Once, he was one of their strongest. A vólkin of honor and strength. But in his pride, he had broken that trust.
“You returned with Gregor to the tsar’s men,” Noël said, voice echoing through the chamber like wind through a field of corpses. “Not as a spy or savior, but as a warrior who thought himself the claw that could end a war alone.”
Orïon did not lift his gaze. His broad shoulders rose and fell with the weight of what he’d done.
“Your recklessness cost us dearly,” she continued. “You thought yourself clever. You were not. You thought yourself righteous. You were not. You brought fire to our land and believed it was light.”
A hush fell. The gathered vólkins, nýmphí, and orcs watched in stillness, their judgment already spoken in the lines of their faces.
Noël stood.
“There are too few of our kind left to bury one more out of vengeance,” she said. “But exile is not mercy. It is the slow death of belonging.”
She descended the steps, her bare feet silent on the moss-lined floor.
“You will never set paw in Ávera again,” she declared, lifting her hand. “You are unbound. Stripped of all honor. Your name will be remembered. Not as a traitor, but as a caution.”
Vines slithered across the floor, circling Orïon. They did not strike. They did not bind. They merely glowed, and with them, the bond between him and the land dissolved.
Orïon did not beg. His silence was louder than any plea.
When he rose, his eyes met Noël’s only once. There was no hatred there. He understood.
And then, he turned.
The court watched as he walked out. Past the vines, past the roots, past the arms that would never open for him again.
Banished.
The Blue Rose Court was silent once more.
Since the day the leaders rose, the vólkins who survived healed. Their wounds faded, and their pups ran through the land once more, their laughter ringing through the sacred groves. The women who had once been trapped in distant villages found their way to Ávera, adapted to its laws, its freedom, and its peace. And in time, more mates were bonded. More bellies swelled.
The land began to thrive.
And yet, Noël Ársa still could not walk among them as freely as the others. The women of Ávera had embraced their femininity, their nature, their right to be unshackled by shame. Many of them moved bare and untamed, at peace in their own skin. But Noël, Noël the Bloodthorn, was not ready for that freedom. Perhaps one day.
From time to time, Theron found his mate leaning against a baby’s crib, a blue rose carved into its wood. She tugged the fur blanket tighter, tucking in invisible limbs, as though protecting a dream. Sometimes she added a white feather to the soft pile, gifts gathered during their walks through the reborn groves.
They would curl into each other, knowing the time had not yet come. Finding the remaining four and destroying the tsar was the priority.
Still, with a pained heart, Noël the Bloodthorn began teaching women the once-forbidden knowledge of combat. Naïa taught them to read, Essin to write, Mina spoke of nature, and Elder Aïna guided them in spirit.
And through it all, Noël the Bloodthorn had one thing in mind.
Women don’t want equality. They want revenge.
