41

  Durante staggered toward the river, each step heavy and unsteady. His chest ached, the wound from Kael’s dagger still burning beneath the bloodied shirt he hadn’t bothered to clean. His body was a map of bruises and cuts from the collapsing rocks that had pinned him during the battle. The water trickled over the jagged stones, cool and crisp, and he sank to his knees to drink, letting the liquid wash over the inside of his dry throat.

  The sound of hoofbeats and a familiar neigh broke the steady hum of the river. Durante’s head lifted, but only slightly; his gaze stayed fixed on the water. Across the riverbank, a black horse with a white underbelly stepped lightly over the rocks. Its rider, a woman in a dark green cloak, moved with quiet confidence. The sunlight glinted off the edge of her bow, and her presence felt as measured and precise as a blade.

  “As cold as ever,” Soraya murmured to herself, watching him.

  Durante finally stood, his hands dripping with water, his wounds ignored for the moment. He did not look at her directly, merely muttered, “Should I call you Alice now? Soraya?”

  Soraya chuckled softly, the sound carrying lightly over the river. Her horse shifted its weight, muscles coiling like springs. She walked slowly beside him, the quiet strength in her stride unnerving in its calmness. “You should have made a pact,” she said, her tone almost teasing, though her eyes remained steady and serious.

  “I have other intentions,” Durante replied, his voice low, strained with both exhaustion and authority.

  Soraya stopped beside him, letting her horse graze near the edge of the riverbank. “Come,” she said, a small pause hanging in the air before she continued. “Roy Arlen wants to speak to you.”

  “I don’t care what he wants,” Durante snapped, irritation flashing in his dark eyes. The mention of the Southern King, however, seemed to gnaw at the edge of his curiosity.

  Soraya’s gaze did not waver. “It is about your boy… Finn,” she said calmly.

  Durante froze mid-step. His hand instinctively moved toward his chest, touching the wound that was still stinging from the recent battle. “What?!” he barked, his voice cutting through the quiet jungle air. “So that is why you seek my boy, because of Roy Arlen?”

  “Yes,” she replied, softly, but firmly. “Roy Arlen will explain everything if you come to Freska.”

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  Durante narrowed his eyes, wary. The name of the southern king had always been associated with power, ruthlessness, and calculated strategy—but he could not fathom how it related to his son, Finn. “You should know… your sons are here,” Soraya continued.

  Durante’s expression hardened, a mix of anger, suspicion, and fatherly concern crossing his features. “Soraya… Alice… whatever… is this all your doing? If something happens to my kids… you know I will spare no one from all of you,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. His wounds throbbed with every pulse of his anger.

  “They are in Aurum… with Hector,” Soraya explained, still calm, as though speaking of trivial matters.

  Durante’s mind raced. Aurum. Hector. His son. Questions swirled, but he forced himself to focus. He did not ask yet how his children came to this world, how fate had conspired to bring them here—his thoughts were still bound to Rowan, his brother’s son, and the unresolved ties between them. But now, there was Finn, and whatever Roy Arlen knew could tip the balance of everything.

  Durante’s gaze met Soraya’s. For the first time, he acknowledged her presence fully, sizing her up as both a guide and a potential threat. “And you… you know this for certain?” he asked, his voice taut with intensity.

  “I do,” she said, her tone unwavering. “And you will need every ounce of your strength to reach him safely. You cannot go alone.”

  Durante’s shoulders straightened. He had fought druid lines, stone demons, and his own brother’s twisted offspring. He had survived impossible odds. Yet there was a pull he could not deny—a father’s instinct that Finn’s life, fragile and untapped, was now entwined with forces beyond even Durante’s understanding.

  Without another word, Durante leaped, his motion smooth despite the fatigue and pain, onto the back of Soraya’s horse. The animal stirred at his sudden weight but did not resist, muscles tensing and coiling for the first strides. Soraya guided the horse with precise reins, moving along a narrow trail that carved through the dense jungle. Roots and rocks scraped against the horse’s hooves, but the rider and the man atop it moved as one, a synchronized shadow cutting through the deep greens and muted golds of the Sierra forest.

  Durante gripped the reins tightly, one hand brushing over his chest, feeling the deep pulse of his injury beneath the torn cloth. Every breath carried the metallic tang of blood, but he ignored it. His mind was sharp, alert, focused solely on Finn, on the child whose very existence now mattered more than any pact, any vendetta, any shadow from the past.

  “Where is my son?” he asked finally, voice a low growl. He did not look at her.

  “In Aurum, with Hector,” Soraya repeated. “And there is little time. Roy Arlen will tell you everything you need to know about how your children came to this world, and why they are here.”

  Durante’s jaw tightened. He had no intention of relying on anyone, not even Soraya. Yet, for the first time in days, a sliver of hope—the faintest light—cut through the shadow of his rage and pain.

  The jungle behind them faded, and the path ahead widened, the sunlight breaking through in scattered beams. The trail led downwards, toward the southern lands where Freska awaited, and the promise of answers—and reunion.