Chapter 57
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
ALENA
Alena sat tall in the saddle on the beach of the Rodanos, gaze locked on the river’s surface.
Leukos remained steady at her side, and beyond him, Nik and Theo held their positions.
Their armour, covered in tiny metal scales, appeared dull beneath the pale morning light, and shields hung from their saddles.
Their breastplates bore the unmistakable marks of Megarian craftsmanship—layered steel and sharp lines, trimmed in deep blue and white patterns that honoured the Sea God.
A few paces behind, a handful of Achaean soldiers lingered in tense silence, hands resting on their hilts—not that the Megarians needed protection. Clad in armour and poised for battle, Leukos, Nik, and Theo resembled the heroes of old, and pride swelled in Alena’s chest.
Volcos, Alcaros, and the warriors who had fought alongside her mother—Tanco and Vix—lined the riverbank just ahead. The Rodanos River ran narrow and deceptively calm, its surface smooth as glass, reflecting the dense tree line looming across the bank.
Behind them, up in the grassy hills, massive pyres roared against the pale dawn, hurling black smoke into the brightening sky.
Westerners stood in a wide circle, chanting in low, guttural unison—their voices nearly swallowed by the crackle of burning wood.
Chickens and goats had been offered at first light, their blood soaked into the earth, and now warriors knelt before the flames, heads bowed, murmuring prayers to Taranis in search of his favour.
The wind carried the scent of ash, blood, and incense across the hillside, mingling with the metallic tang of sweat and iron from men bracing for war.
The allied Westerners and Achaeans stood ready to face the full might of four Rasennan legions—twelve thousand five hundred against twenty thousand. The odds were stacked against them, but they had the river gods on their side, and the White Mare’s guidance.
To Alena’s left, the beach gave way to a jagged cliff that soared above the water.
At its summit, a ring of ancient stones rose from the weathered soil.
This was the site of old magic, a place woven with forgotten power—one Alena hoped would be enough to help Katell break free from the dark spell the Rasennans had cast upon her.
The sound of galloping hooves shattered her reverie.
Volcos and the others rode back up the hill towards the troops.
Alcaros split from his group and headed their way, cloak snapping in the breeze.
Sword at his hip, shield strapped to his saddle, he reined in his horse beside them.
“Our scouts have spotted the tribes who ambushed the Third Legion upon their return. They’ll be here soon, although the legions don’t seem in a hurry to attack. ”
A handful of Rasennan soldiers lingered around firepits across the river, pretending to keep a casual watch.
It was a poor disguise that fooled no one.
The legions were already here, hidden in the forest along the bank, biding their time until the moment to strike.
The Huntress’ Gift had shown Alena flickers of movement, glints of metal between the dark trees.
“They’re hiding,” Leukos agreed. “Maybe waiting for a signal.”
Theo’s eyes narrowed. “Or someone,” he muttered, unease clear in his tone. “I don’t like it.”
Alena’s stomach clenched. She reached up, fingers brushing her mother’s torc at her neck, drawing strength from its presence. She was no strategist, but the Rasennans’ hesitation felt wrong even to her.
“We managed to lure the Rasennans to the exact spot we wanted.” Alcaros nodded towards the ancient standing stones atop the cliff. “Luck is on our side.”
“It’s not luck,” Theo snapped, his gaze flicking to the darkened tree line across the river.
“It’s common sense. They took the bait because the terrain is in their favour.
The river’s narrow and shallow here, their shore’s covered by forest, and we’re exposed.
” His horse tossed its head, restless beneath him, and Theo stroked its neck absently, jaw clenched.
“Your goddess better know what she’s doing—”
A shadow crossed Alcaros’ face. “The White Mare has been worshipped from Thracia to these shores for nearly a thousand years. You’d do well to show her the respect she’s earned. Perhaps it’s your Gift that is mistaken.”
The words lingered, a spark poised to ignite. Tension between the two men escalated, and Alena could almost feel the heat building between them. Nik’s jaw tightened, and Leukos shot Alcaros a warning look.
“My Gift?” Theo’s calm demeanour slipped.
His eyes flared a deep blue, fierce and unyielding as the ocean in a storm, reminding Alena of the colour of the Maiden’s peplos robe.
“The Grey-Eyed Maiden is the goddess of wisdom and warfare, and her Gift is telling me this position is not to our advantage—”
“Peace, Theo.” Leukos raised a hand. Theo’s shoulders tensed, then he gave a short, frustrated nod.
