Fien was on her back, legs wrapped around Geleam's waist, biting her lip as he drove into her hard. The tent was dim, lit only by the flickering war lamps, shadows dancing over their bodies. She dug her nails into his back, moaning low, not just from pleasure but from something deeper—release, power, grief.
He was a Denefremim general, built like war itself, and the way he moved inside her reminded her of Gideon. Of those wild nights in Dalab, when she was still figuring out how much of a queen she could really be. This wasn't about love. It wasn't even about lust. This was tradition.
Denefremim belief said a female war leader had to be taken by one of her warriors the night before battle. It was an old, sacred thing—meant to stir the gods and wake up the ancestors. And Fien wasn't one to run from power.
Geleam gripped her hips and kept going, her breath sharp in her throat as she came hard beneath him. He kissed her neck, not soft, but with that brutal honesty warriors give. She pulled him in, let herself feel every part of it. Every stroke. Every reminder of who she was. When it was done, they lay there in silence. Not touching. Just breathing.
Outside, the camp buzzed. Bears shuffled, soldiers chanted, the sound of metal being sharpened filled the air. War was breathing down their necks.
And in Mela, the Centaurs were ready too. After decades of peace, the city was armored up. Their hooves hit the stone with fury. They had no idea what Fien was bringing—but they were about to find out.
Deep in the cold lands—lands no one knew, not even on the oldest maps—Max Donman sat with three Belsa warriors around a struggling fire. The wind howled through the skeletal trees, and the snow cut through their clothes like glass. They were all grieving.
They'd chased after the oxeds, desperate to save Ella, but they'd failed. Now they were lost, broken, and cold. Four men. Seven horses. One mission shattered.
Ella was gone. Taken. And with her, the pendant—the last map to the Shams. Even if they had it, none of them could read it. The cold bit harder at that truth. And just when it felt like it couldn't get worse, it did. They had no food. In the chase, they'd abandoned supplies. Desperation made them kill one of the horses, gut it, and skin it raw just to make it through the night.
They managed to spark a fire. The meat sizzled, and the scent of survival filled the air. Grease and guilt. Blood and smoke.
Max was chewing on a strip of horse flesh, staring into the fire. He'd always been the type to lighten the mood—even now. Even when it was hell around him.
"You ever had Taco Bell at 3 a.m. on a hangover?" he asked, breaking the silence. The warriors looked at him, confused.
Max smirked, eyes glassy. "Exactly. It's like this, just less... chewy."
One of the Belsa men huffed through his nose. Another shook his head, biting down on the meat. None of them really got the reference, but Max kept talking anyway.
"I used to think bad days were failing an exam or not getting laid on a Friday night. Now look at me. I'm eating horse thigh in a frozen wasteland after watching the only girl who trusted me get snatched by demon birds. Life's funny like that."
The oldest warrior, Bekil, looked up. "We find her," he said in a low voice. "Or we die trying."
Max nodded. "Yeah. We will."
The fire was dying and so were their odds. Still, they didn't stop chewing.
They didn't know it, but they had wandered into the West of the Split Ridge—an ancient dead zone where myths whispered of Shams walking under moonlight, where legend wasn't just memory, but muscle and bone. As they chewed on horse meat beside a weak fire, the air shifted. Something darker than the cold settled over them.
Out of the shadows, it stepped. A Sham.
Not the kind Geza scholars sketched in fear—this one was real. Half Miteon, half something else. Eight arms, four legs, bat-like wings arched high, shimmering like oil under starlight. Its eyes burned silver. And it was staring right at them.
None of the men had ever seen one. Hell, they didn't even know what to expect. They had no Bala box, no traps, no sacred rites. Just silver swords. Just instinct. And for one split second, they hesitated. Just one. Then it moved.
Faster than anything with that many limbs should. Blades flew—but the Sham dodged, weaving through steel like wind through trees. One swing of its arm sent a Belsa warrior flying into a tree—snap. Another was lifted, torn apart mid-air, bones cracked like twigs, his blood steaming on the snow.
Max hit the ground hard, rolled, heart exploding in his chest.
No. No, no. He wasn't a soldier. He wasn't from here. He wasn't meant to die in this ice.
He scrambled to a horse, climbed up with a silver blade in one hand, reins in the other. He kicked hard, the horse screamed and bolted. The others followed—panic spread through the beasts faster than sense. Behind them, the screams of the last Belsa men echoed through the dark, followed by a sickening silence. But the Sham wasn't done.
Max looked back just once—and saw it leap, like a shadow with wings. The horses behind him cried out, toppled, crushed.
Now it was coming for him. Wind tearing at his coat, the beast breathing down his neck. And Max did the only thing left for a man not born of this world. A man with no spells, no blade skills, no bloodline to boast. He called on the only name he knew could save him in such moments.
"Jesus… Jesus, help me..."
The words tore out of his chest like fire. He shouted scripture. He couldn't even remember half of it, but his voice rose above the wind, pure and desperate:
"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—"
The thing screamed behind him, wings thrashing trees.
"I will fear no evil—"
Tears blurred his vision. The sword shook in his hand.
"For You are with me!"
And just as the Sham lunged, the air around Max cracked. Not broke—cracked—like glass. A thin shimmer, faint gold, sparked around the star pendant they thought they'd lost. And then—darkness swallowed the forest behind him.
Max didn't know if he'd been spared or marked. But he kept riding.