.
Her throat tightened. Shame sat in her gut like a stone.
“They won’t win,” Phoebe murmured, casting her a sidelong look. The steady patter of rain enveloped them. “Word will reach the nearest Rasennan patrol soon enough. The quarry will be overrun again, and they’ll all be cutting stone.”
“I know.” The words were bitter in her mouth. Her fists clenched at her sides as she focused on the mud-slick path ahead. With every step, she was torn: run back to the quarry to stand beside the Freefolk and fight for the people she’d once called her own, or keep moving towards Kaixo, who was alone, grieving, and needed her now more than ever.
Alena halted and glanced down at her hands. The South Wind’s magic still writhed in her veins, waiting to be unleashed.
Scylas had been right. If she returned to the quarry like this, she wouldn’t save anyone. She’d only make things worse.
Phoebe stood at her side, silent, as if she knew the turmoil in her mind.
Alena met her lone silver eye, and something inside her twisted.
She was the Omega.
She’d spent the winter training—fighting, falling, getting back up again. And yet, what did she have to show for it?
San was dead, and she’d failed the Freefolk.
She was still weak. Powerless.
Tears burned the back of her eyes. She swallowed hard and looked away, willing her legs to move.
“There’s nothing I can do for now,” she said, her voice flat. “Kaixo needs me. But the sooner we get to Tiryns, the sooner I can send help.”
One day, she vowed, she would be strong enough.
Strong enough to shield the people she loved, stand against the legions, and stop the war.