“We chose this spot to deal with Katell and the Makhai,” Leukos continued, his focus fixed on the horizon where dark clouds were beginning to roll in. “If we can handle her first, then our odds will drastically improve.”
A hush settled over the group. The reeds at the river’s edge swayed in the breeze as a pair of ducks glided across the water, unfazed by the increasing gloom above. Behind her, horses shifted, and soldiers murmured in low, uncertain tones.
The sky was darkening.
A storm was coming.
“The Thunder will fight with us,” Alcaros said, gazing up at the churning clouds, voice softening with awe.
Nik didn’t look up. His tone was dry, but tension sharpened it. “I’d sooner have a few thousand more Tirynthian blades at our backs.”
Theo nodded in agreement, frustration etched across his face.
“I had hoped our northern tribes would come,” Alcaros admitted, his focus still fixed on the sky. “The Tribe of the Forest Men are a strange lot—refusing trade from other tribes and never feasting or drinking—but they have the strongest and most disciplined warriors of all.”
“Sounds like the Lakonians.” Nik scoffed, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. “If only they hadn’t pissed off the Sea God and vanished, three hundred of them could’ve easily taken on a whole legion.”
Alena perked up at the mention of the Lakonians—infamous warriors from Achaea, whose arrogance had led to their downfall.
They had challenged Megara for control of the land, and the Sea God had retaliated with a devastating earthquake that wiped out their city.
What remained of them had scattered across the Great Sea, rudderless ships without a captain.
“I heard they set up a colony in Rasenna,” Alena added, curiosity getting the better of her.
Nik grunted. “Rumour was they went to the Western Lands.”
It was Alcaros’ turn to scoff. “If that were true, I’d have made sure they were fighting here today.”
“They’re long gone,” Leukos cut in. “But we’re not.”
A flicker of movement caught Alena’s eye across the river—the faintest shift in the trees, shadows creeping closer.
“They’re coming,” she warned.
Leukos swung his horse around. “Theo, stay with Pelagios. Help coordinate the defences. Tell Volcos we’re holding the riverbank and drawing Katell in, as planned.”
“I’ll take the archers,” Alcaros added, his horse pawing at the sand as if it sensed the building storm. “My Gift won’t help here. May the river gods crush them all.” He turned and galloped away.
Nik watched him go, one eyebrow raised. “Wait—he has a Gift?”
Alena was just as surprised. Had Alcaros been Gifted by the White Mare, like Volcos?
“Eyes forward,” Leukos ordered.
From the shadowed forest, Rasennan soldiers emerged—rank-and-file infantry, a few officers, and a towering Black Helmet with shimmering amber eyes, dragging a captured Westerner. One of Volcos’ scouts.
Dalmatius followed, gleaming in a golden breastplate and crimson cloak.
Then a third figure stepped into the light, and Alena froze, breath catching.
Katell.
At first glance, she appeared unchanged—same dark red tunic, black leather breastplate, and helmet. But when Alena met her gaze, her sister’s moss-green irises were gone, drowned in black.
Exactly as Leywani had warned.
“By the Moon…” Her throat tightened. She swung off her horse, heart hammering, her focus locked on her sister across the water.
“Alena,” Leukos called, but she was already moving, feet sinking into the soft, pebbled sand, Apollo and Otxoa flanking her.
Gusts of wind lashed at her hair and stung her cheeks. Overhead, dark purple clouds churned, a bruise spreading across the sky. The wind was no longer a breeze but a warning of the storm bearing down on them.
Alena raised an arm to shield her face and pushed forward.
A blur of steel stepped into her path, and Nik appeared, one hand lifted. “Alena, don’t.”
She stopped short, fists trembling at her sides. “Move, Nik.”
“No.” His gaze stayed locked on hers. The wind whipped at his cloak, the shield on his back cutting off the river behind him. “Don’t let them see you like this.”
Something sharp twisted in her chest. Her voice cracked. “What have they done to her?”
Nik’s jaw tightened, every muscle coiled with barely restrained fury. Seeing Katell in such a state—used as a weapon—hit him as sharply as it did Alena. “We’ll get her back,” he growled, “but not by charging in blindly. I swear… they’ll pay for what they’ve done.”
“He’s right,” Leukos said from behind, voice almost lost in the gusting wind. “Don’t forget our plan.”
