Chapter 50
CHAPTER FIFTY
ALENA
Images flickered before Alena’s eyes, fleeting and disjointed—fragments of Volcos’ past—until one scene sharpened into focus.
A campfire in the forest. Rasennans in red tunics sitting and eating, some standing guard. Beyond the fire’s reach, shadows shifted. Volcos and his warriors moved through the trees, their approach swift and precise. Then—chaos.
The Westerners struck like a storm, their ambush tearing through the unprepared Rasennan soldiers. Steel flashed, bodies collided, shouts and screams tangled in the night air.
A soldier lunged at Volcos from behind. One of his warriors spun around, parrying the blow with his shield before driving his blade through the soldier’s gut.
Hazel eyes blazing with determination. A young Alcaros.
Chest rising with steady breaths, Volcos met his gaze and gave the youth a nod of gratitude.
The image shifted.
A barn, the air thick with the scent of grain and dust. Sacks of wheat were piled against the wooden beams, but it was the table at the centre that held focus. Western warriors gathered around it, their faces grim, voices low.
“They’re sending scouts into our lands,” one of the warriors muttered, brow furrowed. “Ignoring the treaty.”
“They never meant to honour it,” Alcaros spat from across the table. “Atrixtos signed it under threat of death.”
“You’re being paranoid,” a redheaded warrior countered, shaking his head. “The Rasennans are too busy fighting the Ice Kingdoms. Their focus is elsewhere.”
“Until it isn’t,” Volcos cut in, his voice steady, unyielding. Firelight flickered across his face, casting deep shadows. “The White Mare has called for another trial to choose the next chief commander. The druids have announced it. I’ll take part and prove my worth.”
The redhead shook his head. “To enter, the goddess demands each participant travel south on foot to her temple. And once there, the trials last as long as she wills it. You could be gone for months. We need you now.”
“No.” Volcos’ jaw tightened. “The Rasennans are coming. Maybe not this year, maybe not the next. But the Emperor isn’t done with us. What we need is a new leader.”
Arms crossed over his broad chest, Alcaros spoke up. “Someone to succeed Andrasta. Whoever the White Mare chooses… all the tribes will follow them.”
Volcos grinned. “Exactly.”
The world lurched. Colours bled and twisted, shifting like ink in water. Then, suddenly—clarity.
Volcos was no longer in a barn. He was trekking through the wilderness, each step heavy with exhaustion. A worn bag of supplies weighed on his shoulders, a sturdy walking stick in one hand. His boots—tattered, almost worn bare—scuffed against the uneven ground.
Before him loomed a mountain of cold, unyielding granite, its jagged peaks scraping the sky. Not far ahead, another warrior struggled at the base of the climb, clutching at the rock face, his breath ragged. Determination flickered in Volcos’ eyes. Without hesitation, he surged forward.
In the next memory, Alena found herself in the midst of a thunderous horse race.
Volcos was astride a swift bay, its muscles rippling as it tore across the vast meadow.
An arrow hissed past his ear.
He twisted in the saddle, catching sight of a rival closing in fast, bow raised for another shot.
Volcos reached for his own bow, nocked an arrow in one fluid motion, and loosed. His opponent toppled from the saddle with a cry, vanishing into the churned grass.
Ahead, the land sloped upwards into a small hill, where a wooden palisade loomed against the sky. The gates gaped open, the mantel carved with twin horses—just like the ones on the White Mare’s torc.
Volcos swung off his horse, boots hitting the ground with a dull thud, and strode across the threshold.
Inside, druids formed a silent line, their belted robes shifting in the breeze. The temple, open to the sky, held no grand altars or towering statues—only carved wooden pillars and, at its heart, a ritual circle of sticks and bones laid upon the grass.
Volcos stepped forward and knelt in its centre. He bowed his head, whispering a prayer, his breath uneven.
A shimmering purple light enveloped him, flecked with a thousand tiny stars. It swirled around him before sinking into his skin, vanishing into the side of his neck where a new Mark appeared.
The ground trembled.
Thunderous hooves shattered the silence.
From beyond the gates, twelve white stallions burst into the temple, their coats gleaming like liquid silver beneath the sunlight. They moved as one, encircling Volcos.
The druids fell to their knees. “The White Mare has made her choice.”
A rush of air swept through Alena, and when her vision cleared, she found herself in a sprawling marshland bathed in golden sunlight.
Her boots sank into cold, murky water, reeds swaying gently in the breeze, their feathery plumes rustling against each other.
