Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ALENA
Alena caught a glimpse of a broad-shouldered Rasennan soldier with a red-plumed helmet and a thick black beard before another gust of unnatural wind slammed into her, lifting her off her feet.
She landed with a grunt and rolled, skimming across gravel and frozen dirt, the final jolt nearly knocking her unconscious. Pain flared through her shoulder and ribs. Through the bond she felt Apollo’s alarm, but she pushed him back.
No, find Phoebe.
One wolf couldn’t save her from soldiers, not with a Gifted among them, and she wasn’t about to lose anyone else—human or animal.
She lay sprawled in the dirt, breath ragged, each exhale a puff of white mist in the frigid air. Her sleeve was torn, her arm raw and bleeding. Grit clung to her palms as she forced herself to move.
With a groan, she staggered to one knee and groped for her sword. Phoebe’s training surged through her like muscle memory, and in one swift motion, the blade was in her hand.
Around her, the camp seemed to hold its breath. Slaves clustered near the barracks, eyes wide with silent dread. Across the yard, soldiers began to close in, anticipation gleaming in their expressions.
At their centre stood the red-plumed officer, a smirk tugging at his weathered face.
He looked older than Phoebe, grey streaking his dark hair, deep lines carved around his nose and mouth.
His steel-reinforced breastplate gleamed in the morning light, and the crimson cloak billowing behind him marked him as high-ranking—likely a commander. Perhaps even a legate.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, his overly charming smile at odds with the violence of his attack. “Praefect Gortynius.”
His Koine was flawless, spoken with the polished eloquence Alena had come to associate with the Megarians.
“If you tell me who disrupted our camp and saved the Non-Human boy, I’ll consider giving you a swift death.”
Alena’s heart thundered against her bruised ribs, but she stood firm.
“It was me,” she said without flinching. “No one else helped me.”
Gortynius raised an eyebrow. “You? You were the one controlling the wolves?”
Alena looked him right in the eye. “Yes.”
The praefect’s smile vanished. “Liar.”
He struck without warning, a swift gush of wind whipping towards her. Alena dove aside just in time, but the current curved with her, hot and fast, slamming into her back. She flew through the air and hit the ground hard, the impact jarring her teeth. Her sword clattered out of reach.
Wracked with pain, she limped to her sword and seized the hilt, knuckles whitening. She had no choice but to stand her ground and fight. There was no escaping his magic.
Across the yard, the praefect strode smoothly towards her.
“A slip of a girl like you couldn’t have such a Gift,” he said, eyes narrowing. “I only knew of one man who held such power, and he went to great lengths to obtain it.”
Alena raised her blade. “The Blood Wolf,” she answered. “I know all about him.”
She’d touched his Mark and received his Gift from the Huntress. If she found the praefect’s Mark, perhaps she could defeat him the same way.
As he closed in, she scanned his weathered skin for a Mark.
Her Gifted vision caught every detail in the morning light: scars lacing his forearms, red tunic snapping at his thighs, steel greaves gleaming dully at his shins.
But no Mark. Nothing visible. It could be hidden—beneath the cloak or under the cuirass.
The praefect stopped short, studying her. “How?” he asked, voice low.
“Because I took his Gift from him.”
She braced for another surge of wind, but instead, the man threw back his head and laughed. The sound rang sharp and cruel in the frigid air.
“Now I know you’re lying,” he said, turning to his men and barking something in Rhaetic.
The soldiers chortled in unison, their breath steaming in the cold.
The sound echoed off the barracks, though it never reached the slaves.
They stood huddled beneath the hard eyes of the quarry supervisors.
The overseers flanked them with stiff postures, grips tight on the hilts of their whips, ready to strike.
The slaves watched in silence.
“No one can take magic from a Gifted,” the praefect continued. “That’s not how it works.”
With a snap of his fingers, wind erupted at Alena’s feet. It spiralled upwards, fast and violent, snaring her legs and waist. Before she could move, it wrenched her off the ground.
She twisted, trying to jam her sword into the dirt for purchase, but the blade scraped uselessly against the frozen mud. The gale ripped her free, and she landed hard at the praefect’s feet, the air driven from her lungs.
He looked down at her, and the hard gleam in his eyes made her skin prickle with dread. “Now, tell me who you really are.”
