Jim Slevann—the Night Rider—was locked in a hellish clash with Hennekas. Hero of the High Flame. Keeper of Arven, the sword said to split skies. And Ella, she was watching it all.
Not like, standing-there-watching. Nah. She was in the vision. In that weird mind space only she could reach, tuning into Senedro's threads like some haunted antenna.
Jim had Hennekas cornered. One more strike and it would've been over. But then—Hennekas changed. His body twisted, reshaped, morphed into something grotesque. A Sham.
Ella gasped and snapped out of the vision like she'd been dunked in ice. Her breath fogged. Cold. Real cold. Something was off.
Max was curled up under layers of coats like a sleepy bear, snoring softly. The Belsa warriors were scattered around the campfire, suspicious eyes watching Ella like she might summon demons if she blinked wrong. They didn't like how she'd just zone out. But the governor had trusted her, and that was enough. For now.
She shook Max gently. "We need to move. We're close."
The star pendant around her neck—Senedro's direction —was glowing faintly now, pulsing like a heartbeat. They packed quick and moved through the trees. Silence everywhere, but not the good kind. The kind that makes your neck itch.
Then Ella felt it. Wrong.
Even the Belsa horses were twitchy, like they knew they were stepping into something ancient and pissed off. And then—wings.
Massive, dark, oxed wings. Four of them. Slamming into the ground like thunderclaps. The beasts weren't your regular oxeds either. These were armored, enchanted, probably bred in one of those creepy Ozelean pits. Snarling, steaming, glowing eyes.
And then—Ziz. Hennekas' ride. That monstrous, glorious bastard of a beast. If hell had eagles, Ziz was their king.
"Ambush!" one of the Belsa soldiers screamed, but it was too late. The oxeds crashed into them like a storm on crack.
Beasts scattered. Warriors knocked flying. Max got thrown face-first into snow, coughing. Ella barely rolled away as a claw bigger than her whole damn body dug a crater where she'd been standing.
This wasn't a rogue patrol. This was an Ozelean attack in the dark. The worst kind. Ella scrambled to her feet, pendant blazing like a flare now. She looked at Ziz. No rider.
Which meant Hennekas was somewhere nearby. Maybe watching. Maybe hunting. And maybe—just maybe—just sent his Oxed alone. She drew the silver sword the governor had given her, breath shaking.
The Belsa warriors unsheathed their silver swords as well—those rare, ghost-lit blades said to pierce even Sham hides. But it didn't matter.
The Ozelean triplets had already landed. Hennekas' personal guards. Identical nightmares. Death in threes. One of them held a glowing tracking pendant—proof they hadn't stumbled into this by chance. They came for something. They came for someone.
The Belsa formation tightened. Shaky breath, locked shields. They'd trained for this—but not for this. The first triplet moved and seven Belsa warriors were down before they even realized the fight had started. Their bodies hit the snow like fallen trees, blood steaming.
Three more tried to regroup—then Ziz moved. A single beat of that titan wing flung them across the field like rag dolls. Ella hit the ground hard. Her breath left her chest, stolen by fear and the cold. She looked up into the face of one of the triplets—blank, sharp, eternal. He didn't strike.
Instead, he picked her up like she weighed nothing and threw her across his back on the oxed. She kicked and twisted but it was no use. They were taking her alive.
Why? That part she couldn't figure out. But her gut was screaming that this was bigger than a simple hunt. This was targeted.
The oxed launched skyward with a roar, slicing through the clouds. Down below, Max was still standing, watching. Frozen.
Seeing the same thing he'd seen years ago with Jenna Kossel. Her death. His failure. Powerless again. No, not again. He screamed her name, but the night swallowed it whole. Then he turned to what was left of the Belsa. Bloodied. Broken. But alive.
"We follow them," Max growled, grabbing a sword. "We get her back." Even if it killed them. Even if it was already too late.
That night when Jim Slevann faced off with Hennekas in the ancient, crumbling halls of Ajilo, something in Senedro broke.
Jim never returned to Geza. Hennekas was never seen again—not on the throne, not in flame, not even in whispers. Silence replaced certainty, and in time, silence turned to doubt. Rumors bloomed like wildfire.
Had Hennekas fallen? Was the King of Senedro truly gone? The Ozeleans—the proud, fire-blooded warriors—went quiet. They retreated to the shadows of their main city. No retaliation. No claims. No voice. Just absence.
And that was all the confirmation the realm needed. Because if Hennekas had won, the world would have known. He would've stood atop the ruins of Ajilo with the sword of Arven burning in his grip and declared his victory to every corner of Senedro. That was who he was. But he didn't because he couldn't.
Truth is, before that night, Hennekas had risen to levels only whispered about—far beyond Denefremim might, brushing shoulders with the Setrums themselves. But Jim Slevann wasn't just another night rider. He was something else. Something more.
When Jim left Ajilo with Fien, he was wounded. And Hennekas—hero of the High Flame—was dying, if not already gone. It was the triplets who found him, their king broken beneath stone and magic, and in their desperation, they used what was left of their Ozelean power to preserve him.
A suspended breath. A soul in waiting. But it wasn't enough. They needed a key. They needed the Eye. They needed Ella.
She was the last known carrier of Zeebal energy. The last true healer of Senedro. Hidden in plain sight, wandering visions while kingdoms shifted, and fate coiled like a storm behind her. The triplets tracked her—not just to capture, but to save what remained of their flame. To breathe life back into a fallen god.
And now, all paths were converging again. The king, the queen, the healer. The warrior who should've died. And the rider who never spoke. Senedro had been quiet too long but silence never lasts forever.