The blue roses bloom. The land itself answers her.
And beside her, Theron moves.
64
THE BLUE ROSE CROWNED BY BLOOD AND FIRE
“The flower that blooms after death is the one that will never wither. Rise, Blue Rose. Let the earth remember your wrath.”
—Láda Veléša, Goddess of Leadership and War
Noël
Breathing feels foreign. As if the world has been reshaped in my absence. The land mourned me. I felt its roots wrap around my soul and pull me back, whispering that my task was unfinished. My crystals feel heavier. They thrum with every life lost, every drop of blood spilled in my name.
Death was quiet. A slow fade into the dark. But returning is like being thrust into the sun, seared back into existence by the cries of those who refused to let me go.
I was meant to die. I know that now. But the prophecy was never about my death—it was about what wouldrisefrom the ashes of defeat.
She who was marked for death shall not fall, but rise the flame reborn in ruin’s wake, forged not to perish, but to reign.
Ávera told me the last part of the prophecy.
Iam the Blue Rose, uprooted, but still I bloom.Iam the flame-born heir who shall weigh a soul beneath the pyre’s glow.
I am Noël Ársa, blood of the blue rose. No longer its daughter, but the bloom itself, crowned and sovereign.
Theron’s soul held on to mine, a thread of fire and fury, tethering me to the world of the living. Even in death, I was warm in his grasp.
If the tsar believes this war is over, he has yet to understand the storm building outside his stronghold. He tried to bury me, but he did not know I was a seed my mother planted. I have risen, and I am not the same. For every drop of our blood, I will make them bleedtenfold. I will destroy and I will take what belongs tome.
Ávera has chosen me. The goddesses watch over me. I will not fail.
I exhale and look to Theron as words slip from my lips. “Rise, my soul. Our journey has just begun.”
His chest rises. Barely, but it moves. His massive paws dig into the earth beneath him. Then, I turn around.
The nýmphí. The vólkins and the orcs. They are still. Silent. Staring at me as if I am a goddess. And Elder Aïna, her breath unsteady, her wide eyes locked onto mine.
A whisper of the land hums in my ears. A memory, a truth I did not know before death took me. I turn fully to her. “Ávera told me you are vólkar.” My voice echoes through the land. “And so is Theron now.”
Elder Aïna does not move. Does not speak.
Theron rises.
The earth crunches beneath his paws, the sound shivers across my skin. He is alive. Then, he opens his eyes. Those beautiful hazel eyes—once warm and gold—have turned pale. But he is still my Theron, my soul. We are alive.
The marks from our bonding ritual return, staining his fur as if they never left. A part of him now. Red circles and lines, the sacred symbols binding us. And there, over his heart, the mark I left on him. Mine.Forever. I turn my head.
The monsters crawl from the soil. They do not understand. So I lift my hand, calling the vines from beneath the earth. They obey my will and writhe toward me in a slow dance. A single vine coils into my palm, its thorns piercing my skin and pressing deep. My blood blooms against its dark edges as it drinks from me. With a twist of my wrist, I direct my hand toward the creatures. A single drop of my blood, and theyburn.
Blue fire erupts from their flesh and devours them whole. Their limbs flail, their bodies convulse, until they crumble into nothing. Silence falls.
Not a single monster remains.
Now, at last, I have the time to savor Gregor’s death. He trembles, drowning in terror, his wide eyes fixed on me. He knows. There is no more mercy. No more pleading. I never make the same mistake twice. He willdie.
The tsar’s men allow their cowardice to win out and abandon Orïon’s bound body to dart away into the darkness. I barely shift my gaze toward Theron before he’s moving—a blur—lunging after them like death itself. Faster than before.Stronger.But just as he reaches them??—
