Salt in the Snow

Fien knew the game. This wasn't gonna be some kumbaya circle of hugs and promises. Convincing Dezo's army? Yeah, that was like trying to convince a rock to start breathing. These Denefremims didn't trust anyone who wasn't one of their own—and Fien? She was a walking identity crisis. Not Denefremim, not Ozelean, not Miteon, not anything people could pin down.

Some even whispered she was a fallen Setrum.

"Fuck that story," she muttered.

Tonight, she wasn't following Shæz's script. Nope. No more strategies, no more Night Rider sales pitches, no more polite little speeches. She came in late, on purpose, boots hitting the dusty pitch like a damn drumbeat.

The fire was crackling. The army was gathered, all eyes on Shæz. She was doing her thing—confident, calculated.

"We have a Night Rider with us!" she said, trying to ride the myth wave. Blah blah blah.

Fien rolled her eyes so hard it could've started an earthquake. These were men. Warriors. Sweaty, blood-hungry, half-drunk on old legends and testosterone. They didn't need a bedtime story—they needed a damn reason to roar.

So Fien walked up to the stage. Calm. Silent. And without a top.

Yup. She went full shockwave.

Those perfect melons—not big, not loud, but sculpted by the gods of distraction—shut the whole damn camp down. Silence. The kind of silence you get when everyone's jaw is on the floor and their brains forgot how to function. Even Dezo sat forward like, "Well, shit."

Fien didn't need a mic. Didn't need fireworks. She was the show.

People of the old used to call her the Goddess of Lust. And honestly? Tonight, she was putting the "goddess" back in business.

"Steza," she said, voice smooth like stolen honey, "would you go to war with me?" No response.

Not because they weren't into it. Nah—these soldiers were practically drooling. But they were trained, disciplined. And they were all side-eyeing Dezo like, "Yo boss, we tryna simp or nah?"

Dezo didn't even say a word. He just gave a little nod. And that was it. The army lost their minds.

"Yes, our queen!" they shouted, and it was less "rah rah" and more "take us to hell and back, just don't put a shirt on."

Shæz stood there with the most "are-you-kidding-me" expression in history. Fien just winked at her.

"You're smart, babe," she whispered in passing. "But sometimes, tits win wars."

And yeah, a great damn army thundered out of Steza like it owned the world—and maybe it did, for now. Over a million Denefremim soldiers riding chunky brown bears like they were cruisers from hell. This was Steza's flex. Raw, animal-heavy, and absolutely terrifying if you were watching from a distance. Or even worse—if you were Dalab.

Up front? Fien. On that mean red horse like she just galloped straight outta someone's fantasy nightmare. Behind her were a few elite riders on Zela bears, a sign that Steza and Zela had kissed and made up—politically, at least. And yeah, she wasn't just "traveling with the army." They'd crowned her their queen. No elections. No debates. Just tits, brains, and power.

Riding side-by-side with her was Shæz, cool as ever, looking like the only one who actually read the damn war strategy. Fien had made her second-in-command for a reason—Shæz had brains and a "don't mess with me" energy that could slap a god across the face.

They thought they had the upper hand. The whole army pulsing behind them, the throne of Senedro dangling just within reach. Fien could taste it—like that one kiss from a forbidden ex you're absolutely not over. But hey, power's better than closure, right?

Only thing? Dezo hadn't come with them. Not really. Yeah, he pledged the troops, but the man stayed back in Steza, playing "I'm just the guy in charge of logistics" or whatever. Instead, he sent his seven commanders—each one a walking, snarling, nightmare of discipline and bloodlust.

Meanwhile, over in Dalab, Gideon—King of the city, hunter of legends, and resident shirtless brooding warlord—was doing his usual drama near that magic water basin. He was alone, muscles glistening (because obviously), staring into the basin like it owed him rent. That thing was more than just a mystical puddle—it was how he stayed on FaceTime with his older brother, Dezo.

Suddenly, the ripples smoothed, and bam—Dezo's face popped up in the water like a medieval Zoom call.

"Brother," Gideon greeted with that deep, tired voice. "Any good news?"

Dezo's smirk could slice ego. "I've put Fien in your hands, brother. Now hand me Senedro."

Oof. Straight up.

Gideon chuckled. He leaned back like a man who had a dragon hidden in the backyard. "Still trying politics, huh?" he muttered. "You always did suck at it."

He didn't say the rest out loud, but it was loud in his head: You think you're playing me, brother. But I'm letting you think that.

Because Gideon? He didn't see Fien as an enemy. Nah. She wasn't out here waving knives like Hennekas. She was something deeper. Slippery. She was a real-ass threat to the Senedro throne—maybe the only threat that made him sweat. And he'd sweat in silence.

That's why he wasn't scared of the marching army. He was intrigued.

And he was already planning.