Six days until a goddess would rise in full strength. Six days to find the only weapon that could bind her long enough for Maris to end her. And if they failed, if even one thing went wrong, they wouldn’t live to see the seventh.
Alarik stood at the edge of the courtyard as the sun climbed over the cliffs of Nerium, casting gold across the wet stones. The air was cold for summer, sharp with the tang of salt and storm. Behind him, the castle stirred with motion, hooves being shod, weapons being readied, orders barked low and fast.
They were all moving like soldiers now.
Even the gods had no time left to play fate.
Maris’s dream had left nothing to interpretation. The sword, a blade god-forged, bound to her sigil, was hidden beyond the borderlands, veiled by the same divine magic that had shielded her path until now. Eiren had masked it, hoping it would never be found. But she had underestimated the will of her siblings.
And she had gravely misjudged the woman they’d made.
The retrieval party had been chosen by noon.
Maris, of course, would go. So would Kael, no one had argued that. Not when he was the most powerful among them — half-shadow and lethal instinct.
Zairon would accompany them — offering his sword and reason. Corin, Riven, and Serenya, as well. A tight unit, each willing to die for the others. Alarik himself would ride beside them all.
He wouldn’t let her leave his sight again.
Thauren had chosen to remain behind in Nerium to position troops along both eastern and western lines. He would command the full host of Nythra, Calanthe, Virellia, and the few humans that had arrived from Eryndor so far, preparing them for Eiren’s assault should the party not return in time.
Alarik exhaled, breath misting the air.
Two days’ ride to the edge of the borderlands, then to a cursed stretch of wilds that remained uncharted, half-consumed. The sword lay somewhere in its heart, pulsing with god-power, waiting for the one who could claim it.
And waiting, no doubt, with whatever horrors Eiren had planted to guard it.
Behind him, footsteps echoed on the stone.
Maris.
He didn’t need to turn to know it was her. Her presence had grown sharper in recent days like her skin hummed with magic, the very ground shifted when she walked. She wasn’t trying to hide anymore.
The gods’ weapon. And if they didn’t find that sword . . . a future martyr, too.
She was therer beofre him, clad in fitted black leathers, hair braided back, a crown of bone resting in a bag at her side, her sigil faintly glowing beneath her cloak. Ready.
Even if her eyes were rimmed with sleeplessness.
Even if she still looked at him like she feared what would come next.
He could smell Kael on her skin, but he refused to acknowledge it. Silently accepting.
He offered her a small nod. “The horses are ready. We ride in ten.”
Her gaze lingered on his face a second longer than necessary. Then she nodded once, and turned toward the waiting group.
Alarik followed her down the steps.
He didn’t let himself think about what would happen if she fell. If the blade was lost.
There were six days left.
And for the first time in a century, Alarik believed they might actually break the curse.
-Kael-
Kael tightened the strap across his forearm, the leather biting into his skin as he looked across the courtyard at Alarik.
