Chapter 53 The Night the Blue Rose Claimed Her Throne
THE NIGHT THE BLUE ROSE CLAIMED HER THRONE
“She will not slip quietly into this world, ándor. She will be carved out by blood and broken by destiny. One day, she will wear a crown not of gold, but of thorns. And when she binds herself to him, the world will bleed to make way.”
—Eyleen ársa to ándor, resting her hand over her belly
Noel
The moon hangs high in the dark sky, bright and beautiful, almost at its peak.
We walk slowly toward the sacred glade. Elder A?na and Mina walk to my right, while Na?a and Essin walk to my left.
Each holds a candle in their paws, their flames flickering in the night air.
Two nymphí follow close behind, holding the edges of my veil, and the rest trail silently after us.
My heart pounds, and I feel every step I take. Literally.
Every blade of grass beneath my bare feet, every small rock pressing into my soles—I feel them all, as if each demands my attention. I can count them as I walk.
This isn’t normal.
And I am so hungry.
The weather is perfect, as if the goddesses planned this night just for me. I’m grateful. Even through the veil, I can make out every detail. Every leaf on every tree is crisp. I think I hear the trees humming, soft and melodic, as if singing a song only I can hear.
This has never happened before. What else will I see when I’m fully awakened?
I fix my gaze forward, and as we walk, the sacred glade comes into view. Hundreds of vólkins are gathered, just as Elder A?na said they would be. They stand tall and proud, encircling the glade in silence. Even the pups are silent. Everyone’s waiting for me. And in the center, Theron.
He stands near the giant stone. My breath catches as I look at him.
His broad chest is adorned with red circles and lines, symbols painted onto his fur.
Blue roses are woven into his thick mane where they glow against his dark fur.
That must have been Zephyr’s touch. It has his style.
I recognize my gift to him, the lush blue rose, nestled behind his ear. A smile stretches my lips.
How handsome he looks. Like a god of nature, standing there as if the earth shaped him with careful hands. Then he turns to me, and I freeze mid-step. His eyes pierce through the distance, locking onto mine with an intensity that steals the air from my lungs. I swallow hard.
“Keep walking,” Mina whispers.
I force my legs to move, each step slow.
The fabric of my dress brushes against my skin, and I’m acutely aware of how little I’m wearing.
There’s nothing beneath it—no cloth to hold my breasts, no undergarments.
My arousal dampens my curls, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from faltering.
Oh goddesses, his gaze. It’s focused entirely on me, as if nothing else exists.
We’re still far from the glade—at least a twenty-minute walk away—but I see him.
I feel him. I feel his breath, his heart, his hazel eyes.
I feel his fur, so thick and soft on his skin.
And I know he feels me too. There is no shame in being attracted to him.
This is how nature made us. How the goddesses intended us to be.
Everything has a reason. Every life and every death.
I arch my back and lift my chin. Why should I feel anything but pride?
I am Noel ársa. No. I am more than Noel ársa.
I am the one who will restore the balance. I am strong. I am smart. I am ready. It’s not the result that defines us, not the end of the path.
It’s the journey.
The journey that enlightens.
The candle flames around me roar higher, growing wild and violent.
My fingertips burn with heat, as if I’m holding fire itself.
The moon above looks down on me, and I feel everything.
The air, clear yet heavy, the ground beneath my feet, and the charge in the atmosphere.
As we near the glade, the gathered vólkins part to let us pass.
Theron’s gaze is still fixed on me. His bratya stand at his side. A light breeze picks up, swirling fallen leaves and petals into a violent, dancing storm. Leaf spirits flit through the chaos to clear my path.
My step falters, my body sways as searing pain shoots through my forehead. It feels like it’s about to explode. Was the tea bad? Did I not drink enough water today? To my side, Mina isn’t urging me forward. None of them are. They’re all bowing.
Heat spreads through me. It’s as if my feet, my knees, my entire being is aflame. Theron takes a step closer, his expression shifting, but I lift my hand to stop him, and he does.
What is happening to me?
