Selene laughed, sharp and fearless. “We’ve looked defeat in the eyes too many times to cower atyourboots, Thorne. This is nothing.”
The street grew silent except for the wind. No one moved.
Then, Thorne stepped over Mettius’s still form and aimed the tip of his sword at Augustus’s chest.
Selene squeezed his hand, steady, unbreakable, and found his eyes.
And in hers, he saw it.
Goodbye.
Not out of fear.
Out of love.
His heart lurched. “We’re not done here,i psychi mou. Not even remotely.”
Her eyes flared with something fierce. “That’s good to hear.”
“Ho, there!”
The shout rang out across the village. Everyone turned.
Silence.
No horn. No trumpet.
Just boots on sand. And fury on the wind.
A handful of people stood at the crest: Lili, Blaze, Roman, Oskar. More joined them: the Rangers, Blades, Drynopians. Omar and kin. And finally, his family. Captains and Lieutenants. Carpenters and cooks. Gunners and surgeons.
The ridgeline burned with fury.
Steel glinted. Faces sharpened.
Augustus smiled.
Met Thorne’s eyes.
“Didn’t plan for them, did you?”
Chapter
Forty-Nine
Hooves struck stone with the rhythm of salvation.
Dimitrios turned toward the sound. Breath heaved. Blade heavy. Blood soaked his sleeves, streaked his chest, painted the side of his face. His sword-arm trembled. Still, he stood, unyielding, at the heart of the pass.
On the rise behind them came the thunder of cavalry. Sunlight caught on the silver of helms and polished cuirasses.
Antonis Nicolea led the charge, his white stallion kicking up dust as it crested the ridge. Beside him rode the provincial lords, followed by hundreds more: soldiers and farmhands turned warriors. Untrained, but unshakable.
Dimitrios exhaled.
They’d come.
His grandfather—his family—had come.