Alena pushed to her feet, sword raised between them. She met his gaze without flinching. The Blood Wolf had known her name, but she wouldn’t hand this man more than he already had. The Emperor knew too much.
She said nothing.
The praefect clicked his tongue, stroking his beard as he studied her.
“You speak fluent Koine. So… one of the Megarian rebels, then? Following little Prince Leukos?” She failed to conceal her surprise, and his smile sharpened.
“Tell me, who counsels him now? That coward Xanthos and his loyal dog, Pelagios?”
Alena’s pulse quickened. How did he know them all by name? “Who are you?”
He circled her with deliberate slowness. “I was once part of the Megarian court.”
Her breath hitched.
“I followed King Pandion and believed in his dreams, but he only led us to defeat and ruin. So I left—swore my loyalty to the Emperor and Rasenna.”
Alena stared, cold disbelief rippling through her. “You…” she whispered. “You were a Silver Shield.”
The praefect huffed, almost amused. “Haven’t been called that in a long time.”
His casual tone ignited something in her. Didn’t he see the blood on his hands?
“You’re one of the traitors,” she hissed. “The ones who turned on the king. You’re responsible for the massacre.”
He stopped before her, expression like stone. “The legions were ready to burn Megara to the ground. The massacre was the better option.”
“The better option?” Her voice quivered with rage. Leukos had lost his whole family. He was haunted by the horrors of that night, and this man dared to call it mercy?
She lifted her sword a fraction higher. “You swore fealty to King Pandion. You were his closest guard—and you betrayed him in the worst way imaginable. His family was almost wiped out, and you let it happen.”
The praefect’s face darkened. “What do you know of Pandion or his court?” he spat. “I fought at his side for years before he even acknowledged me. I earned my place as a Silver Shield, but I was never truly one of them.”
He paced, fists curling at his sides. “I was born in Megara, yet my parents were Cretans. That made me a foreigner in my own city. The Megarians—so proud and noble—looked down on their own queen. Imagine how they treated a bastard child Gifted by a lesser god. I was treated like a dog.”
Alena’s grip tightened, her breath sharp. She understood that pain—being an outsider, always half-belonging. She had survived it, risen above it. So had Leukos. But this man had let bitterness consume him.
And unlike Nik, who bore his past like a chain and sought to make amends, this praefect revelled in it. He wore his betrayal like armour, almost smug.
It made her sick.
His eyes gleamed, dark and bright all at once. He lifted his hands, wind curling around his fingers like serpents.
“But the Rasennans?” he said. “They have ambition. They didn’t care about my blood. They saw my power for what it was.”
The gusts sharpened, tearing at Alena’s tunic, stinging her cheeks. Her hair whipped into her eyes. The air roared, rising into a column behind him like a summoned storm.
“I was Gifted by the Bringer of Storms,” he thundered, “the Destroyer of Crops. And they didn’t fear me—they welcomed me.”
Alena’s heart pounded as she braced herself. All around her, the slaves flinched. The soldiers only grinned, as if the storm were entertainment.
“In the Rasennan army,” the praefect bellowed over the gale, “I’m a god among soldiers. Feast your eyes upon my strength!”
A fork of lightning cracked overhead, illuminating the spiralling wind. Dread slammed into Alena. She turned to run—every instinct screamed for her to move—but the storm struck first, hurling her skywards like a rag doll.
She tumbled through the air, screaming, battered by gravel and dust. Her sword was gone. The world spun in a blur of grit and pain—then the wind vanished, and gravity claimed her.
She hit the frozen earth with bone-jarring force.
Pain exploded through her ribs, her back flaring with fire. She rolled onto her side and retched.
Before she could gather herself, a sharp gust twisted around her ankle and yanked. Her palms scraped raw as she was dragged, gravel tearing her skin, her cry lost in the soldiers’ jeers.
She landed hard at the praefect’s feet, coughing blood and dust.
A hobnailed boot came down hard on the side of her neck, pressing her cheek into the ice-crusted dirt. Her pulse thundered beneath his heel.
“Had enough yet?” he asked, triumph carved into his face. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword like a conqueror cast in bronze. “You’ve lasted longer than any slave I’ve had to punish.”