I close my eyes, inhale slowly, desperate for calm and to steady the storm of flames.
But the pain in my forehead grows more insistent.
Then, behind my closed lids, I don’t see darkness, but light.
Vivid, blinding colors—pinks, greens, blues, and purples—paint everything in front of me.
I sway, knees buckling. I almost fall, but I catch myself.
My hand moves to my forehead. It isn’t smooth.
A gasp escapes me. I feel strange bumps beneath my fingers. Crystals.
My nails tap lightly against them, the sound clear and true. I hear it so loudly. My eyes fly open. The tall stands around the glade are ablaze with angry fire—fire that Elder A?na hasn’t yet lit. And I hear it.
Murmurs. Voices.
Not from the vólkins. The glade is silent. Everyone is silent. The voices come from the forest, from the shadows, from the wild. Animals? I don’t know. But they’re calling.
I turn to Theron, and what I see stops my steps. He looks delighted. A warm smile in his eyes. What?
My gaze shifts to everyone around us. Their heads are lowered, gazes fixed firmly on the ground.
Theron walks over to me, but he doesn’t say a word.
We now stand a mere few steps from the glade.
He lifts a paw and traces his pads gently over the crystals on my forehead through the thin veil.
It doesn’t hurt anymore. I follow his gaze as it turns back toward the glade.
The entire area glows.
The enormous stone at the center—taller even than Theron—is alive with light. Its ancient carvings pulse with energy, shining brighter and brighter. The grass around it shimmers, the blue roses at its base emit an ethereal radiance, and the air hums with power.
A loud, bone-chilling howl suddenly rises from the forest. The sound echoes around us, primal and raw, sending a shiver through my body.
I whirl around, searching for its source, my heart pounding.
The nymphí kneel, their heads bowed. The vólkins are still bowed as well, lowered to the earth. Everyone is silent.
Six figures appear before the glade, their presence taking me completely by surprise. Six beautiful women—goddesses—just as Elder A?na once described. The six goddesses who have never appeared in human history.
And now, they stand before me.
At the forefront is Goddess Láda Velé?a, the goddess of leadership and war.
She is tall, commanding, and she radiates power.
She looks just as Elder A?na told me she would.
Her braided hair is threaded with golden ribbon.
She wears a flowing black gown adorned with red and gold embroidery depicting roses and twisting vines.
Her headscarf is tied under her chin, the crescent moon embroidered at its center catching the glow of the glade.
A circular halo surrounds her head, a weave of swords and vines.
In her many hands, she carries her symbols.
A sickle gleams in one hand, a sword glints in another.
A scale rests in the third hand, a symbol of balance and judgment.
And in her fourth, she holds a small shield emblazoned with the blue rose insignia, the mark of divine protection. Her gaze locks onto mine, piercing my soul. This is the goddess who spoke to me in the darkness. I feel it.
And now, she is here.
Theron bows to the goddesses, and I follow.
“The Lidé?en never lowers her head.” Láda Velé?a’s voice echoes.
A shiver races down my spine, and I straighten, meeting her gaze.
“Good,” she says. “You have awakened before the ritual. That is a good sign.”
My hand moves to my forehead, brushing over the cool crystals. They are real. I have crystals now.
“Why has this happened?” I ask and take a step forward.
“You are a child of nature, and you have understood its core,” Láda Velé?a says. She lifts the hand holding her sword, and the blade glimmers. A wave of wind rushes around me, removing my veil.
The sword in her hand is silver as moonlight, sharp as the claw of the mightiest vólkin, with patterns of roses spiraling around the handle.
“Lift your chin, ethereal being,” she commands. “You are the chosen one. The one to be knelt before. The one who will restore the balance this world has lost through time.”
I stand taller, my eyes drawn to the braids framing her face. Thick and beautiful, her braids, adorned with blue and red roses, cascade over her shoulders and chest.
“A leader must bear the heaviest burdens,” she continues, “and wield both strength and mercy. In your hands lies the power to unite or destroy. Choose wisely.”
