Chapter Forty
Daxton Aegaeon
Our forces marched south, leaving Solace behind as we steeled our nerves and sharpened our blades.
The excitement of battle flickered through the camp.
Everyone was restless and eager, but there was also another emotion, in equal measure: the heavy dread we all carried.
Many of the brothers and sisters walking beside us would not live to see the summer months.
The earth below our feet would be stained with the blood of shifters, High Fae, and humans alike, and the Mother and Father above would mourn the loss of their children on both sides.
Lake Carth came into view along the eastern horizon, its waters stretching toward the base of the northern mountains, the same mountains where the hunters tortured Skylar.
Rage coiled in my gut as we passed the lake, the peaks looming like a memory that refused to fade.
It felt like a lifetime since I’d last laid eyes on those barren lands.
Part of me had hoped I’d never have to again.
We continued south, passing the trading post, and settled within the forest north of Kwan and the White Fang Mountains to make our final preparations. The cold’s grip had loosened at last with the snow retreating, yet a lingering chill clung to the early mornings and late evenings.
I felt that same kiss of cold in my veins from my magic stirring beneath my skin. For weeks, I’d used my powers to transport our forces to the mainland, but I had kept my ice magic tightly leashed, burrowing deeper into the core of my abilities as I prepared for the battle to come.
Closing my eyes and reaching out with my senses, I could feel them beyond the river. The magical essence of the dark creatures of the former wilt lurking within the White Fang Mountains was undeniable.
The princess’s intel placed their camp ahead in a clearing in the mountain pass. She claimed Taran and Minaeve’s forces were armed and ready for battle. The plan was simple: march over the river, north of Kwan and Azela, then launch our attack.
“Daxton,” Skylar said softly. “Go. I’ll meet you at the front.”
I turned to my mate and pressed a kiss to her brow before stepping back and teleporting away.
The world snapped back into place as my boots hit solid wood.
The Opal’s deck stretched beneath me. White-painted planks gleamed like bleached bone beneath the late-afternoon sun.
Around us, Fjorda’s fleet bobbed in tight formation, their sails emblazoned with the sigil of a sword with a bow laid across it, fire and ice blending as one.
“Nice touch, isn’t it?”
I smiled. “Indeed.”
Captain Fjorda emerged from behind the helm, his hair bound in a series of braids against his scalp.
Eyes as wild as the ocean were tracking me with a seafarer’s precision as I crossed the deck toward him.
The long coat he wore held straps and pockets for various blades and other weapons. He was ready.
“Bit of a dramatic entrance?” Fjorda teased.
“Dramatic or efficient,” I countered, offering my hand.
He clasped my forearm in greeting. “Both, I suppose.”
“How are our naval defenses holding?” I asked, stepping beside him as he led me toward the bow.
The river mouth stretched ahead, wide and dark, fed by the lakes and tributaries that carved around Azela’s lands, leading into the White Fang Mountains.
The river through the mountains was carved by snow accumulation and heavy rainfall over the centuries, allowing a narrow passage for our ships to sail through and join us in the northern pass.
“We’ve already encountered two battalions of enemy ships,” Fjorda said, tone grim but steady. “But thankfully, they were not prepared for the likes of us.” His lip curled. “We killed the crew, took the supplies, and sank them.”
“Good,” I said. “Princess Réalta has secured the majority of her father’s fleet, according to her letters. They’re sailing under our banner now. They’ll intercept anything coming from the capital or the southern ports.”
Fjorda let out a low whistle. “The humans fighting against their own king. She’s a bold little princess.”
“Her ships will hold the waters along the coast.” I glanced at the line of ships behind us. The healer who delivered the letter to Skylar left soon after her arrival, stating that she would need to help organize the ships loyal to their cause. “That gives us the rivers.”
A ripple of magic brushed along my senses as the sea itself seemed to hush.
Then he surfaced.
The king of the water nymphs rose from the depths with the grace only his kind possessed, crimson hair slicked back and glistening.
His tail flicked along the surface, scales shifting through shades of red, orange, and molten gold.
Malek commanded the waves to rise, bringing him to the ship.
He rested his forearms on the rail of the Opal, his golden eyes gleaming like twin suns beneath the surface.
“Daxton,” he said, voice smooth and powerful like an undertow. “Your people move fast.”
“And yours?” I asked.
A predatory smile curved along his lips.
“My kin are positioned throughout the rivers and lakes of the mainland. Every hidden channel. Every bend. Every depth.” His voice dropped, thick with the promise of death.
“Any who fall into the water will be sung to their grave. As will any who try to flee within it.”
Even Fjorda stiffened at that. Their songs didn’t discriminate.
“Perfect,” I said. “No one escapes through the waterways.”
“None,” Malek echoed with quiet satisfaction.
For a moment, the three of us stood together, bound by war and necessity.
“Although my daughter did not return to us…” Malek began.
I glanced at Fjorda, but to his credit, the sea captain didn’t flinch at the mention of his lost mate. There was hope that, when Skylar healed many of the fallen, she would return, but alas, she did not. My heart ached for the male, but I knew that she would be waiting for him at the crossing.
“But many of our people did. We owe you and your queen our allegiance in this fight.”
I nodded, grateful for their help.
“Hold your positions until you see our signal,” I told them. “Once Skylar’s flames strike the skies, everything moves at once.”
Fjorda nodded sharply. “With the wind in our favor, we will reach the battlefield before dawn.”
“To war,” Malek said as he pushed back from the rail and dipped beneath the water in a swirl of flame-colored scales.
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 every layer 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 once more.