Alora sat taller. “Yes.”
And so, she told her best friend everything.
Theia listened, enraptured, pausing occasionally to ask questions. Calla returned in a quiet wisp of smoke, stationing herself nearby with casual menace, occasionally offering or clarifying a detail. Zuma moved in and out, silently stoking hearths, his large hands piling wood with ritual precision.
By the time Alora finished, twilight had bled into evening, and they gathered around the new table.
A meal of roasted venison, herbed barley, and hot cider had been cooked by Zuma, who apparently did far more than chop wood. He merely shrugged when complimented and offered Theia the largest cut.
As they ate, Theia traced the edge of the crimson crystal spindle, wonder in her eyes. “Your tale belongs in a book, Alora. A fairytale of dragons, curses, and sleeping queens.” She looked up. “Do I have permission to write it?”
Alora smirked. “I’d expect nothing less.”
They both laughed, but the warmth was fleeting.
Theia’s eyes drifted to Zuma beside her, voice hushed. “Do we truly stand a chance against him?”
Zuma inclined his head toward Alora. “My herd will answer your call. Whether to fight or flee, we stand with you.”
Alora exhaled shakily, fingers brushing her temple. “I want to believe we can stop him. But I don’t know if I can. If Rune can.”
“You don’t need to worry about him,” Calla said, arms crossed. “He’s doing what kings must do when unrest stirs. Hadeon and Deimos are rallying the courts. They’ll fall in line.”
Alora scoffed, gesturing to the window. “Meanwhile, I’m left here like some tragic fairytale princess. Hidden in a cottage while danger creeps closer. My people are afraid. The throne is empty. The curse spreads faster each day. Do you expect me to sit idle?”
Calla’s eyes gleamed, her claws laced together, Bloodstones glittering on her vambraces. “The Queen of the Netherworld does not idle,” she said. “She does not run from danger. And she does not waste the weapons she’s been given.”
Her gaze dropped to Alora’s hands, where red light flickered beneath the skin.
“It’s time you learned how to use them.”
CHAPTER 51
Alora
Training with Calla was brutal. Precise and efficient. The demoness wasted no time on sentiment or softness, but she never pushed Alora past the edge. Not truly. There was always a buffer, a wordless awareness when she had reached her limit.
Because Calla sensed what Alora couldn’t say aloud. She was afraid of her Primordial magic. It hummed there in her veins, eager to be used. There was no mistaking the darkness in it, and the destruction it bore.
And maybe that’s what frustrated her most.
Because Rune was not there to guide her. Not once.
His absence haunted her.
Shadows still clung to the corners of her room, curling beneath the furniture, darkening the candlelight even when she tried to banish them. They never moved. Never touched her.
But she knew theywatched.
Alora spoke to them sometimes, angrily and quietly at night. “Tell him I hate this … sometimes it makes me hate him, too.”
Then in the morning, a briar rose appeared in the vase beside her bed, pink blooms not found near the mountain. Delicate, beautiful things with sun-warmed petals.
A sweet apology.
But if he cared, why wasn’t he here?
Why hadn’t he come since that day?
