“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Shut your mouth,” he snaps. “You’ve slept the whole day. Her Majesty is inviting you to the feast. Get dressed. I’ll wait here.”
His words are harsh, and now I’m not sure who scares me more—this one or Noël’s mate.
I nod and stand, stepping out of the bucket. My skin feels soggy, my fingers wrinkled from soaking for so long. I angle my body to the side, avoiding his gaze. “Could you... turn away?”
He growls low. Of course not.
With a sigh, I pull the tunic on and savor how good the clean fabric feels against my skin. Then my trousers, no longer covered in piss. As I lace up my boots, a single thought comes to mind:When will I get the chance to get this crystal out of my arse?
“I’m done,” I say, but the vólkin is already walking out of the cell.
Hesitant, I follow. One of the guards growls low, and I cower, then pick up my pace to stay close to the dark vólkin leading me.
It’s already evening. The sun has set, and the cool breeze sends a shiver over my damp skin. As we walk, I notice small vólkin children peeking out from the towering trees.
Ávera’s trees are like nothing I’ve ever seen. They’re massive, ancient, and alive. They look older than the world. Older than the statue of the first tsar that stands in Tárnov’s square.
The little vólkins scamper after us, curious but keeping their distance. The dark vólkin ahead doesn’t seem to care. He just walks like he owns the ground beneath him.
I was scared for my life before, so I didn’t get the chance to take a close look at these creatures. Like this one in front of me. His muscles ripple with every step, shifting under his black fur like living stone. How does someone get like that?
Even the most elite soldiers under the tsar’s command, the ones trained to perfection, could never look like this. Human bodies aren’t made for it. I swear I’m seeing muscles I didn’t even know existed.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice more vólkin females. They’re sitting under a tree, weaving flowers into the children’s fur. A calm and peaceful scene.
It hits me... The sheer amount of color here in Ávera.
I’ve been so overwhelmed by everything—the danger, the strangeness—that I didn’t grasp how vibrant this place is. The bark of the trees is a deeper, richer brown than any I’ve seen. The greenery is lush, every leaf full of life. The crystals on the male vólkins’ foreheads shine in different colors, each unique.
Glowing orbs, light blue, move lazily among the branches alongside birds.
It’s nothing like the human villages. Not the bleak, crumbling corners of Róstan. Not even the grandeur of Tárnov with its polished stone and orderly streets. Ávera is something else entirely.
In the distance, a massive stone, thick vines wrapped around it like a cocoon, comes into view. It stands tall, and all around it, blue roses. Real blue roses. I’ve heard the stories. That the tsar keeps a garden of them. That the blue rose is the essence of life, of nature. Maybe it’s true.
We walk for a long time. Ávera is massive.
There aren’t streets or proper roads, but there are clear paths. Wooden platforms form bridges in some areas, both on the forest floor and high above to connect the tree houses nestled in the canopy.
Everywhere I look, there are small figures carved into the trees. Each one has a different face and a unique shape. They’re oddly charming, almost... cute.
Lost in thought, I step wrong and stumble, hitting the ground hard on my hands and knees. Pain shoots through my bruises, and I grit my teeth against the sting.
The vólkin grunts. Before I can move, he grabs me by the arm and lifts me to my feet.
Wincing, I brush dirt from my palms. “You didn’t have to?—”
“You talk too much.” Without another word, he continues walking, leaving me scrambling to catch up. We barely spoke... I don’t talk too much. Maybe I feel more comfortable now. Maybe it’s because I feel safe. These vólkins listen to Noël.
“So, you’re Gregor,” a female vólkin says as she steps out of what looks like a room—or is it a house?
This isn’t the same female who brought the basin earlier. This one has piercing yellow eyes and an air of toughness that makes my stomach tighten. She doesn’t look like someone to mess with.
“I am,” I reply.
She looks me up and down, then smirks. “Just as Naïa said, you’re a disaster.”
