Before anyone else could respond, Alcaros spoke, his tone calm but resolute. “We have to trust the goddess. If she mentioned the stones, then that’s our best chance.”
Volcos considered his words. “Then we plan for it,” he said. “Alena’s mission is to draw Katell to the standing stones. The rest of us will hold the river.”
Alena dipped her chin in a curt nod, standing tall beneath the weight of the Westerners’ collective gaze.
A swell of admiration rose in Leukos’ chest—not just because she was his soulmate, but because of who she was now.
Brave. Fierce. Unshakeable.
Everything she was meant to be.
“I’ll be with her,” he said, locking eyes with her down the table.
A faint blush touched her cheeks, and she bit her lip, caught off guard.
And gods, the sight nearly undid him.
For a heartbeat, nothing else existed but the pull of her—the temptation to draw her close and capture that fleeting smile with his lips.
“Good,” Volcos said, snapping him back to the moment like a splash of cold water.
“And the rest of us?” Tanco asked, arms folded.
Above, sunlight broke through the scattered clouds, spilling across the table once more.
Volcos swept a glance around the crowded barn. “Once the Makhai are dealt with, we remind the Rasennan dogs what it costs to cross the tribes.”
A roar of approval rose like thunder, fists pounding the table, boots stomping the floor. The plan was a gamble; the enemy marched with legions and demons at their back.
But for the first time, Leukos felt something sharper than dread stirring in the air.
Hope.
“You look just like him,”Lecne said, his voice hoarse from days of hunger and exhaustion.
Theo and Nik, sitting at the table, glanced at Leukos, who didn’t respond. He stood by the window of the cramped hut, arms crossed, his attention fixed on the gaunt Tarquinian guard slouched over a bowl of soup. Steam curled up as Lecne shovelled another spoonful into his mouth, then tore off a chunk of bread in haste. His bruises were starting to fade, but the damage went deeper—days of starvation and sleepless nights had hollowed him out.
Still, he’d agreed to answer questions aboutVelthur—the man Lecne had served under, the man Leukos knew as Galen.
His brother.
Gone for over ten years. Taken to Kisra as a hostage. Leukos had pictured him dead more times than he could count—starved, broken, executed, forgotten. He’d imagined his brother lost in a dozen different ways.
What he’d never imagined was this.
Galen, alive and thriving in enemy territory. Galen, captain of the Tarquinian Guard. Galen, kneeling at the feet of Emperor Caius Tarquinius—the very man responsible for Megara’s fall.
It made no sense.
His brother… the gentle one. The one who used to pull Leukos aside to calm his angry outbursts, who soothed his pain and spoke of duty and honour as if they were sacred law in Megara.
Leukos’ jaw clenched.
There had to be an explanation. Magic. Lies. Mind games. Tarquinius was a master of manipulation—he’d corrupted stronger men with less effort.
No. Galen hadn’t betrayed them.
Hecouldn’thave.
