Chapter 47
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
LEYWANI
Leywani paced the length of the tent, her movements restless, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. The heavy fabric walls did little to muffle the distant clash of steel and shouts of soldiers outside—a constant reminder of where she was: in the middle of a legion’s camp.
The Sixth, to be exact.
She’d been brought here with Katell, had tended to her wounds, done everything she could to help. And now they had taken her away. Dressed her for battle and led her into the fray.
And Leywani could do nothing to stop it.
Her stomach twisted. She blew out a breath, forcing her hands still, but the unease only coiled tighter in her chest.
Then, without warning, harsh sunlight slashed through the tent as the entrance shifted.
A tall shadow stepped inside. The flap fell shut behind him, plunging the space back into flickering torchlight.
Leywani’s vision swam while her eyes adjusted, yet she didn’t need clarity to know who stood before her.
Broad shoulders. Impeccable armour. A presence like a blade drawn in silence.
Velthur.
The strange light played across his chiselled features, enhancing the unsettling beauty that made him so unnerving.
Leywani froze. Sharp fear lashed through her, but she swallowed it down. He had never summoned her in Kisra, and she’d let herself hope—foolishly hope—that he’d forgotten about her.
But he hadn’t.
In a voice as smooth as it was commanding, he said, “Come closer.”
Leywani hesitated, then lifted her gaze, taking him in.
He was handsome—but not in a way that brought comfort. Dalmatius radiated power, impossible to ignore, but Velthur’s presence was different. Quieter. More precise.
He stood by the entrance, half-veiled in torchlight, his purple cloak pooling around him like a shadow.
A servant had told her he was captain of the Tarquinian Guard, which explained the distinction of his cloak.
But it wasn’t only the colour that set him apart.
Back in the temple, the Emperor had addressed him differently from the others—with a familiarity that signalled not just respect, but also trust.
That was what unsettled her the most.
A nerve-wracking silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken intent. Velthur’s dark eyes—bottomless, assessing—fixed on her with an intensity that made her feel as though he were sifting through her thoughts.
At last, he spoke. “You’re familiar with Laran’s Chosen, yes?” His voice was calm, the kind that didn’t need to rise to command attention.
Leywani swallowed, forcing herself to nod. “Yes.”
“She’s your childhood friend?”
Another nod.
“And her sister? I believe her name is Alena. You know her?”
Leywani hesitated. A trap. Or maybe just a test. Either way, she wasn’t sure what the right answer was. But Velthur had already guessed the truth—there was no point in lying.
She lifted her chin. “Yes.”
“She has joined the Achaean rebels and now travels with them to the Western Lands.”
The Western Lands. Leywani had heard the name in passing, but had no idea where they were. Then again, she didn’t even know where her current location, Eluvia, was. All she knew was that the mountains looming in the distance were the tallest she’d ever seen, with jagged peaks that scraped the sky.
“Remember that.” Velthur held her gaze a moment longer, then turned towards the entrance. “Come with me.”
Leywani blinked. She wasn’t sure why he wanted her to remember Alena, but she followed.
“These are my men, Lecne and Aulus,” Velthur said, gesturing to the two soldiers standing by the horses, their deep purple cloaks marking them as part of his elite guard.
Aulus, a broad-shouldered man with a scar along his chin, gave a terse nod. Lecne, on the other hand, possessed a calm demeanour; a welcoming smile softened his sharp features as he offered a calloused hand to hoist her onto her horse.
Leywani hesitated but accepted, gripping the saddle as Lecne hauled her up. She had ridden before, but Rasennan horses were taller than the Freefolk breeds she knew. Luckily, her dark bay mount remained steady as she sank into the saddle.
With Velthur at the lead, they rode out of the camp, a handful of red-cloaked soldiers flanking them in disciplined silence. The rhythmic beat of hooves on the dirt road and the faint jingle of bridles filled the air, but no one spoke.
Velthur offered no explanation as to where they were going, and Leywani didn’t ask. Her throat was parched, unease coiling tighter with every step their horses took.
The air carried an unexpected heat for late spring, and dust rose in soft clouds beneath the hooves. Sweat clung beneath her woollen cloak, the fabric sticking to her skin, yet her gaze stayed fixed on the horizon—on the towering, snow-capped mountains looming in the east.
Velthur led them through a sea of wild grasses, his posture unreadable. The ground sloped upwards: a low hill rose before them, its crest dotted with dark figures on horseback.
