Chapter 46
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
KATELL
When Katell woke, the world around her wasn’t anything she’d seen before. A barren landscape stretched out in every direction—a twisted wasteland littered with jagged rocks, broken weapons, and shattered armour.
Like a battlefield.
Where was she? How had she even gotten here?
The last thing she remembered was Dorias leading her through a dark corridor. Leywani was there, too. And then—darkness…
She pushed herself upright, a wave of dizziness washing over her.
She sucked in deep breaths, forcing herself to focus.
The sky above was a strange crimson hue, flickering with bursts of lightning.
A thick, metallic scent clung to the air, and the distant sounds of clashing swords and battle cries reverberated through the wasteland.
She turned—and froze.
Pale, translucent figures drifted across the barren field, their movements slow and aimless.
Ghosts. A dozen at least. Just like the apparitions that had attacked the Sixth the summer before.
A chill sank into her bones. Stars be cursed. Were they about to attack her, too? And what kind of place was this?
But the ghosts ignored her. She’d barely processed their presence when something else caught her eye. Across the wasteland, a massive structure jutted from the barren earth, its jagged silhouette sharp against the crimson sky.
Dread coiled tight in her gut.
It wasn’t a natural rise of stone. The dark mound was unnatural in shape, and at its summit sat a figure.
With no other path before her, Katell forced her legs to move, the mound’s outline sharpening with every step.
A pyramid of skulls—countless, endless—rose before her, each bone stacked upon the next in grotesque precision.
Some were fresh, split by jagged cracks; others ancient, their surfaces worn smooth by time.
The eerie crimson light slicked the remains in a gruesome sheen, as though the entire structure had been steeped in blood.
At the peak sat a throne—shattered swords, crushed shields, and twisted spears fused together into a seat.
And in that seat, Katell found a man.
Or rather, a god.
He leaned back in his throne, olive skin gleaming in the blood-red light.
A deep crimson tunic threaded with gold clung to his broad frame, the rich fabric framing sharp, commanding features.
Tousled dark hair shadowed a face carved with raw, effortless beauty—something too striking to belong to mortal men.
His dark eyes held no malice, only a knowing glint.
Katell had met Western gods before, but this one looked less wild—more warrior than beast. An embodiment of chaos and power.
Laran, no doubt.
He didn’t hold himself in the rigid posture of a warlord awaiting battle. Instead, he lounged with one arm draped over the hilt of a massive sword, exuding the kind of confidence that came from knowing no one could challenge him.
Katell exhaled a slow breath and forced herself forward. Every instinct screamed at her to be cautious, but she was too drained and disoriented to care.
She stopped before the throne and locked eyes with him. “Laran, I presume?”
His grin widened, curiosity and amusement mingling across his features. He tilted his head, gaze sweeping over her with meticulous scrutiny.
Silence stretched between them, cold sweat creeping down her spine, but she held firm. She would not flinch. And if he expected her to kneel, he’d be disappointed.
At last, his voice—smooth, rich, and dripping with arrogance—cut through the charged quiet. “Hello, daughter.”
Katell stilled.
Daughter?
No—no, that couldn’t be right.
Laran smirked, stretching lazily against his throne as if her shock amused him. His broad frame filled the seat, yet he seemed leaner than she expected—his muscles honed for precision, not brute force.
“No need to look so horrified,” he drawled. “Where do you think that handy healing magic of yours came from? You’re a demigoddess, daughter. That’s why you’re so strong.”
Katell’s pulse pounded in her ears, confusion crashing through her. The Northerner who’d called her a demigoddess had been right—but she’d never imagined Laran would be her father.
“If I’m your daughter…” Her voice faltered, raw with shock. “Then why did you also Gift me?”
He scoffed, drumming his fingers on the armrest. “Gift you? Why would I? You already carry my magic.”
Thoughts racing, she touched the back of her neck. “But my Mark…”
Laran’s hand froze mid-tap, his eyebrow arching. “Your what?!”
Katell hesitated, then slowly pushed her braid aside.
In the blink of an eye, Laran was behind her. His towering presence pressed against her senses, sending a jolt down her spine. Before she could react, a warm finger traced the nape of her neck.
Then his touch stiffened.
“That conniving bitch,” he muttered, fury curling in every syllable. His finger snapped away as if scorched. “I knew she did something to hide you from me. First your mother, and now—”
“What about my mother?” Katell wrenched away and spun to face him, her heart pounding. “What did you do to her?”
