I glanced one more time at the mouth of the river and the dark lands beyond, waiting for bloodshed.
“Don’t be late,” I said to Fjorda before I teleported away.
The world snapped apart and reformed around me, depositing me at the foot of a hidden waterfall deep within the mountains of Silver Meadows. Mist drifted in pale ribbons across the moss-covered stones, and the crash of water echoed like a moment lost in time.
I stepped toward the pool. The ground beneath my feet was slick and biting cold as I knelt and pressed my palm against the stone. This was a sacred place. Where my father took me before I marched into battle the first time. It was where a warrior went to shed who they were and become what the battle demanded.
Piece by piece, I stripped down until nothing separated my skin from the sky above and the earth below my feet. Icy spray from the falls slid over me, raising goosebumps along my arms, tightening the muscles of my back and chest. My breath curled in faint clouds as I steadied my breathing.
Then, I held my breath and stepped beneath the falls.
The impact struck every inch of my body—stripping me down to my core. The ice-cold water crashed over my shoulders and streamed down the ridges of my muscles, tracing every inked line my brother drew on my skin, every scar my body had endured over the centuries of my immortal life. It drummed against my chest, ran in rivulets over my stomach, and wrapped around my legs like liquid winter. The cold tore the breath from my lungs, but I forced myself to hold firm.
I tipped my head back, releasing a roar into the empty sky. The water struck deeper than my skin, peeling back everylayer of my past, every wound, every failure, every piece of the male I’d been before this moment.
Memories of past battles flickered in the confines of my mind. The blood spilled on battlefields, the nights I lay broken and unsure, the faces of those I couldn’t save. They became the pounding shards of water against my back, sliding down my arms, and vanishing into the churning pool below.
The waterfall roared against me, unrelenting and mighty. A sacred force stripping me bare until only purpose remained.
I lifted my face to the icy torrent, letting it hammer against my brow, and spoke into the thundering waters, “Mother. Father. Hear me.” Water poured over my lips and down the curve of my spine. “Steady my courage. Don’t let my resolve waver… not now.”
The cold ripped through me, carving out doubt, leaving only a sense of raw clarity.
“I will give my life for my people,” I vowed. “If that is the cost, I accept it.” The water ran hard over the scars and ink along my body, like a cleansing blessing from the gods themselves. “For Skylar,” I whispered. “For my mate. My heart. Let her live. Let her triumph.”
The roar of the falls deepened, surrounding me like a cocoon of ice and sound, remaking me piece by piece.
“Whatever you ask of me,” I said, voice poised despite the cold cutting through my muscles and into my bones, “I will offer without hesitation. So long as Valdor rises whole again.”
When I stepped out from beneath the falls, steam rose off my skin. My veins beneath it glimmered faintly with the awakening of my magic, frost-bright and alive.
I was reborn, ready to carve fate with my own hands.
I gathered my clothes and armor, power humming through me like a winter storm, and disappeared into the world oncemore.
Chapter Forty-One
Skylar Cathal
The ground trembled beneath my boots. The distant rhythm echoed across the pass as two armies marched into position.
The White Fang Mountains towered into the clouds above, blocking out the midday sun. Between the peaks, a valley rested, littered with large boulders and forests on either side. At first, the crisp air was cold, but not harsh, more like a mineral scent coming from distant snowfields on top of the towering peaks and ancient glacial streams. Every breath I took sharpened my focus, grounding me to the world we were fighting to save.
There were no screams or bellowing war cries yet. No movement, only a consistent buildup of pressure. The anticipation forced every muscle in my body to tense as I braced for what was to come.
Branches snapped behind me as units took their formation in the forest along the edge of the meadow. The sound of steel freeing from sheaths clanged, and the ripple of power hummed along the lines of shifters and High Fae warriors waiting for my signal. A horde of males and females stood united against a dark queen, all holding still.
Daxton appeared at my side, and the world seemed to realign with him, like the final piece of a puzzle slipping into place. He stood tall. His magic built within his center. Valencia was drawn in his left hand, and frost clung to the silver blade as if eager for bloodshed. His presence was an anchor for my courage.
Something settled, flickering behind his silver gaze, and I nodded in reply.
We didn’t speak out loud—didn’t need to.
My bow waited in his pocket realm, but the alpha’s dagger was warm in my hand. My grip tightened around the hilt. The familiar grooves molded perfectly to my palm. It thrummed faintly, alive with the spirits of every alpha before me.
And across the clearing…Minaevewaited.
The vile queen stood poised in her black armored gown. Her dark turquoise eyes narrowed on me, sharp enough to slice through the space between us. Shadows curled lazily around the skirt of her gown like tendrils of smoke. To Minaeve’s right, King Taran sat astride a massive black steed. His expression was unreadable. His emotions were hidden beneath a golden helm, while his hand rested on the pommel of his sword.
