“She wouldn’t leave. Not without the others.” Her fingers tightened on the folds of her chiton. The grey wolf shifted beside her, letting out a low whine, picking up on her unrest. “When I left, they were preparing to rebel against the soldiers.”
Katell paled. “They’ll be slaughtered…”
“I know,” Alena murmured, her throat burning with the weight of it. “But as Scylas said, they’d rather be dead than remain slaves.”
A strained hush settled over the room. Katell stared at some fixed point beyond the wall, her expression unreadable, but the tension in her frame betrayed her. Alena watched, her heart clenching. It was there—sorrow, confusion, guilt—breaking through the armour her sister had wrapped so tightly around herself.
Katell had spoken the truth. She hadn’t known—she’d never intended to betray the Freefolk.
But the fact remained: the legions had come for them, and whether Katell intended it or not, she had helped them.
Alena’s mind raced, piecing together the fragments. She had a sinking suspicion about who was really behind it all.
She shifted forward, chest tight. “This man you mentioned… Dorias. Do you trust him?"
Katell’s features hardened with sudden wariness. “Yes. He saved me from the arena.”
So Dorias was Dalmatius, the Undefeated. Alena’s gut twisted, unease cutting deeper than she expected. Not just because of who he was, but because he had found his way to Katell.
“Right,” she said tightly, fingers curling over the edge of the stool until her knuckles strained. “And you have feelings for him?”
“Yes,” Katell answered without hesitation.
A pang bloomed behind Alena’s ribs. She tried to smile, but it came out crooked, brittle around the edges. “Does he make you happy?”
A faint smile played on Katell’s lips, one Alena recognised all too well—the same smile she’d worn whenever she spoke of Scylas.
“He does.” Katell eased back into the cushions, her posture loosening, the air between them warming by a fragile thread. “And you and Leukos?”
Heat climbed Alena’s neck. “Oh, we’re not…” Her voice came out as a squeak. She cleared her throat, forcing composure. “We’re not together.”
Katell tilted her head, a knowing glint in her eye. “I saw the way he looked at you back in the Western Lands—the way he was ready to defend you. He seems quite devoted.”
Alena’s pulse stumbled. “I… Yes. I suppose he is protective.”
“He’s an honourable man,” Katell continued, “even if he is an enemy of Rasenna.”
The tension resurfaced again, fogging the fragile thread between them until only the cold figure of a Rasennan praefect remained—someone Alena no longer knew how to reach.
Even so, she rose, compelled by the gravity of what she was about to reveal. She sat at the foot of the bed. Phoebe’s warning to keep her guard up echoed in her mind, but Alena pushed it aside.
Her sister would never harm her.
Katell gave her a questioning glance but said nothing.
“Kat.” Alena drew a steadying breath, uncertain if now was the right time—or if it was already too much. “I found out the truth about our mother.”
Katell stiffened, her body taut, as if bracing for a blow.
“Last summer,” Alena continued, her fingers twitching in her lap, “in the Western Lands, the Green Mountains tribe recognised the torc. It belonged to the Rebel Queen.”
Katell’s features tightened. “She was our mother?”
“Yes.” A bittersweet smile tugged at Alena’s lips. “Apparently, I look just like her.”
Katell bowed her head, as though struggling to absorb the revelation. “Are you sure?”
Alena nodded, recalling the day she’d met Brennus and his sons. “The warriors who fought beside her at Kendrisia knew you by name. Damocles was a Megarian healer who fought with her. Before the final battle, she asked him to take us somewhere safe.”
