Chapter 63 Ashes, Chains, and a Lifeless Crown
ASHES, CHAINS, AND A LIFELESS CROWN
“Remember this, daughters of the earth: The Blue Rose and her Guardian were carved from spirit and flame to rule what the world has forgotten. Where they walk, life will kneel and death will flee.”
—Elder A?na, to vólkin females
Mina
“Mama, when can we go out?” Little árne’s small voice echoes through the underground cave, his tiny paws padding over the stone floor as he runs in circles.
I watch him with tired eyes, my heart aches. How do you explain war to a pup?
“Hush, little one,” Ciele murmurs, pulling her son close. Her claws smooth over his downy fur, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, in the way her tail flicks side to side. “When Elder A?na says we can.”
It is the only answer she can give. I can smell the blood.
Even here—deep underground, far from the battlefield—it reaches us. That thick, metallic scent that does not belong in ávera. The pups don’t notice it. But we do.
“Elder A?na!” Essin huffs, crossing her arms. “I can’t wait any longer either! We need to go.”
I glance at Na?a, who is rocking a pup to sleep. I see the same worry clouding her gaze.
“I feel my heart weeping.” I swallow. “Am I the only one?”
Na?a meets my eyes, her fingers twitch in the pup’s fur.
We have been here too long. The day the warriors heard the monsters approaching, we were ushered into these shelters.
Her Majesty ordered they be hidden beneath the earth, protected by a seamless entrance and surrounded with rosemary and salt. She thought of everything.
And yet—
It does not feel safe anymore.
“I have a bad feeling,” Elder A?na murmurs as she rises to her full height. The dim light of her crystals catches the silver in her fur, making her look older than she ever has. “The glade is standing strong.” Her voice is calm, but her brows furrow. “However . . . it is covered in blood.”
My heart stutters.
So much blood she can sense it from here. Silence falls over us. Even the pups seem to feel it.
“I will go investigate!” Essin declares, already moving toward the entrance.
I reach out to stop her. “Essin—”
“You are too foolish if you think to go alone.” Elder A?na’s voice is firm, it leaves no room for argument. “Mina and Na?a shall go with you.”
I nod.
Na?a tries to pass the sleeping pup to Elder A?na, but she shakes her head. “I will go too.”
My ears perk up. Elder A?na is wise, and she is the strongest among us, but she’s old. But if she thinks this is necessary, then we cannot refuse her.
I meet Na?a’s gaze once more. We are going to see what waits above.
Essin and I press our shoulders against the heavy stone, pushing together.
The weight resists us at first, and then the rock moves, the grinding sound too loud in the silence of the underground shelter.
I wince at the noise and glance over my shoulder to where the pups and the elder females wait, watching with wide eyes. I wish we had crystals.
Not for power, not for battle, but for something as simple as speaking without sound.
If we could send signals to each other through thought, we wouldn’t have to risk exposing ourselves now.
But that is not a gift we were given. The males, the warriors, they have it, and we do not.
That is simply the way things have always been.
Elder A?na steps forward. With a motion of her paw through the air, the stone slides the rest of the way.
Essin flicks an ear, muttering something under her breath about how she and I just struggled with that same boulder, but there is no time for complaints. The moment the entrance is open, a savage, wet stench fills my nose.
My stomach lurches.
I have never smelled so much of it at once before. Even Na?a takes a few steps back. We have to move. We have to see what happened.
Elder A?na is already walking, her ears forward and alert. I swallow down the knot rising in my throat and step out of the shelter beside Na?a and Essin.
The forest is eerily still, as though even the leaves have forgotten how to move. There is no wind, no rustling of branches, only the overwhelming scent of blood and decay hanging in the air. We move through the trees as silent as shadows. I’m not sure I’m ready to see what lies ahead.
My legs give out beneath me as an unbearable weight crashes into my chest, and though my eyes refuse to blink, refuse to look away, my mind rejects what it sees.
As if denying its existence could somehow rewrite fate, could somehow undo the carnage that spills across ávera like a wound that will never heal.
No, this is not real. It cannot be real.
And yet, bodies. So many bodies. Some are twisted, their shapes unrecognizable, grotesque, monstrous, just as the warriors warned.
And though I have never seen these creatures before, I know, deep within my bones, that they were never meant to exist, that they are abominations of dark magic, things that should have never been given breath, never been given life.
