Thra’kkor moves. The orc chieftain reaches out and grabs the nearest soldier by the head. The man screams, thrashing wildly, his feet kicking against the ground. Frantic prayers to his nonexistent gods spill from his lips. With a fast tear, his body rips free from his head. The lifeless corpse collapses to the dirt, the severed head still caught in Thra’kkor’s monstrous grip. Blood arcs through the air, splattering the horrified faces of the remaining men. For a moment, there is nothing. Then, screams.
“Silence!” I command, my voice slicing through the chaotic panic of the soldiers.
The orcs stand tall at once, their eyes fixed on me. Behind me, Theron and my warriors stiffen. I flick them a sharp glare. They freeze in place.
My boots sink into the soil as I move forward. My gaze sweeps over the orcs. My fingers tighten around my sword.
“We have come to join you, Your Majesty,” Thra’kkor declares when I stop in front of him. His deep voice is stoic, as if nothing happened.
My eyes narrow yet again.
He motions to the remaining messengers, the ones still trembling, still hoping for a miracle. Two orcs grab them and crack their skulls. Their heads are torn clean from their bodies. Blood spills in syrupy, steaming pools at their feet. “And we declined,” Thra’kkor finishes.
I don’t flinch. I’ve seen enough death to stomach it. “Why?”
Thra’kkor holds my gaze. “We were once human.”
A shiver prickles down my spine.
“Four hundred years ago, we were created through dark magic,” another orc says.
My blood runs cold. Dark magic. The goddesses used it to create the vólkin females. Four hundred years... The old tsar—the monster who burned vólkins’ and women’s bodies to create the barrier—he was the one who created them.
“Why would you join me?” I demand, my voice strong as I lift my chin to meet Thra’kkor’s piercing gaze.
“We were experiments,” Thra’kkor states. “Created to be the ultimate weapon against the vólkins.”
A cold shudder ripples through me.
“Most of us perished,” he continues. “The tsar twisted nature, testing and failing, again and again. Until he forged the perfect warriors.”
The wolves whine, their ears flat, tails tucked between their legs. They feel it too. The wrongness. The weight of what was done.
Thra’kkor lifts his massive green hand to his heart. “Our skin came from Mother Nature. Our brutal bodies were carved fromthe earth itself.” He exhales, lowering his eyes. “And our minds—our will—came from the blue rose.”
My heart beats so hard I feel it in my throat. I stumble back and crash into something solid. Theron.
He was behind me before I even realized it. He grips my shoulders, holding me still. Holding me together. “You came to fight for your mother,” Theron says.
Thra’kkor nods. Then, he bows. And then, they all bow.
A sea of massive warriors lowering their heads before me. “Noël Ársa,” Thra’kkor declares. “The Lidéren we have waited for has finally awakened.”
My throat tightens.
“It is our honor to fight for the true creator. The moment the messengers arrived, we knew our time had come. We began our journey from our land to Ávera. But—” He pauses, lifting his head. “We scented the blue rose earlier than expected. So we ran here. To you.”
The blue rose. The lush gardens of the tsar’s stronghold. The experiments. My mind spirals, a storm of fragmented pieces snapping into place. I turn to Theron, my breath shallow, my pulse pounding like war drums. Our eyes lock.
“So there was no ambush,” Theron says.
But my chest tightens. A sick feeling coils in my gut.Ávera.
The wolves—their snouts lifted, their bodies rigid—aren’t watching the orcs anymore. They’re looking toward Ávera. Something is wrong.
A single, breathless word escapes my lips. “No.”
The wolves knew all along.
