She tilted her head toward Kael, lips curling in mockery. “A blade in the chest. A forgotten name. And now? Now she remembers. Now she serves me.”
The army behind Maris stirred in horror. Valea made a sound, part gasp, part broken cry. Draeven reached for her, but she shook him off, shoulders quaking.
Kael moved to speak but Eiren cut him off with a laugh before he could utter the first word.
“No, no, let’s not rewrite history today. Let’s not sully this moment with your regret. You killed her for dreaming. And now, she will kill you for waking her from it.”
Astrielle raised her sword.
It was jagged, made from something ancient and wrong. Not iron. Not steel. It pulsed with Veil-magic.
A general of nightmares.
A girl who had once been loved by his court.
A monster now.
And she was only the beginning.
The silence had already ruptured, raw with grief and disbelief, but Eiren, twisted queen of nightmares, was far from finished.
“Oh, but wait,” she purred, pivoting slightly, her war-leathers glinting like coagulated blood beneath the roiling clouds. “You didn’t think I only had one lesson to teach, did you?”
Another figure stepped forward from her other side.
Taller than Astrielle. Clad in celestial-black armor, stars carved into the breastplate, a bow slung across her back. Her gait was fluid. Graceful.
A silver mask covered her face, shaped as a weeping widow.
Maris felt her heartbeat stutter but she wasn’t the only one.
To her left, Alarik tensed like he’d been gutted. Thauren made a strangled sound, soft, broken, the sound of something ancient inside a man cracking wide open.
“No,” Thauren breathed.
Kael was statue-still.
Eiren didn’t delay.
With a flick of her hand, the masked figure removed her covering.
A sharp inhale swept the field like wind through a dead forest.
Elenwe.
Her golden skin was now pale ash, her lips drained of color. Her eyes once filled with light, laughter, and hope now burned with cold, unrelenting black rage. Her hair blonde hair twisted into a war-knot lined with thorns and bone. A cruel imitation of the peace born princess she once was.
Gone was her warmth. Her mercy. Her gentleness.
What stood in her place was hollow and vengeful —resurrected and filled with wrath.
Alarik took one step forward, his voice hoarse. “Elenwe…”
She didn’t react.
Thauren fell to his knees.
As if watching the last piece of his heart rot in front of him.
