Gideon sat shirtless on the edge of his absurdly massive stone bed, eyes locked on the scar that slashed across his lower belly. Deep. Twisted. Ugly. That thing had nearly gutted him—one inch higher and he'd be soup.
The bastard Sham that gave it to him? Yeah, that thing rewired something inside him.
He hadn't hunted since. Not animals. Not spirits. Not even people. Somewhere between blood loss and spiritual trauma, Gideon decided maybe, just maybe, he didn't wanna die a blood-slicked legend. Maybe he wanted to live long enough to turn into something else. Something worse. Something better. Something that wasn't just the Queen's big bad hunting dog. So, he betrayed Fien. Let's be honest—he never liked her power rise anyway.
A soft flutter—wings. One of the three naked Miteon girls in his bed flew over and perched behind him like a tattooed parrot. Her fingers traced his shoulder, slow, whisper-soft.
"What are you thinking about, my king?" she asked, voice dripping honey and sin.
He didn't respond. Just kept staring at the scar, like it held answers. His thoughts were elsewhere—bigger. Deeper. The kind of shit that made his blood thrum with a dangerous hope.
And that meant one thing, he was still in need of Deliah—the witch.
His brother, Dezo, had sent an army. Over a million Denefremims now marching with Fien. His army. That meant there was a shot—a real one—to finally challenge the capital. To flip the whole goddamn board.
Senedro wasn't the same beast it used to be. Hennekas had gone off-radar. Some whispered he was dead, others said he'd become something worse than alive. The last anyone saw of him was during a savage throwdown with the Night Rider. And then? Poof. Ghosted.
Now all that ruled was fear, fake peace, and rumors thicker than bear shit.
Dalab had changed too. Once just a pleasure city—half porn, half danger—it was now something else. Something more. Thanks to Gideon.
He dressed. Well, kind of. Slapped on some furs, a few metal cuffs, and walked out like the damn storm he was. Outside, the city buzzed with noise—shouts, clangs, chants. Soldiers of every kind. Dalab was the only city in Senedro where all species could live without being stabbed for what they were. Miteons, Denefremims, Ozeleans—even other creatures. They walked the same dirt. Fucked the same whores. Shared the same fire.
He stepped up to the ledge of the speaker's tower. The drums boomed. The streets quieted.
"My people!" he roared. The way his voice hit that space? Goosebumps.
"We were once a city of sin. Of shadows and whispers. A place people came to hide, to run, to fuck, to die. But now?" He paused.
"Now we are the heart of Senedro. Look around you! Look at what we've built!"
Cheers exploded like a storm.
"And today," he growled, "an army approaches. Led by a lady… a lady I once called my queen."
He let that hang. The wind caught his words like a song. Below, faces tensed. Weapons tightened in hands.
"She is not our queen anymore," he said, darker now. "She brings fire. She brings death. But we? We bring purpose. We bring unity." He raised one fist.
"We are Dalab. And every single day, we make history."
The roar that followed could've cracked mountains.
On the other side.
War against Dalab was never gonna be a damn walk in the clouds, and Fien knew it. Hell, she felt it in her spine the second they left Steza. The air shifted. Got heavier. Like it was whispering, "Girl, you sure about this?"
But Fien wasn't the type to back down just because the wind had an attitude. Still—facts were facts. Dragging over a million Denefremim soldiers across Senedro meant one thing: you had to choose your road carefully, or you'd end up with tired-ass bears and broken morale. And she was not about to watch her red horse trot into Dalab like it had arthritis.
So yeah—fuck Gliansa.
That route? Straight up swamp hell. All mud and flies and sadness. You take Gliansa and your army arrives looking like they crawled out of a sewer pipe. Plus, those bears? They're noble beasts, but even they draw the line at dragging armored soldiers through knee-deep sludge.
Shæz had already tossed the map down during their last night stop, her finger jabbing the paper like it owed her money.
"We cut through Mela," she said. Dead serious.
Fien blinked. "Mela?" Like she'd just suggested they ride through a volcano for fun. "Mhm."
Now, look. If you're not caught up on Senedro geography, Mela ain't your average pitstop. It's not just a city. It's a vibe. A tight-ass, muscle-flexing, bow-wielding, 24/7-staring-at-you kind of vibe. The people? Centaurs and Centauresses. Yeah—half-human, half-horse, full judgment. Proud. Fast. Built like walking flex memes. You don't just roll through Mela unless you've got an invitation—or a death wish.
Gulutel had never dealt with them before. He'd seen one once, though, back in Zela when he was a kid sneaking through trade caravans. The thing looked like it could bench press a tree and still have time to judge your outfit. Powerful, graceful, and absolutely not here for your nonsense.
But damn it, Shæz had a point.
Water route? Expensive as hell. And Fien wasn't about to sell her soul to some river witch just to rent boats. They had weapons, not oars. And the only way she was dying was on the battlefield—not from drowning like a fool in someone else's bathtub. So Mela it was.
"If we can convince them," Shæz said, her tone slipping into maybe-just-maybe-this-isn't-suicide, "we ride clean and fast. They'll let us pass. Might even fight with us. They hate Dalab too, you know."
Fien rubbed her temples like she was trying to massage the headache out of existence. "And if we can't?"
Shæz grinned. "Then we make peace with whatever gods Centaurs believe in. And probably run."
The next morning, Fien stood on the hill overlooking the twisting path to Mela. The sun was rising behind them, painting the field golden. Her army looked like a damn legend. Banners in the wind. Bears armored and growling low. Swords glinting. All of it felt right. But still… her gut twisted.
"Get the commanders," she said to Shæz, who was already halfway down the hill. "We ride light into Mela. Just fifty. Show respect. Not fear."
Shæz turned. "And what if they shoot first?"
Fien cracked a smirk. "Then I hope Centaurs like fighting naked, 'cause I'm burning all their clothes off first."
They laughed. For a moment, it felt light. But deep down, both of them knew—if the Centaurs said no, this war might be over before it began.