Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ALENA
Alight beard peppered his jaw and upper lip, but the rest of his face remained unchanged. His eyes, though, held a new hardness—a consequence of the horrors he must have endured under the Rasennans.
“Leave,” he said roughly. “We’ll hold them back. Go before they take you as well.”
“I can help.” Alena’s pulse thundered in her ears.
Wolves still lingered around the quarry, and if she called, they would come.
And Phoebe would return soon. Together, they could organise a defence.
“They’ve likely already sent messengers.
More soldiers will swarm this place before sundown. You can’t fight them all.”
“Perhaps,” he said flatly, almost hollow. “But I’d rather die on my feet than continue living on my knees.”
Scylas—once a councilman’s son and the future leader of Camp Bessi—now stood gaunt and broken, a shadow of his former self.
Her chest ached as her gaze swept over the battered faces behind him. These weren’t strangers. These were her people. The Freefolk. The ones she’d left behind.
“Scylas,” she whispered, pleading, “let me help.”
A harsh cry rang out from the far end of the barracks. One of the injured slaves writhed on the frozen ground, blood pouring through the rags two women pressed against his chest.
The South Wind’s Gift had done that.
No—she had done that.
Scylas’ jaw clenched. “You’ve done enough.”
The words cut deep. Shame and guilt pricked at her skin like needles. She’d unleashed magic she couldn’t fully control, and now a man was paying with his life.
The crowd thickened. Slaves poured from the barracks, drawn by the noise. Many were armed now, gripping looted swords and spears with white-knuckled resolve. But among them, a familiar face stood out—Leywani. She stopped short when she saw them.
Scylas spoke again, his voice sharp as a blade. “Why did their army cross the Deep River? Why did they march straight into Freefolk Lands?” His stare pierced her like frostbite. “Did you tell them how to find us?”
Cold seeped into Alena’s gut. She drew a long, shaky breath. “No. It wasn’t me.”
The answer hung between them like a curse.
It was Katell.
Laran’s Chosen. The new leader of the Black Helmets.
Alena had refused to believe it, but she couldn’t deny it any longer. Katell had told the Rasennans about the Freefolk.
Her fists curled. All those refugee families in the camps, already broken by war, had been dragged back into chains because of her sister.
The weight of that betrayal tore at Alena’s heart, reopening raw wounds from their disastrous summer encounter.
How could Katell have been so cruel?
A flicker of hurt crossed Scylas’ face, carving a hollow pit in her stomach. She almost whispered an apology, but the stern set of his jaw silenced her. Words couldn’t undo Katell’s treachery.
Above them, clouds thickened, swallowing the weak winter sun. Amid the gloom, a flash of silver caught Alena’s attention. Phoebe stood beside a shack, sword in hand, her lone eye fixed on her.
Alena nodded. Across the yard, Scylas was already turning away, barking orders as the slaves armed themselves and moved towards the gate.
Alena bent to retrieve the sword she’d lost during the praefect’s attack. The hilt was ice-cold in her grip.
“I wasn’t even gone that long,” Phoebe muttered when Alena reached her. “What happened?”
Alena shook her head, jaw tight. “Later. Is Kaixo safe?”
“I found shelter in the temple ruins. The wolf’s guarding him.”
“Good.” Alena turned back to the courtyard, heart heavy. The man she’d struck down was gone—only a dark smear of blood soaking into the frozen ground. She swallowed against the stab of guilt. “Let’s get away from here.”
Phoebe gave her a questioning glance but didn’t press.
Without a word, they slipped through a crack in the ruined barricade, their steps quick and quiet.
Two wolves lingered near the fence—a striking white one and a smaller grey.
Alena called them, and they padded into step beside her.
If soldiers gave chase, they’d need the extra protection.
Across the open plain, the first drops of rain fell, as if the sky itself mourned. From behind them rose faint cheers—or shouts—the sound curdling in Alena’s chest.
She didn’t look back.
Her people—Scylas, Leywani, the Freefolk—remained behind, trapped in ruin, clinging to a freedom that would never last. And she was walking away.
Her throat tightened. Shame sat in her gut like a stone.
“They won’t win,” Phoebe murmured, casting her a sidelong look. The steady patter of rain enveloped them. “Word will reach the nearest Rasennan patrol soon enough. The quarry will be overrun again, and they’ll all be cutting stone.”
“I know.” The words were bitter in her mouth.
Her fists clenched at her sides as she focused on the mud-slick path ahead.
