Laran resumed his seat at the table and plucked an apple. “The bathhouse is at the end of the hall.” His tone was flat—a dismissal, if ever there was one.
He took a large bite, thecrunchreverberating in the silence, then sank back in his seat, his posture leaving no doubt the conversation was over.
Katell narrowed her eyes but said nothing. A bath sounded better than another round of snark, anyway. She was filthy, sore, and too tired to spar with a god’s ego.
“Fine,” she said, turning towards the hall. “I’ll go wash.”
Laran didn’t glance up. He just bit into the apple again with exaggerated indifference. “You do that.”
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. “TheGrey-Eyed Maiden is the goddess of wisdom and warfare, and her Gift is telling me this position isnotto 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.
