The ancient trees groan under the weight of something unseen, their massive branches creaking and trembling, knocking loose a storm of leaves that swirl through the darkened sky. The ground beneath us shakes hard enough to rattle my very bones. I don’t know where to look. Everything is moving.
It feels as though the goddesses have reached down to twist nature before my eyes. The earth rumbles again. And more creatures appear from the tree line.
Their grotesque bodies spill from the shadows, pouring into the clearing like a wave of nightmares. They do not stop. They run straight past the humans and Orïon, their soulless eyes locked on us. But the moment they breach the clearing—they scream.
One by one, they collapse.
Writhing.
Howling.
Dying.
Frozen, heart hammering, I watch as the battlefield descends into madness. And then, Elder Aïna turns to us. Her eyes are wide, as if even she did not expect this.
She didn’t . . . ?
The earth shudders furiously, deep cracks splintering through the ground, splitting the soil apart. I stagger and barely manage to catch myself before I fall. Did Elder Aïna do this?
I knew she was powerful. I knew she could bend the forces of nature to her will. But this?
Even Elder Aïna’s expression twists in shock, her pale eyes flickering as she watches the destruction unfold around us.
The nýmphí look just as lost. They quiver, their hands raised to shield the lifeless bodies of our leaders, their glowing eyes darting in every direction as if searching for something, an answer, a reason for the madness around us.
Thick, blackened vines explode from the cracked earth and twist into the sky like writhing serpents with jagged thorns so dark they seem to drink the moonlight. They spread through the battlefield, spiraling in all directions.
Ávera pulses.
The land hums with energy, the sacred blue roses shine brighter than the stars above. Their light is blinding, pulsing like a heartbeat, like a force awakened from slumber.
My fur stands on end. My fingers twitch, the raw energy in the air making my skin crawl.
I don’t know what’s happening. And then, a scream.
A scream that rips through the land, full of enough rage to shake the foundations of reality. The nýmphí collapse with their hands pressed against their ears, their bodies folded onto the bloodstained earth. My breath catches.
My entire world stops.
Because Her Majesty moves. Her body, once lifeless, once cold in the embrace of death, lurches upright. Her hand rises.
And with one motion, she yanks the arrow from her forehead.
A choked gasp bursts from my throat. My claws dig into the dirt.
This isn’t possible.
This isn’t possible.
The arrow falls from her hand, falls to the ground, and as it does, her eyes open.
They are not the eyes of the leader I once knew. They burn with blue fire. Flames swirl around her, licking at her skin, but they do not burn. They do not devour the grass beneath her feet. They do not touch the roses that bloom in her wake. They obey her. She rises—no, she ascends.
The air thickens, making it impossible to breathe. My throat constricts. The ground beneath her quakes.
“When the Blue Rose falls, Ávera will mourn. When Ávera mourns, I shall rise again.”
The vines pulse.