His warm hand closed over hers, his thumb tracing slow, reassuring circles across her palm. It helped. Almost.
Until a wet, gargled scream ripped through the air, shattering the moment.
Across the river, Dalmatius slit the Western scout’s throat in one brutal motion. Blood sprayed, and the legate seized the dying man by the jaw, holding him upright like a grotesque trophy.
“Twelve be damned,” Nik muttered.
Dalmatius smeared blood across Katell’s cheeks with ceremonial precision. His lips brushed her ear as he whispered something, then he smiled, aware they were all watching.
Alena’s blood boiled, nails digging into her palms. How dare he touch Katell as if she were some tool to wield? Alena didn’t care what power he held, or what flames he commanded—she would drag him off her sister with her bare hands if she had to.
A rumble unfurled through the clouds, the first beat of a war drum echoing from the sky—a warning from Taranis himself.
Wordless, unblinking, Katell stepped to the river’s edge. The Rodanos responded at once—its surface shuddering, rippling outwards in violent rings as if recoiling from her touch. The once-gentle current began to churn, froth rising with an unnatural hiss.
Behind Alena, a jagged wail tore through the air—raw and metallic. She flinched as the Western carnyx screamed again, the curling war horns shaped like open-mouthed beasts howling across the valley. The echo bounced off the cliffside and surged over the river, a curse in motion.
The Rasennans answered in turn.
From deep within the shadowed forest, horns bellowed and war drums pounded in answer—slow, thunderous beats that made the earth feel unsteady beneath her boots.
Soldiers in tight formation spilled from the trees, shields raised, blades gleaming.
Rows of archers stepped into place behind them, bows half drawn.
But they held steady, keeping their distance from Katell and the riverbank, where the water churned and frothed in warning.
Darkness bloomed at Katell’s feet—thick magic coiling around her legs in swirling tendrils of smoke. Without hesitation, she pulled a dagger free and cut into her palm.
Blood dripped to the earth, and from that tainted soil, they came.
Two shapes rose—tall, faceless, cloaked in layers of black billowing in the wind. Not shadows or ghosts.
But demons.
The Makhai.
Horror swelled in Alena’s chest. She couldn’t move. Her fingers gripped her sword, but it felt laughably small, as useful as a twig against a storm.
Beside her, Nik let out a sharp breath, his usual bravado gone. “The Giver’s tits, she’s summoned two of them.”
Leukos said nothing. His knuckles were white around the hilt of his sword, and the air suddenly grew colder when he reached for his magic.
Katell stepped into the water, and the Rodanos River rebelled.
A shiver ran down Alena’s spine. The battlefield had just changed. And no amount of planning could prepare them for what had been unleashed.
A deep rumble shook the ground beneath them, a low growl emanating from the riverbed. The water churned violently, then burst forth. A geyser of white spray soared skywards, twisting and forming limbs within its torrent.
The surge solidified into a colossal figure—a god fashioned from river and fury. Broad and crowned with reeds, its body flowed with silt and shimmering currents, eyes churning whirlpools of ancient power.
Alena gasped. The wolves let out low, uneasy whines.
“Get back!” Leukos seized her arm, yanking her away as Nik flashed into motion, retreating in a blur.
With a sound like mountains splitting, the river god loosed a thunderous cry and struck.
A massive wall of water crashed down on the riverbank, sweeping towards the Rasennan line like a living tide.
Soldiers screamed and scrambled, some dragged into the water by invisible hands, others simply gone in a blink beneath the waves.
Spray burst high, misting the air. Alena flinched, heart pounding against her ribs, the roar of the god still echoing in her bones.
But then, amid the ruin, two shapes moved with unnatural calm.
The Makhai.
Each raised an impossibly long arm, darker than shadow, and without sound, they struck the river itself. The current tore apart under their touch, waves suspended midair, twisting and writhing as if in pain.
The river fought back. Waters surged and collided, swirling around the Makhai, thrashing with the rage of a beast. Spray hissed and thundered against their dark forms, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed the god might reclaim itself.
But the Makhai held fast, their grip unyielding. With a final bone-jarring shudder, the river god collapsed, its massive form unravelling into mist and current, folding back into the waters from which it had risen.
Alena stood frozen, her breath shallow.
The river seethed, restless and angry, but the demons were stronger—arms raised, magic anchoring the parted torrent.
The path lay open.