62
THE HARVEST OF BROKEN SOULS
“I wove Ávera from the breath of the earth and the tear of the first bloom. It is the cradle of the six, the garden where balance shall rise again, or fall forever.”
—Éva, Mother of All
Noël
Ávera has fallen.
We have run for so long since that night with the orcs. Too long. And now, it might be too late. We were too far. We were too foolish.Iwas too foolish. How could I believe Gregor?
The night air stings my lungs as we tear through the forest. Vólkins, nýmphí, orcs, we all run. A single force racing toward the land I swore to protect. But I scent it before I see it. Blood. Thick and pungent, rotting and fresh, coating the air like a death shroud. And beneath it—fire. Ash and decay. Ávera is burning.
The trees blur around me as we push harder, faster. My knuckles turn white around the hilt of my sword as I clutchTheron’s fur. My body moves in sync with his strides. A sliver of hope claws at my chest, that maybe we aren’t too late. But the stench of death grows heavier.
The orcs run beside us, their eyes dark. They called me their creator, their mother—the one who will lead them. And now, they follow me to war. To the biggest war humankind has ever seen.
We near Ávera’s borders, and the air claws at my throat. It’s rotten. The odor of death thickens. What could have caused such a horrible stench? Unless... Unless everyone has been dead since we left. A shudder racks my body. I should have been smarter. I should have been more careful.
I shouldnotbe the Lidéren.
Why did I ever believe this was something I could handle? Why did I ever think I was enough? The goddesses chose wrong. I have had everything handed to me—a loving mother, a military career, a prophecy, a mate, an army of orcs willing to follow me without question. All of it, given to me so easily. And I don’t deserve any of it. This is why I will give my life for my failures. But.
If I die, Theron dies too. A violent sob chokes me. How can I end myself when his life is bound to mine? He doesn’t deserve this.
Tears well in my eyes. I grit my teeth. The crystals on my forehead, a crown I don’t deserve to wear, burn against my skin. I sent warriors to their deaths. Like some god I am not. I clench my fists into Theron’s fur until my knuckles go numb.
Zephyr. Kaël. Aeson.
I’m so sorry.
Mother. You were wrong. I’m not strong. Tears slip free, trailing cold down my burning face.
The moment we reach the tree line, my stomach twists into knots, a deep, instinctual dread settles in my bones before my mind can fully process what I’m seeing.
This is not Ávera.
Not the Ávera I left behind, where the towering trees cradled glowing lanterns like fireflies trapped in an eternal dance of light. Not the Ávera where the rivers ran clear and reflected the sky in shades of sapphire, nor the Ávera where the wind carried the scent of fresh blooms and damp earth, where life pulsed beneath every root and leaf.
No. What stands before me is a massacre, a nightmare made real. The streams, once crystalline and pure, now run black, thick with filth and gore. The air is filled with the acrid tang of smoke and the metallic scent of blood. It coats my tongue even as I try to swallow down my nausea. The low, guttural moans that drift through the burning village blend with the crackling hiss of fire.
My entire body locks in place, every muscle tensing as a new horror unveils itself before me.
They are not human.
They move in the distance, long-limbed, grotesque figures, their bodies twisted into something barely recognizable, as if humanity was stretched too thin and left to wither in unnatural agony. Their bodies twitch as they move, jerky and uncoordinated, yet disturbingly fast when they shift their attention. Their limbs are wrong, too elongated, bending at impossible angles, their fingers tipped with jagged nails that seem to scrape against the very air around them. Their skin hangs in unnatural folds, some parts stretched too tight over sharp bones, others sagging as if melting, as though they are held together by forces beyond nature.
And their faces. Goddesses above, their faces.
Their mouths are too wide, split at the corners, jagged teeth barely concealed behind cracked lips. Their eyes are hollow, empty voids where life should be, black pits of nothingness that swallow whatever light dares to reach them. They stare, but they do not see in the way living things do. There is no soul behind those eyes.
A low, rolling growl rumbles from Theron’s chest, his claws sliding free, his fur standing on end as he plants himself at my side like a wall of muscle and steel. But even he—my strongest, fiercest mate—does not lunge forward.
The tsar has played with dark magic, and this is what he has created. A perversion of nature. A mockery of humankind.
Some of these creatures move aimlessly, wandering through the burning remains of Ávera like lost shadows, their heads twitching erratically as if listening to something only they can hear. Others move with their rotting fingers curled around burning torches, the flames licking at their clawed hands with no reaction, no recognition of their own destruction.
