Chapter 59
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
KATELL
The scent of lavender lingered in her damp hair when Katell returned from her bath.
A cream-coloured silk tunic had been laid out for her—ankle-length, threaded with gold, finer than anything she’d ever worn.
She slipped it on, the fabric whispering against her skin, and stepped barefoot into the long hall, both refreshed and famished.
Laran was still where she’d left him, seated at the head of the table, goblet of wine cupped in one hand, his gaze distant.
Without lifting his head, he gestured to the empty chair beside him. “Sit. Eat.”
This time, Katell obeyed without argument. She crossed the room and lowered herself into the nearest chair, silk pooling around her legs. She filled her plate with cold meats, fresh bread, and sliced fruit.
Laran remained silent, slowly turning his goblet in one hand.
Brooding.
Katell sipped her water, watching him over the rim. A question had lingered on her tongue for days, and now seemed the time to ask it.
She set the cup down and drew in a slow breath. “Will you tell me about her?” A heartbeat passed. Then, almost a whisper: “My mother?”
Laran’s sharp eyes flicked to her. “That depends. What do you wish to know?”
Everything. Every memory, every detail. But instead, she started with something small. “How did you meet her?”
At that, his entire demeanour shifted, and a grin spread across his face. “Andrasta killed my soldiers,” he said, as though recalling a fond memory, “and I saved her life.”
Time lost all meaning as Laran spoke of Andrasta, the woman who became the Rebel Queen—of how she’d dedicated her life to overthrowing the Empire and banishing the Rasennans from the Western Lands.
Katell caught the admiration in his tone. Respect. Perhaps even love—or something near enough to it.
She listened in silence, cherishing every word, every fragment of memory, all while idly picking at her meal.
Through Laran’s stories, her mother became more than a myth. No longer just the Rebel Queen—but Andrasta, a woman with dreams and doubts and fire in her heart. A mortal so fierce, so full of passion, that she had captivated a god.
A thousand questions burned in Katell’s mind, each more painful than the last. But none would ever be answered.
His descriptions were so vivid that her chest tightened with envy. She had only fragments—fleeting sounds, scents, and shapes—but no clear memories. Everything blurred, always out of reach.
Her heart ached with grief. By the Moon, she missed her mother—a woman she barely remembered.
As a child, she had peppered Damocles with questions, desperate to understand why every other child had a mother waiting at home, and she had none.
She’d craved the warmth of a comforting embrace, the gentle touch her friends received when they injured themselves while playing by the creek.
Damocles had tried, with his own rough kindness, but he couldn’t replace a mother.
Instead, he spun tales to soothe her—tales of a great warrior queen, kind-hearted and brave beyond measure.
Alena had clung to those stories, while Katell had pretended indifference.
Yet in the dark of night, she’d held them close—a dream of a mother she could never have.
Now the cruel irony struck. The Rebel Queen—the very woman she’d idolised in those stories, the one whose deeds had filled her childhood imagination—had truly been her mother.
Every tale, every heroic adventure, had been drawn from her mother’s life, and Katell had never known.
She stared down at her plate, appetite long gone. At least she had those fragments, however faint. Alena hadn’t been so fortunate. Sent to the Freefolk Lands as an infant, she remembered nothing of the woman who had given them life.
The thought made Katell’s throat tighten.
She hesitated, then asked, “My sister, Alena… is she also yours—?”
“No.” Laran’s tone was flat. A flicker crossed his expression—too brief to name. “Her father was an Achaean warrior. Kallinos. Both Andrasta and he were captured after the Battle of Kendrisia.”
Katell absorbed this, turning the words over in her mind. “He was also killed in Kisra?”
“Yes,” Laran said, quieter now. “I was there.”
She glanced up. “And you couldn’t save her?”
He exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around his goblet, holding back a weight she couldn’t see. “I tried.” His jaw clenched. “I offered her food from my table. I would have made her my queen—but she refused.”
Katell’s stomach twisted. Her mother—proud, defiant, staring down the god of war and saying no.
