Chapter 50 #2
“Trials?” Alena echoed. The marshland’s chill seeped through her boots while the White Mare stood with effortless grace atop a patch of mossy ground, her bare feet unbothered by the slick mud and brackish water.
“To test the strength of his heart.”
“Did my mother take part in trials as well?” What kind of tests had Andrasta endured to prove herself worthy?
The White Mare nodded, the blossoms tangled in her silver hair swaying with the movement. “Of course. And she was magnificent. The fiercest soul I’d ever seen.”
“And you would have me do the same?”
“Oh no, child.” The goddess reached for Alena’s left hand, her warm fingers tracing the golden Mark. “You are the Omega. You were not the child destined to take your mother’s place as the new leader.”
Alena’s heart sank, the truth she’d been seeking finally revealing itself. “Katell. It was supposed to be her.”
Her sister should’ve been the one to meet the goddess and carry on their mother’s legacy. Instead, Katell had joined the enemy, accepting Dalmatius’ lies as though they were salvation.
“You’re the one who Gifted her.” Alena’s knees ached from the cold seeping through her skin, but the chill was nothing compared to the hollow ache blooming in her chest.
Nik had been right. The Mark on Katell’s neck belonged to the White Mare.
“Yes.” The goddess released Alena’s hand.
The reeds swayed around them, their dry rustling tangled with the low croaks of frogs and the restless sigh of a chill breeze.
“Your mother begged me to hide her true nature, and so I did. Katell bears my Mark, but only a fraction of my magic. I had always hoped that one day she would come to me to claim your mother’s torc. ”
Alena’s chest tightened. She’d been right—the torc had never been meant for her. It had always belonged to Katell.
But it was the other words that sent her stomach lurching and her thoughts scattering. “Did you say… her true nature?”
“Oh dear…” The White Mare’s violet eyes met hers again, glistening with something akin to pity. “You do not know?”
Alena frowned. “Know what?”
But a memory surged, unbidden—the druids last summer, their voices searing through her mind, a curse she could never shake: One of Andrasta’s daughters is a demon with enough power to destroy us all.
A cold, sickening dread twisted through her.
“The druids,” she whispered, her voice almost drowned by the faint croaks of hidden frogs.
“They said one of Andrasta’s daughters was a demon powerful enough to destroy everything.
Are you saying…” Her throat tightened, every word scraping like gravel. “Are you saying my sister is a demon?”
“Not a demon,” the goddess corrected. “A demigoddess. And a pretty powerful one at that.”
A demigoddess? The word rattled through Alena’s mind, a concept too enormous to grasp. “No. They’re just legends. Demigods don’t exist anymore—”
Bright laughter spilled out of the White Mare, like birds bursting into flight. “Don’t be silly. You saw it yourself, didn’t you? Your sister’s strength, her uncanny healing abilities. ”
“Those are her Gifts—your Gifts.”
The goddess shook her head, her smile soft but knowing. “No. Those are simply in her nature. My Gift was an affinity to horses, just like your—”
“By the Moon…” Alena’s voice came out strangled. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out the rustling of the reeds. “How is that possible? Who is the father?”
The White Mare’s expression shifted, replaced by something darker, sorrowful. “Oh, my dear.” She sighed, long and heavy. “You already know the answer. You’ve known all along.”
Alena’s chest tightened, her heartbeat stuttering in denial while the truth slithered through her mind. Images of Katell’s ruthlessness during combat, the way her temper flared so easily, violence erupting before reason. “No…”
“You may not want to see it,” the White Mare continued. “But your sister carries bloodlust and violence in her heart.”
“Stop.” Alena’s breath came in shallow, panicked gasps.
But the goddess pressed on, unfazed. “They thought she was his Chosen One. When in reality—”
“Don’t—”
“—she is his daughter.”
The world tilted beneath Alena’s feet, and the name crashed through her like a war drum: Laran.
The Rasennan god of war.
Katell was his daughter.
The Rebel Queen and Laran.
She was going to throw up. “No… it can’t be.”