Anger ignited, snapping her mind into sharp focus. She gripped his boot with both hands, her fingers digging into the worn leather, but her strength was waning. All she could manage was to keep the pressure from crushing her windpipe, her breath rasping in shallow, desperate gasps.
“Alena!”
A voice cried her name—male, strained—but she couldn’t place it.
“Alena?” Gortynius echoed, recognition sparking in his voice. A dark chuckle followed. “Oh, the Emperor will be pleased. The rebel girl who brought down Bruna’s arena.”
She froze, dread twisting tight in her chest. How did he know that?
The praefect crouched lower. “Yes, I’ve heard all about you. The Ninth Legion said they were sent to clean up your little rebellion. Took their time, too—rounding up the ones you thought you’d saved.”
“You’re lying,” she snarled. The rebels had told her the slaves escaped before the legions arrived. She believed them. She had to.
But he wasn’t finished.
“Shame you didn’t make it back in time for your sister.” His smile turned cruel. “We hear she’s doing quite well now, leading the Black Helmets.”
Alena stilled. Their leader?
“Laran’s Chosen, they call her. But with a face like hers…” His voice slithered with venom. “The men prefer another name. Laran’s whore. Did you know?”
Something inside Alena snapped.
“Get off me!” Her scream cracked with fury and heartbreak. She twisted and shoved with all her strength, every fibre of her being burning to silence the vile man.
But still, it wasn’t enough.
The pressure on her neck increased. Her vision blurred. Breath fled her lungs as panic surged. And in that spiralling darkness, her thoughts didn’t turn to Katell.
They turned to Leukos.
She saw him with searing clarity: tall and resolute, his back to her before a silver throne flanked by another, grander and gilded in gold. Wide columns loomed around him, casting long shadows across the hall.
His tousled black hair was achingly familiar. The sight of it pierced her like a blade. She longed to see his face, to reach out, to touch him—
“Leukos!”
He turned, startled. For the briefest moment, his dark eyes met hers before reality dragged her back.
Back to the freezing courtyard, her battered body, and the monster looming over her.
“Perhaps I will keep you alive, after all,” the praefect mused, easing the weight on his boot. “Get you to tell us everything you know about the rebellion so we can finally crush those fools.”
“Never,” she choked out.
The pressure lifted. She rolled onto her stomach, gasping deep breaths. The sudden flow of air made her head swim, her vision blur. She clawed her fingers into the gravel, seeking any kind of purchase.
A brutal weight slammed down on her hand, grinding her fingers into the frozen earth. White-hot pain exploded through her right hand, and a scream ripped free.
Laughter echoed, but Alena barely heard it over the agony. The boot twisted viciously, and her world narrowed to blinding, unbearable pain.
“Surrender and tell me who aided you,” the praefect demanded again.
Alena gritted her teeth, refusing to speak.
The Rasennans be damned. She would die before she betrayed Leukos and the rebels. How could Katell have joined these monsters?
But just as despair threatened to consume her, the Maiden’s words surfaced in her mind: Should you ever need my help, send me a prayer, and I will do what I can.
Alena latched onto it, breathing through the pain. Her vision swam, edges blurred, but she clung on.
Before she could utter a word, the praefect shifted.
His other boot moved into view, open-toed and worn from battle. Through the crisscrossed leather lacing, a sky-blue Mark shimmered just above his ankle.
Her pulse surged.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Alena slid her left hand towards his foot. Her heart pounded with each inch.
“Don’t be a fool,” the praefect growled. “You’re just a girl. Don’t believe the rebellion cares about you. You are nothing to them. Tell me what I want and I won’t kill you.”
A broken chuckle escaped her lips, keeping his focus on her. “I’m not just a girl.”
“Ah, that’s right,” he said, his tone laced with sinister delight.
“You took the Blood Wolf’s magic, and yet there isn’t a single wolf in sight.
” He turned to his soldiers and switched to Rhaetic, no doubt mocking her for their amusement.
As if on cue, laughter rippled through the courtyard, cold and cruel.
Alena bit her lip as her hand inched closer, every movement a battle against the searing pain and numbing cold.
She just needed one touch.
“Tell me,” the praefect sneered, “if you aren’t just a girl, then who are you?”
“I’m the Omega,” she breathed. Then, summoning every last shred of strength, she reached for his ankle and pressed her fingers to his Mark.