Chapter 61 The Tsar’s Failed Creations
THE TSAR’S FAILED CREATIONS
“I shattered the bond and stole the breath of the earth. Let their broken forms wander, nameless, until the soil forgets their blood.”
—Tsar Aldrik I
Noel
“With blood and roses, I will keep you all safe!”
My scream rips through the night as I leap onto Theron mid-run, gripping his thick fur as we charge forward.
The warriors thunder after us, their claws digging into the dirt, their snarls filling the air.
The village is secured, safe in the hands of the nymphí and five packs.
Now, the tsar’s men will finally taste their own blood.
Theron hisses as he runs, his sac still aching from our interruption. I know.
Because I feel it too.
I’m soaked, dripping, my arousal slicks his fur as we move. Very cruel timing. But we have no time to think, only to fight. My fingers tighten around my sword, my gaze locked ahead as heavy footfalls pound the earth. Too heavy.
This isn’t normal. No human’s footsteps should sound like that.
We run for what feels like an hour, though in reality, it’s no more than ten minutes. Our speed is immense, our focus blade-sharp, but the tension claws at my chest like a caged beast. This is it. The night everything changes.
Tonight, the tsar will learn who truly rules this land. I will kill his army, and when the time comes, I will kill him too. But no amount of preparation could have readied me for what I see before my eyes.
Giant, green-skinned heads rise above the horizon, emerging like unnatural monoliths in the moonlight.
The road ahead is clear of trees. This is open land, the kind where carriages, traders, or farmers travel.
Not the kind where nightmares take shape.
What is this? Who are they? “Theron,” I grit out, my pulse hammering. “This . . . what is going on?”
He shakes his head, just as confused. My crystals blaze brighter, the glow spilling over the land. And then I see them clearly.
They have the shape of men, but they are not men. Their massive bodies are lined with powerful muscle, green skin in a spectrum of shades. Some as deep as forest shadows, others like sunlit moss. They are tall—vólkin tall.
And they are heavy. That’s why their footsteps shake the ground. Their hair varies—some have their heads shaved, others wear braids. And then, the details hit me. Not only the countless daggers and spears.
The gold.
Rings pierce their pointed ears. Thick bands coil around their arms, their necks, their abs. Heavy chains drape over their massive frames like trophies of conquest. And lower . . .
Oh.
Oh dear goddesses. Even there? Even their cocks are adorned in gold.
The green men come to a halt, raising their hands.
My gaze narrows. What does that mean? Surrender? A warning?
I pulse my crystals once, a silent command.
Theron immediately slows, his heavy breathing controlled despite the pounding of his heart still pulsing through him.
The army behind us follows suit and stops.
Now, we stand before these creatures, a mere fifty steps apart.
A tense silence settles between us. And then, the front row of the green men tilt their heads back and sniff the air.
My stomach drops. Oh, dear goddesses. Please.
Let them not be scenting Theron’s damp back, covered in my arousal.
“We have interrupted the Blue Rose and her mate. My apologies,” says the green-skinned warrior at the front.
I just stare. There is no way I’m witnessing this madness. And then, they all bow. I blink.
What in Láda Velé?a is going on? Did I fall asleep on Theron after we both collapsed into bliss? Is this some dream? I clear my throat before forcing my voice out. “Who are you?” And why are you green? I want to ask, but somehow, that question feels more ridiculous than the entire situation itself.
The warrior lifts his head. “My name is Thrā’kkor. I am the chief of the orcs.”
My head almost tilts on its own, but I fight the urge to react. Orcs. I have no idea what that is or what they are.
“Thrā’kkor of orcs,” I echo, slipping off Theron’s back and landing with a solid thud of my boots.
Theron instantly straightens behind me, claws flexing.
As I step forward, so do the orcs behind Thrā’kkor.
My warriors growl, fur bristling with instinct.
From the edges of the field, the wolves that have followed us for days stand still, watching us. Watching me.
I don’t know why, but I feel their waiting eyes. Their bellies are full of the corpses of rebellious men, the nymphí even tried to calm them and scratch behind their ears. But nothing changed. So be it then. I lift my chin.
“What is the purpose of your arrival? Have you been sent by the tsar?”
Thrā’kkor nods. “We have.” The moment the words leave his mouth, the orcs near him step aside.
A violent growl rips from Theron’s throat, his body moving forward without hesitation. Our warriors mirror him.
I raise a hand. Hold.
And then I see why. The tsar’s men. One. Three. Seven. Shoved forward like cattle.
I go still.
I would never mistake that uniform with the blue rose insignia, the symbol that is mine. The symbol he has no right to claim. My gaze narrows, burning with fury. The prisoners tremble, their bodies betraying them as fear coils around their spines like a vise.
One of them—a younger soldier, barely a man—clutches his mouth, his chest heaving. His face is pale, slick with sweat, eyes darting wildly between me, Theron, and the orcs. He sways. He’s about to throw up.