She staggered back, her feet slipping on the soft, muddy earth, the chill of the marsh seeping through her boots. Her legs gave way, and she sank to her knees in the muck, her fingers clutching at the slimy earth, seeking something solid to hold on to.
Tears blurred her vision, turning the world into a dizzying smear of colours. The sound of her ragged breathing mixed with the croaking frogs, the rustling reeds—everything felt distant, muffled, as though she were sinking deeper into the bog.
Then the White Mare’s shadow fell over her. Her whimsical expression was gone, replaced by a severity that cut like a blade. “She is coming for you, child. The Rasennans control her now. Are you prepared to do what it takes to stop her?”
Alena shook her head. “She’s my sister…”
“She’s no longer the sister you knew. If you do not stop her, she will end you.”
Alena hunched over, a sob threatening to escape her. She had fought for so long to save Katell, to bring her back from whatever darkness had taken hold of her. She refused to let it end like this.
“No.” The word came out broken, more plea than statement. “There must be another way.”
The White Mare crouched down, her wildness tempered by sorrow. “I’m so sorry, dear. But there isn’t.”
Alena’s thoughts spiralled, each one darker than the last. The words echoed over and over in her mind, impossible to silence.
End Katell. Kill her sister or be killed.
The weight of it pressed down on her until she couldn’t breathe.
Kill her sister, her only family… the one who had protected her, fed her through the harshest winters, soothed her fevers. The one who had laughed with her and shared whispered secrets beneath the stars.
The ache in Alena’s chest swelled into a crushing void. Her limbs turned to lead.
She was sinking fast, drowning in endless despair…
But then a hand closed around her elbow, and warmth flooded her body, pushing back the emptiness and threading a fragile spark of hope through her trembling frame.
Light pierced the dark.
The frogs resumed their croaking chorus, and the breeze stirred the reeds, carrying the scent of damp earth and the sharp tang of the marsh. Alena’s breath came easier, and when the White Mare lifted her upright, her legs held firm.
The goddess studied her, as if weighing her readiness—or seeing through the cracks to the resolve beneath.
“Listen carefully, child. Have Volcos meet the Rasennans near the standing stones by the Rodanos River. Those stones hold ancient magic—magic even we gods cannot interfere with. Your Gifts will fade, and your sister will be powerless.”
“Will that be enough to stop her?” Alena asked.
“Perhaps,” the White Mare replied, stepping closer, her tone solemn, almost mournful. “If anyone can help her regain her senses, it is you. And if you cannot… you must be ready for the worst.”
She extended her hand, and a soft violet light unfurled in her palm, curling like mist. Slowly, the glow shaped itself into something familiar—her mother’s golden torc, the very one Alena had last tucked away in her satchel, the one that refused to answer to her.
“Your sister may be the one destined to walk in your mother’s shoes, but this… it belongs to Andrasta’s bloodline.”
Alena’s breath hitched. She reached for the shimmering necklace and cradled it. “I tried wearing it, hoping it would answer to me,” she admitted, “but there was no magic.”
The White Mare’s smile was small, perceptive. “I was waiting to meet Andrasta’s daughters in the flesh before I allowed one of you to claim it. Your mother would have wanted one of her daughters to have it.”
Alena glanced up. “What does it do?”
“It will heal you,” the goddess replied.
“And when the time comes, it will heal one of your loved ones.” For a fleeting moment, something crossed her face—sorrow, deep and ancient, or perhaps regret—but it quickly vanished, replaced by a playful glint.
“Now,” she said, voice lighter, “would you also like to take Volcos’ Gift? ”
Alena blinked at the sudden shift. She’d touched Volcos’ Mark, and as the Omega, she could break the pact he’d made with the goddess and claim his Gift for herself, though she had no idea what it was.
But no matter what Volcos had said to her, he was their ally, and she refused to take his Gift. “No, let him keep it.”
“Good,” the goddess replied, her tone taking on a playful lilt.
“Because I Gifted twelve of my horses to him—though he passed them on to his most trusted men, and now they’ve grown attached to those riders.
His second Gift, however, comes from Taranis, and it’s far more powerful.