Of course she had.
Katell huffed, trying to quiet the unease curling in her gut. Her gaze fell back to her plate, suddenly too aware of its richness. She fixed Laran with a sharp stare. “Why did you offer her food?”
His expression was unreadable. “To make her immortal.”
A chill ran down her spine. “And what will it do to me?”
His gaze met hers, unwavering. “It will awaken what you keep buried… and help you embrace it.”
Her breath hitched.
Something inside her answered. A dark, insidious pulse unfurled in her chest, threading through her thoughts.
Katell pushed back from the table. Her chair screeched across the marble floor as she lurched to her feet. Her heart hammered, heat flooding her veins.
She hadn’t summoned her magic, yet it was there—surging, ravenous. It swept through her like wildfire, prepared to consume everything.
Her mind spiralled into panic. “What did you do?”
He leaned back, one elbow resting on the armrest, fingers drumming.
“If you cannot face it, your magic will consume you,” he said evenly.
“You left your mortal body behind, but your mind still clings to its old chains. Tell me, daughter—did you let mortals clasp you in dampeners? Let other Gifted tamper with your power?”
Katell froze. “I… What are you saying?”
Laran’s lips curved in a faint smirk. “What I’ve said from the beginning. You are a demigoddess. That power isn’t borrowed—it’s yours. It cannot be taken. No magicked metal, no mortal trick can strip it from you. Yet you let your weak, mortal mind believe otherwise, and so they did.”
Her breath caught. Her mind reeled.
If she’d known the truth… the dampeners never would have worked?
She felt sick.
All that time in the arena—chained and silenced. And that night when she’d tried to save Sinope…
Yet something deep inside her had always known.
The slavers had attempted to suppress her magic, but it had returned.
She must’ve broken free without realising how.
Afterwards, she’d let them persuade her she was powerless.
She’d believed it. She’d let her own mind cage her more tightly than any shackle.
“I could have broken free?” she whispered.
Laran nodded. “Yes. And now the food will help you see past the illusion. It will set you free.”
“No…” Her arms wrapped around herself, trying to suppress the surge of magic clawing at her from within. Her chest heaved, pulse hammering, and every instinct screamed that if she let it loose she would vanish into pure bloodlust. “No!”
Her mind raced. Dorias had taught her to breathe, to anchor her magic—but Laran’s power was untamed, ravenous, and defied all her control.
“Make it stop!” she shrieked.
“I cannot.”
Out of nowhere, Laran was at her side, hand closing around her arm, grip like steel.
Before she could react, the world lurched. The villa vanished in a blur of light and shadow, and in the next breath they stood once more upon the barren battlefield. The crimson sky churned above them, the air thick with the smell of blood and smoke.
Katell dragged in a breath and forced herself to resist the magic thrumming in her chest. It beat like a second heart, eager to burst free. She clenched her fists until her nails bit her palms. Hold. Control.
Her focus almost held—until the fountain drew her attention. The bronze mirror above it gleamed, its surface pulsing in time with the fury inside her, beckoning. Katell’s throat tightened. Step by step she drifted closer and peered inside.
The surface rippled; shadows stretched into shape—and the battlefield opened before her eyes.
Rasennan soldiers stood in tight formation, shields locked against the Westerners’ relentless assault.
Fire and ice clashed; explosions of raw power ripped through the lines.
Lightning split the sky, searing the Rasennan ranks.
And striding through the carnage was a Makhai—monstrous and unstoppable—carving a path of destruction like a living nightmare.
Katell couldn’t breathe. Whispers filled her skull: Kill. Kill them all. Her magic shuddered in delight, surging at the call of slaughter. Heat bloomed under her skin, aching to join the carnage. And there, at the centre of it all, wreathed in Laran’s Flame, was her mortal body.
“Look at what’s become of you.” Laran’s voice sliced through her. “They’ve reduced you to a mindless weapon, when you should be leading armies, forging victories, and bringing empires to their knees.”