She didn’t know which goddess he was cursing, and right now, she didn’t care. Not when he’d mentioned her mother.
Laran blinked, visibly irked by her sudden reaction. “What did I do? Nothing.”
Katell’s hands clenched into fists. “But she was the Rebel Queen.”
“Yes.”
“A Westerner,” she snapped. “Your enemy.”
A slow grin curved Laran’s lips, his presence filling the space with an almost tangible weight. “Yes.”
His utter nonchalance grated on her nerves. “It makes no sense.”
The Rebel Queen and Laran. Together. The thought alone made her stomach churn. How could she possibly be their daughter?
But then the answer hit her, sharp as a blade to the gut. Her breath caught, her blood turning to ice.
“You…” She swallowed hard, nausea rising. “Stars be cursed, you…”
Laran sneered, his looming presence pressing in on her. “Go on. Say it. Say what you’re thinking.”
His voice was low, almost mocking, but there was a flicker of something else—offence, perhaps?
Katell clenched her jaw, refusing to be intimidated.
“I know what the gods are capable of,” she shot back, revulsion curling in her gut.
She’d heard the stories of the Achaean Twelve—everyone had.
“Did you force yourself on my mother?” She failed to keep her voice steady. “Am I the result of an assault?”
Laran’s expression darkened—not with guilt, but with cold indignation, as if her accusation was beneath him.
“Force myself?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow.
“I’ve never had to force a woman to my bed.
And certainly not your mother.” His lips twisted into a smug grin.
“They come willingly, daughter. Every single one. Who do you take me for? One of those Achaean cowards who kidnaps mortals against their will?”
She didn’t know what to believe anymore. But he still hadn’t answered her. “The Rebel Queen would never have taken a Rasennan god to her bed of her own accord. You must have done something.”
Laran let out a dark chuckle.
Without warning, he extended his arm, and the massive sword resting on his throne whistled through the air, closing the distance in an instant.
He caught it by the hilt and slung it over his shoulder with ease.
“Of her own accord? That depends on how you define it. Let’s just say…
I can be very persuasive.” His smirk deepened. “And I don’t like to lose.”
A ghost drifted forward, silent as smoke. His head was cleaved almost in half, his bronze helmet failing to contain the ruined flesh beneath. Despite the grotesque wound, his milky gaze remained fixed on Laran as he whispered in his ear.
“Now?” Laran asked, almost bored.
The ghost gave a slow, solemn nod before fading back into the crimson-tinged air.
Laran pivoted on his heel, sword balanced across his shoulder, leaving Katell staggered in his wake.
“Wait!” she called, scrambling after him. “Where are you going?”
Laran didn’t answer right away. Instead, he watched her, tilting his head with a trace of amusement. “Don’t you want to see what’s happening?”
“Happening where?”
“In the mortal world.”
Katell stopped, her mind catching up in a sudden rush.
Memories slammed into place: the temple, Leywani at Velthur’s mercy, Laran’s priest urging her forward, the black pool that had swallowed her whole…
Her stomach dropped. “Am I… am I dead?”
Laran snorted, rolling his eyes. “You think I’d kill my own daughter?” He leaned in, lowering his head until their gazes locked. “The Pool of Tears didn’t kill you. It set you free.”
Katell’s pulse pounded. “Free? How?”
“It let you reach me—here, in my realm.” He gestured at the vast, crimson-streaked wasteland surrounding them. “I call it the Eternal Battlefield. Souls bound to me reside here… and it’s a fine place to train.”
Katell froze. “Souls?”
“Yes. Yours is here.” He shrugged, almost lazily. “Your body’s still in Kisra. With the Emperor.”
Her knees threatened to buckle, colour draining from her face. “What?!”
Laran kept walking without looking back. “Just follow me.”
They moved through the endless battlefield, the clash of steel echoing faintly across the horizon, though no warriors appeared. Only ghosts drifted among the wreckage, wandering without purpose, their hollow forms indifferent to them.
A shiver ran down Katell’s spine. “Who are they?”
Laran’s focus shifted to the drifting figures. “Warriors who gave up their souls to me.”
“Gave up their souls? Why?”
He shrugged, unconcerned. “For more power. Victory. Revenge. Many reasons.” At last, his gaze returned to her. “In an age of war and influence, power is the only true necessity.”
Katell wasn’t so sure. What had power done for her? She’d been the most powerful soldier in the legion, the strongest among them—and still, she had lost.
She forced herself to focus, casting another wary glance at the spectral figures gliding around them. “What do they do for you? These souls?”