Chapter 51
Chapter Fifty-One
Violet
Present day…
Ablur of russet feathers streaks past us, so close the draft buffets my face. Galeor. Wings folded, diving at a speed that makes my stomach lurch.
He is not heading for Elisa.
“Fenix!” Aldric's screech of fury tears through the sky. But Galeor is already gone—plummeting toward something on the far side of the field that I cannot see.
Fenix
He’s here.
I have a lock on General Adharde.
Galeor and I are of one mind. The wolves are already closing in from the east, a deadly mass pouring through the broken ranks. They'll take the rockling—the great, collared brute lumbering at Adharde's side, too stupid and too conditioned to know what's coming for it.
I fold my wings tighter, bleeding speed from the sky, and angle my descent to cut off his retreat.
The wolven tide is ripping through their ranks. I see Lark take down the rockling at Adharde’s side in perfect synchronicity with my plan.
The general is mine.
I slam him to the ground.
“For Molly!”
My cry of fury is not for Adharde. I doubt the bastard even remembers the young girl he plucked from servitude and made into a pet.
It doesn’t matter. I have waited long and justice will be served. There is no hesitation. There will be no trial.
I reach forward with one lethal claw and rip out the dark fae’s heart.
Violet
“For Molly!”
Pain lances my heart. The potency of Fenix's rage—for a woman I do not know, a justice I do not understand—steals the breath from my lungs.
“Steady yourself, Queen,” Atlas says. “The emotions you feel are not the ones you suspect. It is his story, and I will let him tell it. But now is not the time.”
The pain yet lingers, confused and bruised. I muster my resolve. Try to see clearly through the storm of Fenix's emotions and into the truth of Atlas's words.
Below is my sister, at her side, the High King and Elijah.
A different battle awaits me. One every bit as bitter, and one that still lashes me with raw potency from Fenix's side of the bond.
There is no time to linger upon such thoughts, for Aldric descends in a rush of wind and fury, landing hard enough to crack the earth beneath his claws. The soldiers guarding my sister and her retinue scatter.
Elisa does not move. The High King takes a step back.
But Elijah—my sister's husband, the man who preyed upon my omega sisters—stands his ground with the particular arrogance of someone too stupid to understand what is before him. At his side, and the only one of his dogs not cowering, stands his favored henchman, Maren, a truly heinous man. He officially works for Elijah, but Elisa has called on his discreet services on occasion—it was Maren who took my younger sister Rebecca in the dead of the night and tossed her through the portal at Elisa’s behest.
Aldric lowers his body, and I slide from his back. My feet meet the churned ground, and I steady myself.
The air implodes, and Atlas stands where Aldric was. Clothed in his simple leather armor, composed, radiating a cold authority that needs no words.
Behind us comes the beat of wings. Darkan lands to our left, Galeor to our right. Two griffins flanking their Pride Leader's mate. Feathers settle. Beaks clack.
Then the thunder of hooves and paws—Rafe on horseback in his gold-plated armor, and Lark, bloodied and white-coated, loping at his side.
My mates form a wall at my back.
I face my sister.
Elisa's gaze moves over them, calculating, even now. The High King is ashen. But Elijah steps aggressively forward, lip curling, his eyes fixed on me with the same contempt he wore when he prowled the halls of our family home. “Well, if it isn't the little omega who—”
He does not finish.
The air cracks. Aldric erupts from Atlas in a burst of fury—no warning—and a massive claw slams Elijah into the ground. The sound is wet and final. Aldric's beak closes around his head and wrenches it from his shoulders in a single, savage motion.
Blood arcs across the dirt and spatters my sister's face and clothes.
She does not scream. She stands motionless, her dead husband's blood running down her cheek.
Aldric raises his head to the sky and screeches—a sound that splits the air and shakes the very ground.
From nearby treetops, the ground, and sky above us, the answering screeches come. Every griffin in the eyrie, every griffin on the field, lifts its voice in echo. The sound rolls across the valley like thunder.
Then silence.
The air implodes once more, and Atlas stands before us. His eyes find mine first. There is no apology in them.
I offer none in return.