Page 237 of When Sisters Collide
Alena glanced down, the golden torc still warm in her hands. With a quiet breath, she lifted it to her neck and let the necklace slide against her skin. The metal was rigid but not unyielding, and it nestled at the base of her throat.
The White Mare straightened, her chin lifting with quiet satisfaction, a subtle shift that carried the weight of approval. “Wear it with pride, Omega. Volcos may be our people’s leader, but never forgetyouare the Rebel Queen’s daughter.”
Before Alena could respond, the world tilted and dissolved—the marshland melting away like a fading dream, the mist and reeds vanishing into nothingness. In the blink of an eye, she faced Volcos once more, drizzle pattering against her hair and shoulders.
A soft, radiant golden glow—her Omega magic—wrapped her in light. It clung to her skin like molten firelight and pooled at her feet, chasing away the chill of the stormy plain.
Threads of magic shimmered in her vision, permeating the air like strands of living silk. The familiar silver tendrils spiralled out from her chest, ethereal threads linking her to Apollo, Otxoa, and every wolf prowling the nearby wilds. They pulsed with a steady, rhythmic light, a constant reminder of the Huntress’ Gift.
But in that instant, something new wove itself into the web. A vibrant, luminous thread of gold twined among the silver—a thread that thrummed with warmth and certainty, linking her to Leukos, her soulmate. Its brilliance outshone the others, as if it had always been there, just waiting to be seen.
Beyond that, the purple threads of the White Mare’s magic coiled through the air, winding between the white horses and their riders. Luminous wisps of power all fed back to Volcos, like veins connecting to the same powerful heart.
But as the threads began to dim, their glow fading into the damp air, Alena’s gaze shifted to the warriors themselves. Forged by battle and hardship, the Westerners stood motionless by their horses, eyes wide with shock in the face of her magic, which crackled through the air like a storm about to break.
They looked at her as something more than flesh and blood.
Something meant to be followed. Or feared.
The Achaeans were the first to bow. Theo lowered his head, then Despoina, and even Danaos. Their submission rippled outwards, shattering whatever spell held the others. Alcaros dropped to one knee, head bent in reverence. One by one, Volcos’ men followed, sinking into the mud with hands pressed to their hearts. Even the redhead who had met her with scorn now knelt in silence.
Alena turned to look at them all, her pulse quickening.
They were kneeling. To her.
Her gaze landed on Leukos, still standing beside Leywani, arms folded over his chest and a smug grin plastered on his face, as if everything had unfolded exactly as he’d predicted. But then, after a heartbeat, his smile softened, and without a word, he lowered himself to one knee, pride gleaming in his eyes.
Only Volcos remained. His attention lingered on the torc at her throat, his features taut—disbelief warring with something deeper that bordered on awe.
“Is this answer enough for you?” Alena’s voice cut through the silence, stronger than she felt.
The golden sheen of light covering her dimmed, seeping into her until it vanished.
Volcos stared at her for a long moment, then threw his head back and laughed, the sound booming like thunder.
“Andrasta’s daughter, indeed!” he roared, clapping a meaty hand on her shoulder with a force that nearly toppled her. “Come. Let’s get out of this damned rain and feast!”
A relieved smile tugged at her lips. “Then lead the way.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
ALENA
The village wasn’t nearly as bleak once they passed through the gates, though the relentless rain still drummed against the rooftops. The thatched huts, far from the dilapidated structures they’d expected, were pristine—warm light spilling from their windows, the scent of hearth fires mingling with damp earth.
A prickle of magic danced along Alena’s skin, a faint hum at the edge of her senses. Then it hit her—the village’s dreary, unwelcoming exterior had been nothing but an illusion. A clever trick of the Westerners.
As they ventured deeper, doors creaked open, revealing curious villagers peering out, their gazes following the procession of Volcos’ men and the Achaeans.
Alena was glad she’d left Apollo and Otxoa to roam the forest for the night. The sight of two enormous wolves trailing beside her would’ve sent the already wary villagers into a panic.
“What is this place?” she asked Volcos.
“We’re in the heart of the Falcons Tribe’s territory, in one of the few villages with a portal. Most villages near the border lieabandoned, their people retreating to the hillforts for protection. But here they remain safe—for now.”
He lifted a hand in greeting to a group of older boys who hurried forward to take their horses.
Amid the commotion, someone brushed against Alena’s shoulder—Leukos.