Then she heard it.
Drums, deep and rhythmic, pounding like a warrior’s heartbeat. Shouts followed, battle cries riding the wind, swelling with every breath.
Leywani’s pulse quickened.
A dozen mounted soldiers stood ahead, their backs turned, their gazes fixed on the valley below. Smoke rose in heavy columns, curling upwards, dark fingers clawing at the sky.
The crisp scent of wild grass and leather faded, replaced by ash, blood, and something she couldn’t quite name—but had felt once before.
Back in Dodona, when Katell had lost control of her magic, and black smoke had poured from her like a living thing that suffocated the air and wrapped around them with unseen hands.
Something terrible was happening.
They neared the group of riders, and one broke away, riding straight for them. His stallion kicked up clumps of dirt in its haste.
The commander, Dalmatius.
He reined in his horse, his steel-grey gaze flicking from Velthur to her. “What is she doing here?”
Velthur’s reply was smooth, though tinged with mockery. “She’s here to witness the Sixth Legion’s triumph against the slave rebellion.”
Dalmatius’ jaw tightened. “Fine. But for your own safety, stay back. Do not ride any closer.”
Velthur didn’t so much as blink. “The top of the hill will do just fine.”
They locked eyes, silence stretching taut between them. Leywani couldn’t tell why their hostility ran so deep, only that there was no respect between them despite both serving the Emperor. Was it because Velthur had beaten Katell in the temple? Or did the rift between them go back further?
Dalmatius then turned his attention to Lecne, who sat calmly at Leywani’s side. “Good to see you again, Lecne. It’s been a while.”
The tone carried an edge of familiarity, enough to suggest history between the two men. Lecne’s easy manner didn’t waver. He dipped his head in greeting, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “It’s good to see you, too, Legate Dalmatius. I’d say I missed you, but I doubt you’d believe me.”
Dalmatius exhaled sharply—almost a laugh, but clipped short. “You’d be right.” With a final nod, he wheeled his horse and rode back to his waiting men.
Velthur and Lecne exchanged a brief look, something unspoken passing between them, before pressing forward, leading the others up the hill until the valley stretched out before them.
Leywani’s hands shook. The pressure in the air was suffocating, and every instinct screamed at her to turn back, to flee before it was too late.
The battlefield unfurled below—a nightmare of blood and fire.
The wooden palisade of the camp where the rebels had barricaded themselves burned in a hungry blaze. Rasennan soldiers stood in tight formation a few paces away, locked together in an unyielding shield wall. They weren’t advancing. They were waiting.
Clearly, a battle had already taken place.
And now a lone soldier advanced towards the camp in silence—Katell.
Black smoke curled around her feet, unfurling in slow, eerie tendrils. It leeched into the air and made Leywani’s skin crawl, her body prickling with the terror it conjured.
The soldiers flanking Velthur murmured among themselves, voices tense. Their horses danced beneath them, eyes wide, ears pinned back, as if they, too, sensed the impending storm.
“Look at her now. This is the monster your friend has become.” Velthur’s voice cut through the thick silence, but Leywani couldn’t tear her gaze away from the scene below.
One of the rebels raised his fist in a defiant gesture atop the palisade, shouting a rallying cry that echoed through the valley. His comrades’ determined shouts answered, a wave of hope amid the chaos.
Then, in the next breath, two figures emerged from the unnatural smoke, their forms cloaked in the same suffocating blackness that surrounded Katell.
Leywani’s horse jolted, but she gripped the reins tight, forcing herself to stay steady.
Beside her, another soldier wasn’t so lucky.
His mount bolted, and he was thrown to the ground.
Velthur’s horse stamped the earth, nostrils flaring, sensing the disturbance in the very air around them.
Reacting quickly, Lecne leaned over and steadied him, his grip unyielding.
The moment stretched. The slaves stood frozen, their defiant cries strangled into silence. The two hooded figures glided forward, moving with an eerie weightlessness, their edges blurred by the writhing black smoke curling from their forms.
No one moved. Not the Rasennan soldiers in their perfect formation, nor Velthur, whose dark eyes remained fixed on the nightmare unfolding below. Because they knew.
They all knew.
Whatever Katell had summoned—whatever nightmare she’d unleashed—was about to devour them all.
Stars be cursed…
Leywani’s pulse pounded in her ears. She wanted to scream, to warn the slaves, to beg them to run. But the words died in her throat. She was as frozen as they were, trapped in the horror of what was coming.