The forest is eerily still, as though even the leaves have forgotten how to move. There is no wind, no rustling of branches, only the overwhelming scent of blood and decayhanging in the air. We move through the trees as silent as shadows. I’m not sure I’m ready to see what lies ahead.
My legs give out beneath me as an unbearable weight crashes into my chest, and though my eyes refuse to blink, refuse to look away, my mind rejects what it sees. As if denying its existence could somehow rewrite fate, could somehow undo the carnage that spills across Ávera like a wound that will never heal. No, this is not real. It cannot be real.
And yet, bodies. So many bodies. Some are twisted, their shapes unrecognizable, grotesque, monstrous, just as the warriors warned. And though I have never seen these creatures before, I know, deep within my bones, that they were never meant to exist, that they are abominations of dark magic, things that should have never been given breath, never been given life.
But others . . . Others are ours. Vólkins.
Who are the green-skinned warriors? Doesn’t matter now. The monsters’ blood has stained the sacred earth of Ávera.
And those who remain standing, they are gathered in a circle, their faces hollow, their bodies still, their hands placing flowers over the dead. Flowers.
Ávera’s warriors, Her Majesty’s warriors, kneeling by the bodies of the fallen, offering beauty where only devastation remains, offering the final kindness they can give to those who will never rise again. I cannot breathe.
I feel my own heartbeat, a thunderous drum in my chest that threatens to shatter me from the inside out, and my gaze flickers frantically, searching, searching, desperate for something, someone, anything to ground me, anything to tell me this is not real, that this is a trick of my mind, a nightmare from which I will wake.
Elder Aïna’s steps do not falter, though even she cannot hide the way her ears are lowered, the way her shoulders tremble asshe walks toward the gathered warriors, toward the unmoving bodies, toward the sight I cannot bear to see.
But I follow her. Because I have to. Because I need to. Because if I do not, then I will stand here forever, paralyzed, drowning in my own denial.
Then I see them. Noël and Theron.
The air is ripped from my lungs in a strangled cry as I stumble forward, my steps uneven, my paws unsteady beneath me, my vision blurring with a flood of tears that refuse to fall because falling tears would mean acceptance. Their bodies lie together, side by side, unmoving. Too still. Too still.
Her Majesty—our leader, the soul of this rebellion, the one who led us out of the dark and into the light—she lies motionless, her crystals now dull and broken, a gaping wound where an arrow has lodged itself in her forehead and pierced the very essence of her power.Just like four hundred years ago.
And Theron—her mate, her guardian, her heart—is beside her, still and silent, his paw resting over her stomach, as if even in death he refuses to let her go, refuses to leave her, refuses to let the world take her from him. As if his final act was to hold on to her one last time.
A raw, broken sound wrenches itself from my throat, something that is neither scream nor sob but a soul-deep agony that has no name, only pain.
Naïa and Essin collapse, their bodies folding over them both, as if by shielding them, they can somehow protect them, somehow bring them back.
I turn blindly, blindly, reaching for Elder Aïna, pressing my face into her fur, clutching her as if she is the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
“Why?” The word is small, weak, nothing more than a breath. “Why—why—why?”
Elder Aïna bows her head and says nothing, because there are no answers. Because this is real.
Because the woman who led us all, who stood against the tsar and defied the laws of this world, who promised us a future, a world free of suffering, a world where we could be more than prisoners??—
She is gone.
Theron, who stood by her side, who fought for her, who lived and breathed only for her, who swore to protect her with every last ounce of his strength, who would have torn the world apart for her??—
He is gone too.
My tears dampen the fur on my face, blurring my vision, washing away the image before me, but no amount of tears can erase this, no amount of grief can bring them back, no amount of denial can change the truth that is right in front of me. And so I wail.
The nýmphí arrive with crystals glowing with healing energy, the leaf spirits gather around Noël’s and Theron’s lifeless bodies, but nothing is enough. Nothing can undo what has been done.
“We will remember them,” a rumbling voice says, and I lift my gaze to find one of the green-skinned warriors standing tall, his expression grim, his golden jewelry catching the moonlight. “Even though we did not know them for long, we saw what a true leader is.”
Another green human speaks, his hands clenched into fists. “Her Majesty welcomed us,” he says. “And we will honor her. Honor them both.”
The warriors, both vólkin and green humans, rise as one. But then??—
A growl rips through the silence. Low and familiar.
I snap my head to the right, my heart leaping into my throat as I stare toward the edge of Ávera. Orïon.
