As the night deepens, we return to Ávera, where homes are grown from the earth itself. My own stands in the middle of the village, shaped from the ancient trees, their roots and branches twisted together to form walls and archways. The living bark hums with a pulse as it breathes with the forest. I walk in, and it’s too quiet.
I made this place with her in mind. Every curve of wood, every vine hanging from the ceiling was grown for the day my mate will arrive. The nest in the center of the room, lined with furs from beasts I’ve hunted, lies empty, too large for just me. For centuries, I’ve waited, each night spent alone, knowing the space beside me is meant for her.
But century after century, she hasn’t come. The thought of finding my mate keeps me going, but one thought bothers me as the years stretch on.Humans must have changed over the centuries.Their connection to the spiritual has faded, and they’ve lost the bond we vólkins honor. I wonder if my mate will even understand what it means, whatwemean.
The thought of her not recognizing me, of her not feeling the bond as I will... is torturous.
Humans no longer live as long as we do. We were taught that over thousands of years, humans have died earlier and earlier, a sign of their lost connection to the world.
What if my mate has already died? What if she hasn’t even been born yet? I cannot think of it. The goddesses know what they’re doing.
I look through the open door. The fires outside burn low, lighting the paths. The village is silent, younglings long asleep in their nests. But even this peace can’t calm the unease in my soul.Sleep won’t come, it never does on nights like this. My home, though grown for two, feels emptier every night.
There’s no purpose in staying in, so I make my way toward the sacred glade, where the goddesses have spoken before. The path is familiar. My paws know every root and herb.
I kneel before the ancient stone at the heart of the glade and bow my head. “Great goddesses,” I whisper, “I seek your guidance. The dreams you’ve sent are powerful, but I need to understand. Please, show me the way.”
A faint sound pulls my attention upward. Through the gaps in the trees, I see a white dove flying through the night sky. Its wings spread wide, catching the moonlight as it circles above me, glowing against the darkness.
My chest tightens as I watch the bird dip lower. Something falls from its talons. A single blue petal floats through the air.
When the petal lands on my shoulder, so light, it feels too delicate for someone like me. I stare at it, my clawed fingers hovering just above, as if touching it might make it disappear. Could it be...?
Since the barrier appeared, signs from the goddesses are not common. But this is unmistakable. The petal’s deep blue hue stands out against the dark fur covering my shoulder, and a shiver runs through me.
I glance up, catching the glint of the white dove soaring above.
My gaze jerks as Kaël and Zephyr approach, their eyes wide as they take in the scene.
“Theron,” Kaël breathes, “is that . . . ?”
I nod, feeling the soft petal beneath the pads of my fingers.
This is it.
“Gather the others,” I say, my voice firm. “We leave now.”
The day the prophecy was spoken, blue rose petals fell from the sky above.
5
ROOTS OF GRIEF, SEEDS OF STRENGTH
“A warrior’s grief is not a burden. It is the forge that tempers her steel. Let sorrow carve you, but never break you.”
—Láda Veléša, Goddess of Leadership and War
Noël
Holding my skirts with both hands, I run through the forest. The wind howls through the trees, like whistles that taunt me with every step. My heart pounds in my chest, the rhythm matching the rapid snaps of twigs beneath my boots as if the forest is chasing me. Every sharp inhale feels like a sword scraping against my throat, which burns with each desperate gasp for air.
The darkness is thick and murky, and though moonlight slips through the branches, it does little to ease my fear. My fingers graze the rough bark of a tree as I stumble forward. The brush of the coarse surface over my skin reminds me that I’m not safe yet.
I have no idea where I am, only that I have to keep moving, put as much distance as possible between myself and the carriage that had become my prison. I don’t know if Arnoldstopped to check on me or not. Maybe he’s already running in my direction. I still can’t believe he drugged me. But it’s not only Arnold I’m running from.
Vólkins. Every shadow in the forest seems to move, every rustle of leaves makes my heart race faster.
I’m out here now, near their territory. Alone. And so far away from home. The thought of them finding me—of claws ripping through my skin, of fangs sinking into my flesh—sends a chill down my spine and a burst of speed to my legs, even as they ache with exhaustion and my head spins.
