Chapter 33 #2
“They went northeast,” Alena said, impatience threading her tone as her finger traced the route on the map. “They crossed the river at its shallowest point and headed towards the hill.” The wolves had tracked the Rasennans’ scent with precision, their keen senses far sharper than any scout.
“And the wolves told you this?” Danaos asked, his tone clipped. His shoulders were rigid, armour still dusted with soot. Fatigue shadowed his face, but beneath it, his eyes glimmered with disbelief.
Alena clenched her teeth, but Theo cut in smoothly. “The Omega is Gifted by the Huntress. I’ve no doubt the wolves can track the Twelfth’s cohort.”
“Not the Twelfth,” Danaos said grimly. “The survivors swore it was the First.”
Theo’s features darkened. That was worse.
“The First?” Phoebe appeared behind Alena, her eye flashing with fury.
“I heard that prick Tarxi is their legate now. I remember him from Kendrisia—back then he was just a praefect, but he used his Gift to throw us into chaos. Dozens of Amazons died.” Her fists clenched.
“He laughed the whole time.” She cast a glance at the ruin around them.
“I’m not surprised his soldiers did this. ”
Danaos studied her, a flicker of respect softening his features before he hardened again. “If it’s truly a cohort from the First Legion, we may need to reconsider our plan.”
“Our plan is to find where they went,” Alena pressed. “Once you’ve ferried the survivors to the palace, bring reinforcements if you must.”
Danaos’ gaze narrowed, arms folding across his chest. “So what if we know where the cohort went? Are you suggesting we go after them?” His voice carried challenge and doubt, as if daring her to commit in front of them all.
“Yes.” Alena didn’t flinch.
The soldiers nearby stilled, the scrape of armour and shifting boots betraying their unease. Doubt clung to the air as thickly as the stench of smoke, but she refused to let it find a foothold.
“If we don’t stop them now,” she said, her voice carrying over the gathering, “you said it yourself—they’ll slaughter every village from here to Argos.” She let the words hang, her eyes sweeping the circle of soot-streaked faces, searching for courage beneath the weariness.
“I know it seems impossible,” Alena continued. “A handful of us against five hundred men? It sounds like madness. But these are our lands, our people. It’s time we fight back—because no one else will. We will find a way to stop them.”
“You speak of ‘our lands, our people,’” Danaos shot back, “but you were the Rebel Queen’s daughter. A Westerner.”
“Perhaps,” Phoebe cut in before Alena could respond, her voice rising over the crowd. “But her father was Kallinos.”
The name rippled through the gathered soldiers, a murmur passing from one soot-streaked face to another. Even Danaos’ stern gaze faltered, a flicker of something—recognition, maybe respect—breaking through.
“And if memory serves,” Phoebe went on, her words crisp and deliberate, “he was born in the mountains north of Tiryns—these mountains. This land.”
That was the spark the soldiers needed. Faint murmurs of agreement stirred, low but gathering strength. After the carnage they’d just witnessed, grief was sharpening into something else—hunger for retribution.
Among the crowd, one figure held Alena’s attention: Leukos. His tall frame was impossible to miss, smoke and ash streaking his skin, his dark eyes fixed on her.
For a moment, she thought he might intervene. She braced for an argument, a warning that it was too dangerous, that she was leading them to their death.
But instead, he held back, and something unexpected glinted in his expression—pride.
Beneath the fierce determination in his gaze was an unspoken acknowledgement, a silent vow of support.
Her breath caught as the weight of his approval settled over her. The man who’d always protected her was standing with her this time, letting her rise as a leader.
She turned back to Danaos, her voice sharp with fury. “Are you really going to let the Rasennans get away with what they’ve done?”
Danaos stiffened, clearly unprepared for her direct challenge—or for the ripple of support it stirred in the ranks. His eyes swept over the soldiers, taking in their quiet, expectant stares. The shift in the air was unmistakable. They weren’t waiting on him anymore.
They were waiting on her.
His jaw worked, reluctance plain, but at last he gave a curt nod. “They say the Omega is chosen by the gods,” he said, his voice edged with grudging acceptance. Then, lower, meant for her alone: “Make sure they’re with us today, or none of us will be going home.”
Straightening, he faced his soldiers. “The Omega has spoken,” he barked, hesitation gone from his tone. “We move! Let’s track those bastards down and bring our people back!”
The response was instant—a roar of voices, armour clattering, weapons raised high. What had moments ago been a weary, soot-streaked crowd now bristled with purpose.
The fire in their eyes matched the one burning in Alena’s chest.
The hunt had begun.