That one you should claim if the chance arises. ”
Alena froze.
Taranis?
Had she heard that right? Had the White Mare just revealed one of the Western gods’ true names?
“Taranis?” she echoed.
The goddess’ purple eyes twinkled with mischief. “Oh, how careless of me.” Her smile widened. “Did I let that slip? Of course, I meant the Thunder.”
In the distance, the sky rumbled ominously, as if in answer.
The White Mare’s gaze flicked to the darkening horizon, her lips pursing.
“That’s what you get for using my horses as target practice, you monster,” she growled under her breath.
Then she turned back to Alena, her grin returning like nothing had happened.
“Feel free to spread the word about his name. As you can see, he’s got plenty of magic to spare. ”
Alena gave a slow nod, her mind spinning from the weight of the revelation.
“Right, time’s running out,” the goddess said. “Don’t forget what I told you about the standing stones… and the torc.”
Alena glanced down, the golden torc still warm in her hands. With a quiet breath, she lifted it to her neck and let the necklace slide against her skin. The metal was rigid but not unyielding, and it nestled at the base of her throat.
The White Mare straightened, her chin lifting with quiet satisfaction, a subtle shift that carried the weight of approval. “Wear it with pride, Omega. Volcos may be our people’s leader, but never forget you are the Rebel Queen’s daughter.”
Before Alena could respond, the world tilted and dissolved—the marshland melting away like a fading dream, the mist and reeds vanishing into nothingness. In the blink of an eye, she faced Volcos once more, drizzle pattering against her hair and shoulders.
A soft, radiant golden glow—her Omega magic—wrapped her in light. It clung to her skin like molten firelight and pooled at her feet, chasing away the chill of the stormy plain.
Threads of magic shimmered in her vision, permeating the air like strands of living silk.
The familiar silver tendrils spiralled out from her chest, ethereal threads linking her to Apollo, Otxoa, and every wolf prowling the nearby wilds.
They pulsed with a steady, rhythmic light, a constant reminder of the Huntress’ Gift.
But in that instant, something new wove itself into the web. A vibrant, luminous thread of gold twined among the silver—a thread that thrummed with warmth and certainty, linking her to Leukos, her soulmate. Its brilliance outshone the others, as if it had always been there, just waiting to be seen.
Beyond that, the purple threads of the White Mare’s magic coiled through the air, winding between the white horses and their riders. Luminous wisps of power all fed back to Volcos, like veins connecting to the same powerful heart.
But as the threads began to dim, their glow fading into the damp air, Alena’s gaze shifted to the warriors themselves.
Forged by battle and hardship, the Westerners stood motionless by their horses, eyes wide with shock in the face of her magic, which crackled through the air like a storm about to break.
They looked at her as something more than flesh and blood.
Something meant to be followed. Or feared.
The Achaeans were the first to bow. Theo lowered his head, then Despoina, and even Danaos.
Their submission rippled outwards, shattering whatever spell held the others.
Alcaros dropped to one knee, head bent in reverence.
One by one, Volcos’ men followed, sinking into the mud with hands pressed to their hearts.
Even the redhead who had met her with scorn now knelt in silence.
Alena turned to look at them all, her pulse quickening.
They were kneeling. To her.
Her gaze landed on Leukos, still standing beside Leywani, arms folded over his chest and a smug grin plastered on his face, as if everything had unfolded exactly as he’d predicted.
But then, after a heartbeat, his smile softened, and without a word, he lowered himself to one knee, pride gleaming in his eyes.
Only Volcos remained. His attention lingered on the torc at her throat, his features taut—disbelief warring with something deeper that bordered on awe.
“Is this answer enough for you?” Alena’s voice cut through the silence, stronger than she felt.
The golden sheen of light covering her dimmed, seeping into her until it vanished.
Volcos stared at her for a long moment, then threw his head back and laughed, the sound booming like thunder.
“Andrasta’s daughter, indeed!” he roared, clapping a meaty hand on her shoulder with a force that nearly toppled her. “Come. Let’s get out of this damned rain and feast!”
A relieved smile tugged at her lips. “Then lead the way.”