With grace and wind, she extends the sword toward me.
I raise both arms and take it from her. The blade feels impossibly heavy at first, but as my grip tightens around the hilt, the weight disappears. It’s as if the sword was made for me—it feels like home.
“Thank you for the gift and your wise words,” I say, shifting the blade into one hand.
I raise the sword high, and the flames surrounding the glade surge upward, wild and untamed. They roar to life, higher and higher, lighting the night with their fierce dance.
Then I lower the blade, and the flames respond, quieting their rage, as if submitting to my will.
The other goddesses don’t say a word, their gazes fixed upon me.
Every goddess is different. Each radiates her own essence—power, flame, storm, soil, water, night—yet together, they blur into something greater, a circle of power older than the world I know.
They are contrasts made whole: fierce and nurturing, storm and serenity, guardians and destroyers, all woven into a single breathless silence.
I turn to Theron, his crystals grow so bright.
“With the goddesses as our witnesses,” I say loudly for the wolves in the forest to hear, “I want to hear your vows.”
Though I awakened before the ritual began, I want this moment. This is my choice: to accept or reject, to seal fate or shatter it.
Theron straightens, his posture firm. He lifts his paw to his heart.
“Noel, you are my soul,” he says, the words reverberating through the air.
“The air I breathe tastes of you, and the blood in my veins burns for you. My life is yours to command, my strength yours to wield. I vow to stand between you and every shadow, every enemy, and every spirit who dares to so much as think ill of you. I will hunt before you hunger, and I will bleed for your wounds.” His voice grows softer, as if the entire world has faded, leaving only the two of us.
“You are my Lidé?en, my heart, my body, and my soul. My reason to exist.”
He lowers his paw from his chest and takes a step closer. “I vow to be yours, wholly and eternally, until the earth crumbles beneath your feet.”
That is a beautiful vow. So raw and so him. If I agree, we’re sealed together. If I agree, we bond completely and set off to war tomorrow.
I will never be free of duties. Free to chase my own choices and dreams. I might never have a child of my own. I might die before completing my purpose. I might even die tomorrow.
I lift the sword and point it at his heart. Theron doesn’t move. He stares quietly into my eyes as I press the tip of the blade through his fur until I feel the resistance of his skin. The slightest pressure, and it gives way. If his heart stops beating, he will die. He isn’t immortal.
The blade draws a thin line of blood from his chest, and he grins. That familiar, confident grin.
And I grin back.
Theron brushes his thumb over the blood, then reaches out to let it hover over my chest. “Do you accept, my little dove?”
I lower the sword to my own heart, piercing the skin with a sharp sting. Blood paints the fabric of my dress, and I lift my thumb to collect it.
Reaching forward, I press my blood against his chest, right over his heart. “I do,” I say, my grin stretching wider as his matches mine. Together, we mark each other’s hearts, sealing the bond with blood.
Mother, Father, I am bonded to my mate.
“The rose,” Láda Velé?a says, “and the guardian.”
Theron and I stand before the goddesses, waiting.
“From the garden of éva, six flowers bloom,” she continues, her many hands moving in one direction. “The blue rose will lead them.”
Six flowers? Is this a clue? My heart pounds as I focus on her every word.
“The peony will guard,” she says, and a lush, pink peony appears in one of her hands.
“The chamomile will heal.” A gentle breeze carries the familiar scent of chamomile.
It reminds me of the tea my mother used to make when I was ill.
“The yarrow will fight.” One of her swords takes on a burgundy hue as she speaks.
“The rowan berry will know.” Another hand forms small, red berries, glistening like drops of blood.
“And the lotus will see.” From her eyes, a white flower blooms, pure and radiant.
This is it. Everything falls into place.
I am the blue rose—the leader. The peony is the sentinel. The chamomile, the healer. The yarrow, the warrior. The rowan berry, the scholar. And the lotus, the seer.
The six who will restore balance.
Láda Velé?a’s gaze sharpens. “You will find them, Blue Rose, and together, you will bring harmony to this fractured world.”