With every step, she was torn: run back to the quarry to stand beside the Freefolk and fight for the people she’d once called her own, or keep moving towards Kaixo, who was alone, grieving, and needed her now more than ever.
Alena halted and glanced down at her hands. The South Wind’s magic still writhed in her veins, waiting to be unleashed.
Scylas had been right. If she returned to the quarry like this, she wouldn’t save anyone. She’d only make things worse.
Phoebe stood at her side, silent, as if she knew the turmoil in her mind.
Alena met her lone silver eye, and something inside her twisted.
She was the Omega.
She’d spent the winter training—fighting, falling, getting back up again. And yet, what did she have to show for it?
San was dead, and she’d failed the Freefolk.
She was still weak. Powerless.
Tears burned the back of her eyes. She swallowed hard and looked away, willing her legs to move.
“There’s nothing I can do for now,” she said, her voice flat. “Kaixo needs me. But the sooner we get to Tiryns, the sooner I can send help.”
One day, she vowed, she would be strong enough.
Strong enough to shield the people she loved, stand against the legions, and stop the war.
One day, she would bring down the Emperor himself like she was meant to.
Even if it cost her everything.
Rain sputtered from the sky, drenching her tunic and tracing warm trails along her cheeks.
“Alena…” Phoebe’s voice was gentle for once, hesitant.
Alena didn’t look at her. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, blinking furiously.
“Just keep walking,” she whispered. “Please… just walk.”
They reached the ruins where Phoebe had hidden Kaixo.
The remnants of an old temple lay scattered across the hillside—toppled columns, weather-worn stone, and a partial wall sunk into the slope.
Tucked beside it, a crude shelter of stacked stones leaned against the rise, half-concealed by ivy and shadow.
Their horses stood nearby beneath a clutch of rain-soaked trees. Phoebe’s bay snorted and stamped the wet ground, while Apollo lingered at the mouth of the shelter, ears flicking at their approach.
The three wolves stood guard outside as Alena pulled a fur blanket from her saddlebag and slipped through the shelter’s narrow opening.
Inside, Kaixo sat wrapped in her cloak, pressed against the rough stone wall.
Rain dripped softly from the edge of the stones overhead, but he remained dry.
At his feet lay clusters of snowdrops and asphodels.
In his hands, Kaixo held a dagger, the one Leukos had given him, and with careful, focused movements, he cut stems and wove them together.
Beside him lay San, her face covered by a blood-stained cloth.
“Kaixo,” Alena said softly, but he didn’t look up. Without a word, she draped the fur blanket over his hunched shoulders. His focus was locked on the fragile crown taking shape in his hands, yet his red-rimmed eyes and swollen cheeks betrayed the fresh wounds of grief.
When he still didn’t answer, Alena stepped back and sensed Phoebe’s presence beside her.
“What is he doing?” Alena whispered, her lips trembling. “He should be resting.”
Phoebe’s voice was heavy with understanding. “He’s making a crown of flowers for his mother… Something for her to wear at the burial. I found a quiet hollow nearby where we can lay her to rest. It’s not far.”
Alena took a hesitant step forward, ready to help, but Phoebe held her back. “Let’s leave him to his task. We have much to do.”
Outside, the rain had turned the ground slick and treacherous, though the frozen earth still held firm beneath. Together, they gathered stones and slabs from the ruined temple, the cold biting into Alena’s fingers.
When it was time to move San’s body from the shelter, Kaixo’s expression crumpled. A choked sob escaped him, and tears streamed down his face. He clutched the delicate crown of flowers close to his heart, watching Phoebe lift his mother’s still form.
Alena bent to gather the scattered snowdrops left behind with trembling hands, then followed them into the soft rain.
Phoebe laid San down in a natural hollow nestled beside a grove of olive trees, hidden from the open plain.
Kaixo moved forward on unsteady legs, placed the crown upon his mother’s brow, then leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek.
His tears fell on San’s pale skin as he whispered a broken goodbye.
Alena knelt beside him, her chest aching. Carefully, she arranged the last of the snowdrops around San’s body—tiny white blooms like drops of light—and whispered the Freefolk blessing for the dead.
“May your ancestors watch over you for all eternity. May the stars grant you peace in the next life, and may the Moon shine over us.”
Her voice cracked on the last words. The soft patter of rain was the only sound.
Together, they worked in solemn quiet the rest of the day. They layered the soil over San’s body with care, Kaixo never straying far from Alena, until the grave was full. Then they placed the stones, one by one, building a low, sturdy cairn to shield her from the elements.