Borodýn will fall. And the world will remember.
This is the rage of centuries, of mothers slaughtered, of daughters caged, of a prophecy forced into silence.
I leap from Theron’s back to land in a crouch before pushing off into a sprint. Around me, the vólkins flood the village, their massive bodies tear through the narrow streets, storm buildings, and break down doors. Screams erupt from all sides—panicked cries from men, desperate wails from women. The clang of bells smashing together rings through the village, their alarm system echoing above the chaos.
My heart pounds. My pulse roars in my ears. I run.
The child. That is all that matters.
Theron keeps pace beside me. A man rushes toward us, swinging a rusted sword. Mistake. Theron grabs him mid-stride and hurls him into the side of a building with a sickening crunch. Another lunges at me, but I don’t slow. With a flick of my wrist, my blade slices clean through his thigh. He collapses to the dirt with a scream. I don’t spare him a glance. The scent of blood already thickens the air, along with sweat, smoke, and fear.
People scatter, some to flee, others foolish enough to fight. It doesn’t matter. I see it from afar. The village square. The altar. The child bride.
The old man grabs the girl and runs. Rage blinds me. My entire body burns with it. I push forward, faster than I ever have before. My fingers tighten around the hilt of my sword as I near him. He won’t get away.
With a single motion, I drive my blade through his skull. His body goes limp, he collapses, and he drags the girl down withhim. Blood spills over her small wedding dress, soaking her in his filth. My heart slams against my ribs. My breaths come fast and sharp.My first kill.
Staring at the corpse before her, the girl cringes. Then, as the shock wears off, she bursts into tears. Of course she’s terrified. She just witnessed death.
I crouch, lowering my sword, and force softness into my voice. “What’s your name, little one?”
Her wide, glossy eyes go wooden.
I reach out carefully to wipe a tear from her cheek. “I came here to save you,” I whisper. “I am Noël, and the wolves here have come to free all the girls.”
She blinks, her tiny shoulders trembling as she processes my words. “Maya,” she murmurs. “I’m Maya.”
“You’re very brave, Maya.” With a smile, I open my arms, offering her a choice. A way out.
She hesitates, then, slowly, she pushes her feet forward. She leans into me, letting me gather her in my arms. I turn to Theron. He stands tall, chains in his massive paws, a few dozen men already shackled at their ankles and wrists. Their terrified gazes remind me of Gregor, back when he first arrived. But this time, I have no mercy left to give.
It takes only a few hours to crush those who dared to fight and bind the ones who surrendered. The nýmphí move around the village gathering the women and children, their soft whispers of comfort barely audible over the wreckage. The warriors sweep through the village, checking every abandoned space, so no one can hide from their fate. A few soldiers arrived with weaponsdrawn. They were dead within seconds. I have lost count of how many lives I’ve taken today.
And I regret nothing.
The shaking women clutch their children, fear still raw in their eyes. But soon, they will leave this place. Soon, they will step beyond these walls and enter Ávera, where they will be free.
As for the men, the guilty, they stand in ten endless lines, shackled and silent, their expressions etched with fear or empty resignation. Each will face judgment before they meet their end. Because this is justice. And this is how it should be.
I stride into the heart of the chaos. On my right, women, elders, and children stand in clusters, their faces streaked with tears, their bodies trembling. Some still sob, clinging to each other, while others have begun to calm, soothed by the nýmphí assuring them that everything will be alright. On my left, the rows of chained men stand in silence. But not all of them have learned their place. Some steal glances at the bare nýmphí, their gazes dark with the same hunger that once ruled this village.
Disgust curls in my stomach.
My eyes catch Ívar’s, who stands near the closest line of prisoners. Then, I turn my attention to the one whose leering gaze lingers the longest.
Ívar follows my stare. He nods once, then moves. With force, he grabs the man’s head and slams it down. “Eyes on the ground,” he growls.
The other men flinch. One by one, their gazes drop to their shackled feet. Where they belong.
The moment I spot Theron, returning with the last of the captured men, I raise my chin.
He throws them down near the farthest row, and they hit the dirt with muffled grunts. Two warriors step forward, their paws glowing as they form the energy shackles that bind the new prisoners in place. Then, Theron walks to me, andour gazes lock. His fierce, battle-hardened expression softens immediately. And just like that, my soul feels light, as if a feather floats through my chest. I tear my eyes away. We can’t. Not now.
I turn back to the crowd. “Listen closely to what I’m about to say.” Silence falls. The warriors, the women, the children, the prisoners, all turn to me. I fix my gaze on the shackled men. “Some of you are wondering what happens now.” Theron moves behind me, like a silent wall of power. “From today onward, you are my prisoners. My slaves. From today, you begin counting your days. Those who are guilty will die.”
I drive my sword into the ground, and the blade sinks into the earth before a pulse of energy ripples outward. From the soil, a row of blue roses bursts forth to bloom in a perfect circle around the terrified women. Gasps echo through the crowd. Some of the children laugh in delight, reaching out to touch the glowing petals and brush their small hands against the roses.
At least . . . I’ve done this much.
