Page 258 of When Sisters Collide
Leukos didn’t lift his head. “Did you ask the wolves?”
“Yes,” she replied, threading her fingers through his dark hair. “Apollo’s with Kaixo. They’re playing with the other village children. Damona and Leywani are with them.”
“Then all is well.”
“But—”
“They know where we are.” He looked up, that slow, wicked grin tugging at his mouth. “If they need us, love, they’ll come.”
Before she could summon another protest, his mouth claimed hers—not soft, not patient, but hungry. Her words dissolved, replaced by a gasp that slipped into a moan. Heat unfurled, and she surrendered, tumbling headlong into the man who had bound his soul to hers, into the pull that would always undo her.
No one camefor them until dawn bled across the sky. A sharp knock shattered the stillness, and when the door swung open, Theo stood there, jaw tight. “Volcos has summoned a war meeting. There’s news.”
Alena’s heart sank, the words cutting through the warmth that had wrapped around her and Leukos like a dream.
Their short, blissful reprieve was over. War had found them again.
She dressed without a word, her fingers stiff. Beside her, Leukos moved with quiet efficiency, pausing only once—to gather her against him and press a kiss to her hair. No words, just the steady strength of him anchoring her before they stepped back into the world.
Outside, the sun was stronger than the day before, its heat thick in the air, announcing the start of summer. But Alena’sfocus was not on the heat. It was on the barn, swollen with Westerners—three times as many as the last meeting.
The wide doors stood open, spilling noise and movement into the yard. Inside, the low thrum of conversation echoed beneath the timber rafters. Familiar faces turned to her with nods and brief smiles, but the newcomers outnumbered them.
Warriors from various Western tribes filled the space with foreign voices and unfamiliar garb. A towering man stood near the back, broad-shouldered and silent, draped in heavy furs, spiral Marks winding across his bare arms. Beside him, two women leaned close in conversation, clad in worn riding leathers, bronze torcs glinting at their throats.
Alena couldn’t place their tribes, but these were not idle guests. All the tribes had pledged allegiance to Volcos, and they’d come for war.
At last, Volcos raised a hand, and the scattered conversations fell silent. The warriors filed into the barn, boots thudding against packed earth as they gathered around the central table. Parchment maps covered it, filled with battle lines and terrain hastily drawn in charcoal.
“Let’s not waste time with introductions,” Volcos began, his voice grim. “I’ll get straight to it. The Rasennans were spotted early this morning, moving towards the shores of the Rodanos River—here.” He jabbed a finger at the map. “The First Legion is among them. So is Dalmatius the Undefeated with his Sixth Legion, and the Fourth. We’ve never faced the Fourth before, but word is they’ve been fighting the Ice Kingdoms for years. Hardened bastards.”
He glanced around the table, letting the weight of his words settle. “The Third Legion, still stationed at the Green Mountains’ hillfort, is descending now to join them. We plan to intercept before that happens.”
Alcaros stepped forward, his tone cool and precise. “The Fire Wielders and Tribe of the Ancients will strike first. They’ll stage an ambush in the long forest stretch the Rasennans must cross—harass their flanks, thin their numbers, and retreat before they’re overwhelmed. Then they’ll regroup with us for the main assault.”
“When will the legions reach the river?” Tanco asked from the crowd.
“No more than four days,” Alcaros replied.
Four days.
Alena’s stomach tightened. That wasn’t much time—not to rally all the scattered warriors, not to march to the Rodanos shores and prepare for the storm that was coming.
The fleeting peace she’d known with Leukos in the roundhouse dissolved like morning mist, and she missed it already.
Volcos’ voice cut through the heavy air. “We return to the Falcons’ hillfort immediately to ready our forces. Each chief will command their own warriors. Our goal is simple—push the Rasennans back from our shores. The river gods should handle the rest.”
Murmurs rippled through the barn. Alena caught the flicker of doubt in a few warriors’ eyes.
Next to Tanco, Vix folded her arms, every line of her body radiating tension. “If the Rasennans have chosen to break the treaty and march for the Rodanos,” she said, her voice cutting through the noise, “then they already know how to cross it.”
Alcaros leaned forward, his jaw tight. “They’ll use the Makhai. Laran has thousands throughout the Empire worshipping him, while the river gods draw their strength mostly from the tribes who depend on their waters for fishing and trade. Against Laran’s power, his demons could overwhelm the river gods themselves.”
A hush fell over the room, broken by a few sharp gasps and uneasy murmurs.
The Makhai. The name alone sent ice through Alena’s veins.
Whispers surged around her—superstitions, stories of the Battle of Kendrisia, warnings that if the Rasennans unleashed the Makhai, this would be no ordinary battle.
