The truth settles in my bones, a revelation so simple—soobvious—and yet, it shatters everything. It all finally makes sense.
I was born from the blood I vowed to destroy.
The battlefield is quiet now. The blood has dried, the ashes settled. What remains is only what has been lost. And what has been won.
I stand before them, the warriors who fought, the spirits who watched, the land thatchose me. Vólkins. Orcs. Nýmphí. The very essence of Ávera. This is the moment that will shape the future.Ourfuture.
With an inhale, I calm the storm inside me, then lift my voice so all may hear. So that every unseen creature will know who will shape this world.
“We have lost. We have bled. We have suffered. But weare still here.”
The wind carries my words, the spirits whisper their approval, their presence felt in the rustling of leaves, in the gentle pulse of the glowing blue roses that now bloom across the battlefield.
“The tsar sought to break us. To burn us. To erase us from this world. But look around you.” Spreading my arms, I motion to the warriors standing, to the land reborn beneath us. “He has failed.”
I lock eyes with each of them—the vólkins, the nýmphí, the orcs who knelt before me but now stand as brothers.
“For centuries, we have been hunted. We have been calledmonsters.” My voice hardens, the fire burning deep in my chest. “And yet, it wastheywho were the true monsters. The ones who ravaged our lands. The ones who took our homes. The ones who sought to turn us into nothing but whispers of the past.”
A growl rumbles through the gathered warriors. Fists clench. Claws flex. Fangs gleam in the moonlight. Good.
“But we are not whispers.” My crystalsglow, my power pulses through the air. “We are the storm that will carve a new world. No longer will we kneel. No longer will we hide. No longer will we let the tsar dictate our fate. From this day forward, westand as one—orc, vólkin, nýmphá, and woman.” I place my bloodied palm against my torn gown over my heart. “We willbuild and rule. We will thrive. Not as the forgotten, but as the rightful heirs of this world.”
And then Theron steps closer as a few nýmphí move aside for him. His pale eyes burn, his body still covered in the remnants of battle. He holds something in his paws. A crown.
But not of gold.
A crown ofblue roses. Long, dark thorns stand tall around the circle. Theron lowers his head, presses his forehead to mine, and my soul sings. Feeling his touch and his crystals, makes me want to rise to the skies. He lifts the crown?.
And places it atop my head.
A hush falls. The warriors, the spirits, and the land hold their breath. Theron takes a step back, his voice reverent as he says, “Lidéren.”
My birthright.
And then,they kneel.All of them. Vólkins. Orcs. Nýmphí.
The landitselfbows to me. The ancient trees curve to me, the moon blesses my soul.
A wind rushes through Ávera, carrying the scent of roses and blood. Eyes closed, I feel the weight of the crown on my head, the weight of every life lost, every sacrifice made, and the world that awaits me to be claimed.
And I swear?, this is only the beginning.
“Noël Ársa, my husband,” Theron says, and the only thing I can do is smile.
EPILOGUE
Since the day the leaders rose from death, the land itself began to heal. Earthly souls and ethereal beings alike worked together, restoring the sacred groves, rebuilding the homes that had been reduced to ash. It would take time, perhaps months or even years, but no one ever said war was easy.
The soil, though it had been drenched in blood, began to flourish once more. Seeds of fruits and vegetables were planted for the women who had come back home to the sacred land, their hands no longer bound by men but free to shape the world anew. A new era had begun. And at the heart of it stood Noël Ársa.
They called her Noël the Bloodthorn.
It was a name said with pride, given not by tsars or councils, but by the women who had once suffered under the weight of men’s greed. To them, she was more than the Lidéren. She was their shield, their sword, and their justice. And so, Noël the Bloodthorn opened the Blue Rose Court.
The chamber of the court was carved from the heart of a living tree. The scent of sap and ash lingered in the air, like theblood that was shed and the rebirth that followed. Above, blue roses bloomed, lighting the faces of every man captured in battle—slaves and traitors—who were brought before her, and their fates were sealed beneath the glow of the blue roses.
Noël the Bloodthorn, in her crown of roses, sat upon a throne grown from thorned vines and obsidian stone. Her eyes, pale with the power of the ancients, rested on the kneeling vólkin at the base of the dais. His name was Orïon.