Horror crashed through her in a choking wave. “By the Moon… what have they done?”
The Makhai tore through the battlefield—a faceless spectre of war cloaked in ruin.
Its towering frame was swathed in tattered black; the shredded cloak snapped like a war banner in the storm.
It didn’t walk, it glided, silent as death, moving with a predatory grace that made it more nightmare than man.
In its hand, it wielded the weapons of war—a Rasennan sword and spear already dripping with blood.
It didn’t speak or hesitate. It slaughtered.
Dorias had called them demons of the battlefield. Now they marched for her.
“Well done, daughter,” Laran said dryly, a crooked smile curling his mouth. He gestured to the river where two more Makhai loomed, holding back the roaring waters with brute power. “You’ve actually managed to summon three of them.”
More, more.
The thought clawed at her, and a sick thrill coiled in her chest. Yes—there were more. She could feel them in the magic writhing inside her, pulsing and eager. How many demons could she summon if she let herself go?
She spotted a Western warrior, sword raised, bellowing a defiant war cry.
The Makhai didn’t hesitate. Its blackened arm slammed into the Westerner’s chest like a battering ram, sending him sprawling.
Before he could recover, the demon drove its sword into his stomach.
He gasped, knees buckling, weapon slipping from blood-slicked fingers.
His life poured out in hot rivulets over the dirt, steaming in the cold air.
Katell clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms.
But the Makhai wasn’t done. Its hand shot out, seizing the Westerner’s throat. With a savage twist, it snapped his neck and let the lifeless body crumple to the earth. Then it turned, searching for its next prey.
Rage surged through Katell, helping her force the seething magic inside her into submission. Her teeth ground together. “I have to stop this.”
But a flash of auburn hair among the melee nearly brought her to her knees.
Her heart seized.
Alena.
Her sister stood at the edge of the battlefield, clad in shimmering armour, their mother’s necklace gleaming at her throat.
At her side, Leukos raised one hand, and a wave of frost swept across the battlefield before bursting outwards. Spears of ice sliced through the air, precise and merciless. Rasennan soldiers collapsed mid-charge, impaled or frozen where they stood.
Katell stared, stunned. She’d known Leukos was Gifted, but this… this was something else.
And then Nik blinked into view through the smoke, shield raised, his stance taut with battle-born discipline. The sight of him struck her like a blow.
Golden skin streaked with blood and ash. Dirty blond hair tied back in a braid. Achaean armour clinging to his broad frame as if forged for him alone. The grim focus in his sharp blue eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way he moved—calculated, deadly.
No longer a slave or a mere fighter, he looked every bit the warrior he was born to be.
But then his stride faltered. Blood soaked the side of his tunic, dark and spreading fast.
Katell’s heart twisted. Had a Makhai struck him—or, stars be cursed, had she?
The thought hollowed her out.
He shouted something, and alarm flickered across Alena’s face.
Katell’s mortal body strode across the bloodstained earth, cutting a relentless swath through the carnage.
Alena bolted, the wolves racing ahead. Leukos unleashed another arc of ice, then fell into step beside her, clearing a path with brutal efficiency.
Nik surged forward in a streak of motion, blade flashing, shield smashing aside anyone in his way.
He moved with the same ferocity he’d wielded in the arena.
Together, the three of them tore into the fray. But it wasn’t enough.
Romilda’s shadows poured fresh cohorts into the battle, driving back the Westerners and Achaeans with relentless force. Rasennan soldiers also crossed the exposed riverbed where the Makhai still held the waters at bay.
Yet Alena, Leukos, and Nik weren’t pushing towards their allies. They sprinted away from the main lines, towards the cliffs upstream.
Katell’s attention snapped to the ridge. There, etched against the storm-darkened sky, loomed a ring of standing stones—jagged, ancient, thrumming with magic.
Laran let out an amused chuckle. “Your sister is a clever one,” he mused. “Just like your mother.”
Katell’s heart hammered. Alena had a plan. But what?
What could the stones possibly do to stop her—and the Makhai?