Chapter 48 #2
Roman smiled, sharp. Possessive. “Don’t I?” He shifted those blue and brown eyes toward the dunes, where Selene climbed with Augustus. “The gods returned her to me. She doesn’t see it now, but once she’s ready to hear the truth…”
The following beat of silence kicked up Blaze’s heart rate. Another enemy lunged, and he parried, barely aware of the movement. Blood sprayed. “What truth?”
Roman met Blaze’s eyes. “He’ll be all yours.”
Blaze turned back to the fight, but his attention lingered on the dunes.
Selene would never belong to a man like Roman. Or to any man, for that matter.
A fact, in which Augustus was fully, if not painfully, aware.
Blaze smirked toward Roman, voice low. “Careful, relic. The world has a habit of burying things it’s done with.”
Selene stopped beside Augustus where Olish’s main street opened up. Only ghosts remained here.
Wind howled through broken shutters. A door creaked on rusted hinges. Sand hissed across stone walkways. No bodies. Only whispers. The echoes of lives erased. Every step into the village felt like a trespass.
Augustus nudged a child’s toy with his boot, which was half-buried in the sand beside a charred, broken stool. “What do you think they did with the children?”
“They behead children,” she said without hesitation, though a chill ran cold through her blood. She didn’t meet his gaze—just stared at the old water well, rope frayed to thread. “They open their throats. Burn them alive. Poison them in the womb. Age doesn’t matter. Innocence never does.”
Blood for the sake of bleeding. Senseless savagery. Selene knew this kind of darkness. Had once breathed it in, lived it, tasted it in her own final moments. Different names, different clothes, same cruelty.
Augustus squeezed her hand. “Sometimes I forget how much you’ve seen.”
She almost smiled. Almost. But her throat was too tight. “I might have been one of them if not for you. You saved me.”
He hugged her close and kissed the crown of her head. “My love, you’re the one who saved me. Never doubt that.”
He pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering just a moment too long before pulling away. “Anything from Little Gus?”
“He’s quiet, but I can sense him now. Waiting. Hiding, maybe. I don’t know. I think he’s blocking me.”
“Alive is good. As long as—”
A pearlescent black streak tore across the sky, roaring. Fire streaked ahead of it as if clearing a path. Turos’s mind brushed hers, no words, only pure, righteous fury.
The dronsian banked hard toward the village, only to be intercepted by a much larger creature. And Turos faced the Vorash, unafraid.
Selene’s breath caught as the two collided midair, talons locking. Flame shot from Turos’s throat, but the Vorash drove him back, wings like death incarnate.
Heart hammering, she stepped closer to Augustus, but he was too stiff. Too still.
She followed his gaze.
Thorne stood in the center of the street, blade in hand, clothes stained with blood. Dark hair clung to his brow in sweaty, matted clumps.
Three men flanked him, just as disheveled, just as blood-soaked.
And at Thorne’s feet—discarded like refuse—lay Mettius, bloodied but breathing.
Not a word passed between them, but the message was clear:
Come and take him.
The world went still. Noise faded. Augustus calculated his next move.
This was Thorne’s grand finale? Three half-dead men and a sword? Augustus could work with that.
Augustus’s sword scraped free from its sheath.
Thorne stood loose-limbed. One hand flexed open and shut, the other dangling a blade like an afterthought.
“You’re looking a bit haggard, Thorne,” Augustus said. “You sure you’re up for this?”
Thorne’s teeth flashed. “Me? What about you? Weeks of torture aren’t cutting through your remaining strength?”
It was, and Augustus wouldn’t deny that. His body screamed for rest, for healing, but there would be time for that later.
Besides, Selene’s presence at his side was like newly forged armor. She was with him, body, soul, and blade.
Once, he might’ve begged her to run.
Now? He feared for anyone foolish enough to stand against her.
Thorne’s gaze slid between them. Then he smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s almost over.”
He gave a sharp whistle, and doors creaked open. Floorboards buckled under footsteps.
Augustus turned, heart sinking as men emerged from the buildings like rats from a sinking ship. One by one, fresh, unbloodied. Thorne’s final stand. These men had been here all along, waiting.
Selene came flush to his side, her grip on his hand tightening.
Thorne aimed his blade at them both. “Would you like a moment to say your goodbyes? Wait, what am I saying? Your arrogance would never allow you to admit defeat, would it?”
Selene laughed, sharp and fearless. “We’ve looked defeat in the eyes too many times to cower at your boots, Thorne. This is nothing.”
The street grew silent except for the wind. No one moved.
Then, Thorne stepped over Mettius’s still form and aimed the tip of his sword at Augustus’s chest.
Selene squeezed his hand, steady, unbreakable, and found his eyes.
And in hers, he saw it.
Goodbye.
Not out of fear.
Out of love.
His heart lurched. “We’re not done here, i psychi mou. Not even remotely.”
Her eyes flared with something fierce. “That’s good to hear.”
“Ho, there!”
The shout rang out across the village. Everyone turned.
Silence.
No horn. No trumpet.
Just boots on sand. And fury on the wind.
A handful of people stood at the crest: Lili, Blaze, Roman, Oskar. More joined them: the Rangers, Blades, Drynopians. Omar and kin. And finally, his family. Captains and Lieutenants. Carpenters and cooks. Gunners and surgeons.
The ridgeline burned with fury.
Steel glinted. Faces sharpened.
Augustus smiled.
Met Thorne’s eyes.
“Didn’t plan for them, did you?”