Mist clung to the earth, curling through shallow pools that shimmered like molten gold under the sun’s warmth.
It was otherworldly. The air carried the crisp tang of the sea, sharp and clean like the day she’d met the South Wind. Beneath the thick mist, unseen frogs croaked like a pulsing heartbeat, steady and endless.
Alena took a tentative step forward, her eyes wide with awe. Then a sound cut through the marsh’s song—a distant whinny, followed by the low, thunderous rumble of hooves.
Her breath snagged in her throat.
Out of the mist, a herd of white horses charged towards her, their sleek coats gleaming like polished silver in the sunlight. They moved with primal grace, muscles rippling beneath glistening hides, manes billowing like sea foam as they galloped across the waterlogged ground.
Alena’s pulse hammered in her ears. She tried to run, but the sucking mud clung to her ankles, dragging her down. With no other choice, she dropped into a crouch, throwing her arms over her head.
The horses split around her at the last moment, their thundering hooves a deafening roar. Water splashed her face, icy droplets mingling with the mud now coating her arms and clothes. The world quaked, the earth itself shaking beneath their hooves.
And then, as quickly as they’d appeared, the horses were gone—vanishing into the distance until only the echo of their hooves remained, swallowed by the mist.
Chest heaving, Alena straightened. Her entire body trembled from the sheer force of what she’d just experienced, though exhilaration coursed through her veins.
A startled, breathless laugh broke from her lips. Wild. Unrestrained. Alive.
She wiped her face with Leukos’ cloak, her hands still shaking.
“Oh my, I wasn’t expecting company.” A voice drifted over the marshland, soft and rich like honey wine, yet threaded with something feral—like the low growl of a beast. “It’s a good thing I sensed your arrival, or you might have been trampled.”
Alena’s head jerked up. Before her stood a woman both radiant and ageless. Her silver hair cascaded down her shoulders in untamed waves, tangled with blossoms and leaves as if the forest itself had crowned her. A circlet of heather and primroses rested upon her brow.
Her dress was not the pristine white Alena had first thought, but the hue of moonlight on water, woven from silken threads and strands of moss. It clung to her form like mist, its edges trailing off into the air.
But it was her eyes that truly held Alena captive—deep, vibrant purple, like twilight skies just before dusk, filled with both tenderness and untamed ferocity.
The gaze of something ancient.
The goddess’ smile softened, though it never lost its wild edge. “Well, your arrival was rather unconventional, but I suppose you had your reasons. Here, let me help you, child.”
With a graceful wave of her hand, warmth seeped into Alena’s bones, the mud and chill peeling away like flaking parchment.
Her clothes dried, her skin no longer prickled with cold, and even her hair felt smooth and clean once more.
“Thank you.” Alena patted down her hair, then cleared her throat. “I’m—”
“Andrasta’s daughter.”
Alena faltered. Of course the goddess would know—but hearing it spoken aloud still rattled her.
“You look so much like your mother.” The White Mare’s expression softened, the corners of her mouth curving with unexpected warmth.
Brennus, chief of the Green Mountains Tribe, had spoken those same words to Alena the summer before. But from the goddess who’d once Gifted Andrasta and known her for years, the sentiment carried a weight that made her mother feel almost within reach.
A fierce longing hit her like a fist to the gut.
The White Mare had spent years alongside her mother.
How much time had Andrasta spent with Alena?
A few months, Phoebe had said. A single season, before passing her off to Damocles.
A sliver of time so pitifully small it seemed more like an insult than a blessing.
Questions twisted inside her, coiling tighter and tighter until it hurt to breathe. Had Andrasta’s hands trembled when she let her go? What had her mother been thinking during those moments? Was it a choice that tore her apart? Had she even cried?
Alena forced herself to swallow the bitterness, her nails digging into her palms to keep her emotions at bay.
Breaking down now would do nothing.
Instead, she focused on the surrounding marshlands. A dozen slaughtered cattle lay in a circle, their bodies slumped in the mud. Blood seeped into the water, staining it a sickly crimson. At the centre of the carnage gleamed a silver crown, untouched amid the filth.
Bile prickled at the back of Alena’s throat. “Is that what Volcos offered you?”
“Yes,” the White Mare replied, following her gaze with a delicate pout, as if the bloodied offering were an insult to her senses. “The tribes hold trials to determine their leader, and he proved himself worthy. His sacrifice… Well, it was rather excessive, but I do enjoy a pretty crown.”