But others . . . Others are ours. Vólkins.
Who are the green-skinned warriors? Doesn’t matter now. The monsters’ blood has stained the sacred earth of ávera.
And those who remain standing, they are gathered in a circle, their faces hollow, their bodies still, their hands placing flowers over the dead. Flowers.
ávera’s warriors, Her Majesty’s warriors, kneeling by the bodies of the fallen, offering beauty where only devastation remains, offering the final kindness they can give to those who will never rise again. I cannot breathe.
I feel my own heartbeat, a thunderous drum in my chest that threatens to shatter me from the inside out, and my gaze flickers frantically, searching, searching, desperate for something, someone, anything to ground me, anything to tell me this is not real, that this is a trick of my mind, a nightmare from which I will wake.
Elder A?na’s steps do not falter, though even she cannot hide the way her ears are lowered, the way her shoulders tremble as she walks toward the gathered warriors, toward the unmoving bodies, toward the sight I cannot bear to see.
But I follow her. Because I have to. Because I need to. Because if I do not, then I will stand here forever, paralyzed, drowning in my own denial.
Then I see them. Noel and Theron.
The air is ripped from my lungs in a strangled cry as I stumble forward, my steps uneven, my paws unsteady beneath me, my vision blurring with a flood of tears that refuse to fall because falling tears would mean acceptance. Their bodies lie together, side by side, unmoving. Too still. Too still.
Her Majesty—our leader, the soul of this rebellion, the one who led us out of the dark and into the light—she lies motionless, her crystals now dull and broken, a gaping wound where an arrow has lodged itself in her forehead and pierced the very essence of her power. Just like four hundred years ago.
And Theron—her mate, her guardian, her heart—is beside her, still and silent, his paw resting over her stomach, as if even in death he refuses to let her go, refuses to leave her, refuses to let the world take her from him. As if his final act was to hold on to her one last time.
A raw, broken sound wrenches itself from my throat, something that is neither scream nor sob but a soul-deep agony that has no name, only pain.
Na?a and Essin collapse, their bodies folding over them both, as if by shielding them, they can somehow protect them, somehow bring them back.
I turn blindly, blindly, reaching for Elder A?na, pressing my face into her fur, clutching her as if she is the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
“Why?” The word is small, weak, nothing more than a breath. “Why—why—why?”
Elder A?na bows her head and says nothing, because there are no answers. Because this is real.
Because the woman who led us all, who stood against the tsar and defied the laws of this world, who promised us a future, a world free of suffering, a world where we could be more than prisoners—
She is gone.
Theron, who stood by her side, who fought for her, who lived and breathed only for her, who swore to protect her with every last ounce of his strength, who would have torn the world apart for her—
He is gone too.
My tears dampen the fur on my face, blurring my vision, washing away the image before me, but no amount of tears can erase this, no amount of grief can bring them back, no amount of denial can change the truth that is right in front of me. And so I wail.
The nymphí arrive with crystals glowing with healing energy, the leaf spirits gather around Noel’s and Theron’s lifeless bodies, but nothing is enough. Nothing can undo what has been done.
“We will remember them,” a rumbling voice says, and I lift my gaze to find one of the green-skinned warriors standing tall, his expression grim, his golden jewelry catching the moonlight. “Even though we did not know them for long, we saw what a true leader is.”
Another green human speaks, his hands clenched into fists. “Her Majesty welcomed us,” he says. “And we will honor her. Honor them both.”
The warriors, both vólkin and green humans, rise as one. But then—
A growl rips through the silence. Low and familiar.
I snap my head to the right, my heart leaping into my throat as I stare toward the edge of ávera. Or?on.
The sound of weeping—of shrieking—rises from the trees, a sound so unnatural, so gut wrenching, it makes my fur bristle. It’s unlike anything I have ever heard before.
A gasp escapes me as figures emerge from between the blackened trees. More of them.
More of those twisted, unnatural creatures, their bodies moving in broken ways, their soulless eyes fixed on us all, their very presence a stain on this sacred land. They step into the clearing, dragging the scent of decay with them.
And then I see Or?on.
He’s shackled, bound in thick, thorn-covered chains that dig into his fur, wrap around his limbs, his torso, his muzzle. He trembles beneath the weight of his restraints.