Alena pointed her spoon at him, her face burning. “Don’t youdarefinish that sentence, Nikander!”
Nik raised his hands in mock surrender, but the moment their eyes met, they both burst into laughter, the tension melting away.
All too soon, their mirth faded, and reality crept back in. Alena’s smile faltered, her grip tightening on the spoon as her gaze dropped to the bowl in her lap.
“Do you think Phoebe was right?” she asked quietly. “That Kat will end up our enemy again?”
Nik’s expression sobered. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “We have to trust that your sister will find her way back to us.”
Alena frowned, uncertainty twisting in her chest. “And what if she doesn’t?”
Nik didn’t look away, his usual levity gone. “Then you need to be prepared to make some tough decisions.”
“You think…” Alena’s breath snagged, the familiar ache blooming anew in her chest. “You think we should kill her?”
“That,” he said, the guttering firelight throwing restless shadows across his face, “or watch her kill those we love.”
The words hung in the air like a blade poised to fall. Pushing her bowl aside, Alena hugged her knees to her chest. The fire crackled softly, but its warmth seemed to have retreated, leaving her chilled to the bone.
“She’s my sister,” Alena said at last, staring into the flames. “I’ll always try to save her. Always. Even when she doesn’t want to be saved.”
“I know.” Nik’s gaze didn’t waver. “And whatever you decide, I’ll be with you, Red. So will Leukos. No matter what the Achaeans, the Westerners, or even the Twelve might think.”
A lump formed in Alena’s throat, but she managed a small, grateful smile. No matter how uncertain the path ahead, she could always rely on Nik to stand by her—and to protect Katell, even when she couldn’t.
Nik leaned back on his elbows, watching the fire flicker. “Let me tell you something,” he said. “Years ago, I travelled from Kyrnos to the western port of Tarraco. We stopped for supplies in a small harbour along the Western Tribes’ coast. A miserable place in winter—wet marshlands, constant drizzle. I couldn’t wait to leave for sunny Tarraco. Yet the port was crowded, far more than I’d expected.”
“Why?” Alena asked, curiosity overcoming her gloom.
“Wild horses roam the marshlands, and just outside the port stands a temple dedicated to?—”
“The White Mare?” Alena interrupted.
Nik nodded. “Exactly. Westerners from every tribe came to make offerings and pray for a Gift. Many carried small figurines of the goddess on horseback or tokens carved with her symbols. And some of those symbols…” He pressed his lips together, raking a hand down his face like he wanted to hold the words back. “They looked similar to the Mark on your sister’s neck.”
Alena stilled. “You… what are you saying?”
“I don’t think Kat was Marked by Laran,” he said. “I think she was Marked by the White Mare.”
“And you’re only telling me this now? How can you be so sure? She wielded Laran’s Flame, Nik. The Rasennans call her Laran’s Chosen.”
“I know.” Nik ran a hand through his hair, guilt heavy in his eyes. “But her Mark depicts a horse, the White Mare’s symbol. And the colour isn’t black—it’s a deep purple, the colour of dusk.”
Purple. Alena’s mind reeled. Like the Rebel Queen’s lavender Mark.
Nik shook his head. “Anyway, it’s just a theory. One we won’t be able to confirm until we find Kat again.”
He stoked the fire while Alena pondered his words. If Katell was Marked by the White Mare, then why were the Rasennans convinced she was Laran’s Chosen?
Before she could ask, Danaos emerged from between the tents, his face drawn and pale. “Mind if I join you?”
Without waiting for an answer, he sank onto a weathered log and scrubbed a hand over his face.
Nik eyed him with a smirk. “You look like shit, cousin.”
Danaos gave a rough snort. “Try burning through enough magic to ferry men across the Empire three times a day for five straight days,” he growled, his voice scraped raw. “See how pretty you look after that.”
“Not sleeping well?” Nik prodded, serving him a bowl of food.
