A sudden flash of lightning revealed the dark cliff towering over the churning Rodanos. At its base, a Rasennan officer stepped into view—pale blonde hair, fitted breastplate, red cloak: a legate. Black shadows writhed around her as she pressed a hand to the rock, forcing an opening. From the darkness, soldiers poured in a torrent, dozens upon dozens, faceless and armed.
But the figure above froze Alena’s blood.
High on a ledge, a man stood wreathed in lightning—tall, broad-shouldered, bare chest and arms alive with pulsing veins of white-hot energy. For a moment, he resembled Volcos—until his eyes blazed with stormfire and he drew a fork of lightning straight from his chest.
Taranis.
Awe and terror clashed inside her. Relief of discovering the Western god fighting against the Rasennans was eclipsed an instant later by dread.
He was going to strike, and they were too close.
“Watch out!” she screamed.
Leukos reacted instantly, slamming his palms to the ground. A curved wall of ice erupted before them—just as the bolt struck.
The world cracked open.
Lightning slammed into the Rasennan soldiers below and burst in a deafening, blinding shockwave. It danced across Leukos’ shield, sizzling and snapping before dissipating into steam. Soldiers screamed. Some were flung aside, others crumpled behind shattered shields.
The blonde legate’s face twisted in horror. Then she vanished, stepping backwards into the stone, swallowed whole by shadow.
Alena spun towards the ledge, but Taranis was gone.
Nik darted into view, having avoided the strike, though his arms were cut, and blood dripped down his shield arm. His wheezing breath told her what the wounds confirmed: at least one rib was broken from when the Makhai had thrown him.
“Nik, we need to bandage?—”
“There’s no time,” he cut in, raising his sword. “She was right behind—” He broke off, shield snapping up and shoving Alena back a step.
Fire shrieked across the trail, a writhing torrent of heat and light, smashing against Leukos’ ice wall. It didn’t crack—it evaporated, hissing away in a heartbeat.
“Move!” Leukos bellowed, staggering upright and gripping Alena’s arm.
Katell emerged from the steam, her black stare fixed on Alena with silent purpose.
Alena bolted up the trail. Rain poured in sheets, turning the path into treacherous sludge. Apollo and Otxoa sprinted ahead, coats plastered by the storm, glancing back every so often to check on her.
In the distance, the fox reappeared, its red coat a beacon in the storm. It padded through the ancient ring of stones and vanished.
Massive monoliths loomed against a lightning-cracked sky, and Alena’s pace faltered.
That was it. Beyond that circle, the Huntress’ Gift would leave her. No wolves. No power. Whatever hold the Rasennans had on Katell would vanish with it.
Apollo and Otxoa lingered at the edge of the stones, and her chest tightened. She couldn’t take them with her.
“Go!” she shouted, voice raw.
The wolves hesitated, ears flicking, muscles taut.
“Go! Save yourselves!”
Apollo whined low, but they obeyed, slipping into the underbrush—away from the trail, the Rasennan blades, and the danger clawing at their heels.
Nik reached the circle first, darting between the tallest stones. His Gift vanished, and he stumbled.
Leukos slowed beside her, unsheathing his sword. Even through smoke and rain, his unwavering determination anchored her.
He stepped closer, rain streaking down his raven-black hair. In that moment, he looked every bit the tragic hero—a man on the brink of something final.