Another, older, battle worn, collapses to his knees, gripping the soil as if it’s the only thing anchoring him to this world. His fingers dig into the dirt like he’s trying to hide himself from the horrors he’s seen—or is about to see.
One of them lets out a high-pitched whimper. His entire body shakes so violently his armor clatters with every breath.
Another stares at me, unblinking, as if looking at something beyond human comprehension. His lips move soundlessly, forming words that never come. A prayer? Or maybe he’s simply lost all ability to speak.
The last of them, a man twice my size but crumbling under his fate, slowly tilts his head upward. His eyes—dull and broken—meet mine. There is no defiance in them. What have they done to these men?
“The tsar wanted us to assist him against you and the vólkins, Your Majesty,” Thrā’kkor says, his voice calm, almost amused. He called me by my title.
I narrow my eyes. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”
My crystals ignite with a fierce blue light that pulses from my forehead. The trembling men’s eyes widen, beyond fear.
I tighten my grip around my sword, and in response, the blade surges with the same blue light. Its glow reflects in their terrified eyes, their minds scrambling between fight and flight, though neither will save them.
Suddenly, the wolves stir and point their snouts in the opposite direction, ears flat against their skulls. I flick my gaze toward them for just a second, just enough to register the change in their behavior. Then—
A sound like cracking bone shatters the moment.
Thrā’kkor moves. The orc chieftain reaches out and grabs the nearest soldier by the head.
The man screams, thrashing wildly, his feet kicking against the ground.
Frantic prayers to his nonexistent gods spill from his lips.
With a fast tear, his body rips free from his head.
The lifeless corpse collapses to the dirt, the severed head still caught in Thrā’kkor’s monstrous grip.
Blood arcs through the air, splattering the horrified faces of the remaining men.
For a moment, there is nothing. Then, screams.
“Silence!” I command, my voice slicing through the chaotic panic of the soldiers.
The orcs stand tall at once, their eyes fixed on me. Behind me, Theron and my warriors stiffen. I flick them a sharp glare. They freeze in place.
My boots sink into the soil as I move forward. My gaze sweeps over the orcs. My fingers tighten around my sword.
“We have come to join you, Your Majesty,” Thrā’kkor declares when I stop in front of him. His deep voice is stoic, as if nothing happened.
My eyes narrow yet again.
He motions to the remaining messengers, the ones still trembling, still hoping for a miracle. Two orcs grab them and crack their skulls. Their heads are torn clean from their bodies. Blood spills in syrupy, steaming pools at their feet. “And we declined,” Thrā’kkor finishes.
I don’t flinch. I’ve seen enough death to stomach it. “Why?”
Thrā’kkor holds my gaze. “We were once human.”
A shiver prickles down my spine.
“Four hundred years ago, we were created through dark magic,” another orc says.
My blood runs cold. Dark magic. The goddesses used it to create the vólkin females. Four hundred years . . . The old tsar—the monster who burned vólkins’ and women’s bodies to create the barrier—he was the one who created them.
“Why would you join me?” I demand, my voice strong as I lift my chin to meet Thrā’kkor’s piercing gaze.
“We were experiments,” Thrā’kkor states. “Created to be the ultimate weapon against the vólkins.”
A cold shudder ripples through me.
“Most of us perished,” he continues. “The tsar twisted nature, testing and failing, again and again. Until he forged the perfect warriors.”
The wolves whine, their ears flat, tails tucked between their legs. They feel it too. The wrongness. The weight of what was done.
Thrā’kkor lifts his massive green hand to his heart. “Our skin came from Mother Nature. Our brutal bodies were carved from the earth itself.” He exhales, lowering his eyes. “And our minds—our will—came from the blue rose.”
My heart beats so hard I feel it in my throat. I stumble back and crash into something solid. Theron.
He was behind me before I even realized it. He grips my shoulders, holding me still. Holding me together. “You came to fight for your mother,” Theron says.
Thrā’kkor nods. Then, he bows. And then, they all bow.
A sea of massive warriors lowering their heads before me. “Noel ársa,” Thrā’kkor declares. “The Lidé?en we have waited for has finally awakened.”
My throat tightens.
“It is our honor to fight for the true creator. The moment the messengers arrived, we knew our time had come. We began our journey from our land to ávera. But—” He pauses, lifting his head. “We scented the blue rose earlier than expected. So we ran here. To you.”
The blue rose. The lush gardens of the tsar’s stronghold. The experiments. My mind spirals, a storm of fragmented pieces snapping into place. I turn to Theron, my breath shallow, my pulse pounding like war drums. Our eyes lock.
“So there was no ambush,” Theron says.
But my chest tightens. A sick feeling coils in my gut. ávera.
The wolves—their snouts lifted, their bodies rigid—aren’t watching the orcs anymore. They’re looking toward ávera. Something is wrong.
A single, breathless word escapes my lips. “No.”
The wolves knew all along.