Epilogue
Since the day the leaders rose from death, the land itself began to heal. Earthly souls and ethereal beings alike worked together, restoring the sacred groves, rebuilding the homes that had been reduced to ash. It would take time, perhaps months or even years, but no one ever said war was easy.
The soil, though it had been drenched in blood, began to flourish once more.
Seeds of fruits and vegetables were planted for the women who had come back home to the sacred land, their hands no longer bound by men but free to shape the world anew.
A new era had begun. And at the heart of it stood Noel ársa.
They called her Noel the Bloodthorn.
It was a name said with pride, given not by tsars or councils, but by the women who had once suffered under the weight of men’s greed. To them, she was more than the Lidé?en. She was their shield, their sword, and their justice. And so, Noel the Bloodthorn opened the Blue Rose Court.
The chamber of the court was carved from the heart of a living tree.
The scent of sap and ash lingered in the air, like the blood that was shed and the rebirth that followed.
Above, blue roses bloomed, lighting the faces of every man captured in battle—slaves and traitors—who were brought before her, and their fates were sealed beneath the glow of the blue roses.
Noel the Bloodthorn, in her crown of roses, sat upon a throne grown from thorned vines and obsidian stone. Her eyes, pale with the power of the ancients, rested on the kneeling vólkin at the base of the dais. His name was Or?on.
Once, he was one of their strongest. A vólkin of honor and strength. But in his pride, he had broken that trust.
“You returned with Gregor to the tsar’s men,” Noel said, voice echoing through the chamber like wind through a field of corpses. “Not as a spy or savior, but as a warrior who thought himself the claw that could end a war alone.”
Or?on did not lift his gaze. His broad shoulders rose and fell with the weight of what he’d done.
“Your recklessness cost us dearly,” she continued. “You thought yourself clever. You were not. You thought yourself righteous. You were not. You brought fire to our land and believed it was light.”
A hush fell. The gathered vólkins, nymphí, and orcs watched in stillness, their judgment already spoken in the lines of their faces.
Noel stood.
“There are too few of our kind left to bury one more out of vengeance,” she said. “But exile is not mercy. It is the slow death of belonging.”
She descended the steps, her bare feet silent on the moss-lined floor.
“You will never set paw in ávera again,” she declared, lifting her hand. “You are unbound. Stripped of all honor. Your name will be remembered. Not as a traitor, but as a caution.”
Vines slithered across the floor, circling Or?on. They did not strike. They did not bind. They merely glowed, and with them, the bond between him and the land dissolved.
Or?on did not beg. His silence was louder than any plea.
When he rose, his eyes met Noel’s only once. There was no hatred there. He understood.
And then, he turned.
The court watched as he walked out. Past the vines, past the roots, past the arms that would never open for him again.
Banished.
The Blue Rose Court was silent once more.
Since the day the leaders rose, the vólkins who survived healed.
Their wounds faded, and their pups ran through the land once more, their laughter ringing through the sacred groves.
The women who had once been trapped in distant villages found their way to ávera, adapted to its laws, its freedom, and its peace.
And in time, more mates were bonded. More bellies swelled.
The land began to thrive.
And yet, Noel ársa still could not walk among them as freely as the others.
The women of ávera had embraced their femininity, their nature, their right to be unshackled by shame.
Many of them moved bare and untamed, at peace in their own skin.
But Noel, Noel the Bloodthorn, was not ready for that freedom. Perhaps one day.
From time to time, Theron found his mate leaning against a baby’s crib, a blue rose carved into its wood.
She tugged the fur blanket tighter, tucking in invisible limbs, as though protecting a dream.
Sometimes she added a white feather to the soft pile, gifts gathered during their walks through the reborn groves.
They would curl into each other, knowing the time had not yet come. Finding the remaining four and destroying the tsar was the priority.
Still, with a pained heart, Noel the Bloodthorn began teaching women the once-forbidden knowledge of combat. Na?a taught them to read, Essin to write, Mina spoke of nature, and Elder A?na guided them in spirit.
And through it all, Noel the Bloodthorn had one thing in mind.
Women don’t want equality. They want revenge.