Chapter 149: Horses and Heavenly Beings
Maribelle and Eris step into Vexena’s dressing room, covered in polished obsidian mirrors and crimson silk. They find the Demon Queen wrestling one-armed with a shoulder plate that refuses to sit straight. She gives up after a third failed attempt, snaps her fingers, and the whole piece assembles itself around her in a shimmer of obedient black lacquer.
"That’s useful." Maribelle smirks as Vexenas turns to a set of thigh-high battle boots.
"Time to move," Vexena says, pulling one up against her thigh. "My spies confirm Syraleth’s moved her army through teleportation glyphs. She must be going after the Price, who is currently crossing the Dwarven lands." She finally faces them, stamping her boots into place, "I want the two of you ahead of me while I ready my own forces to follow. Bilorial’s already with him, but I’m taking no chances. Syraleth knows she’s dead the moment I meet her in battle. She must be up to something."
Eris bows, accepting the order without a word.
"Are you really plan to wage open war... on dwarven lands?" Maribelle asks.
"Do you have a better plan?" Vexena responds.
"There could be collateral damage," Maribelle says. "Two demon armies colliding in the middle of dwarven territory, innocents could get caught in the crossfire. Not to mention... once the continent hears your armies are walking upon it, not to mention the Demon Queen herself... all hell breaks loose."
"Inevitable," Eris says casually, "the price of dealing with the likes of Syraleth."
Vexena shrugs. "I don’t care about the whims of mortals. Only my daughter. And Syraleth’s entire existence is a threat to her right now... a threat I will deal with, personally, by any means necessary."
"That’s precisely why the northern kingdoms hate you," Maribelle says. "Why they blame you for the curse. This is a chance to show them you’re not the monster they’ve decided you are."
Vexena turns to her, something new and interested flickering across her face. "Go on."
"Syraleth has an army out there," Maribelle says. "Don’t just go out there to destroy it. Go out to protect the people from it. That’s not a story people expect from the Demon Queen."
"You want me to be gentle." Vexena asks, nose twisted with distaste at the very concept.
"I want you to be smart. There’s a difference." Maribelle replies.
Vexena studies her for a long moment, something almost like respect settling into the corners of her mouth. "Careful, Blackthorn. I might actually start to like you."
"Oh please. You love me."
"Go," Vexena says, waving them both toward the door, amusement threaded through the command. "Before I change my mind and send you both through a much more uncomfortable portal. Go keep our daughters safe."
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In the Grand Cathedral of the church, nestled in the Royal Capital, Maiden Mother Melissa bids farewell to the Sisters of Mercy who stand atop a dais glowing with intricate teleportation glyphs, a ring of monks chanting low around its edge in a deep, ancient tongue.
"May the Great Mother bless your journey." Melissa calls out. "And, please, if she wills it, bring the Prince back with you."
"Thank you." Hela says warmly. "For your help. But the Prince’s path is his own to choose, we seek only to know if his choice is the right one."
Bela and Nela just licks their lips, practically vibrating with anticipation, and all three fizzle out of existence a heartbeat later.
They reappear a moment later in a near-identical chamber, six-hundred miles westward, where the Eighth and Fifth Saint Sisters await them in the Dwarven capital. The women kneel the moment they arrive, mistaking the three for the actual First, Second, and Third Sisters and treating them with immediate, breathless deference.
"An honor beyond words, First Sister," the Eighth murmurs.
"Please," Hela says, waving a hand, distinctly uncomfortable being addressed by a title that isn’t actually hers. "None of that. I’d rather not—"
"Your humility precedes you," the Fifth says, practically glowing. "As does everything else about each of you. You are living legends amongst our sisterhood."
"Really, you don’t need to..." Bela mutters, exchanging a look with her sisters. "We are here simply to—"
"We’ve heard so much about your work with the light-forges of the Third Chapel, Second Sister." the Eighth continues, undeterred, eyes shining with reverence. "An honor to even breathe the same air."
"I have genuinely never been near a light-forge," Bela whispers to Nela. "This is ridiculous."
"Aww, just leave them." Nela coos, "They’re so sweet."
"It’s concerning."
Hela finally cuts through it. "We come with purpose, not for flattery. We seek the promised Prince. Where is he right now?"
"The dwarves sent a delegation to meet him at the border," the Fifth reports. "The princess herself went along with them I believe. They should arrive by nightfall. You’re welcome to..."
"More waiting." Bela groans. "We can’t afford to waste more time. Mother could snatch us back any moment. The instant she notices we’re gone."
Hela goes quiet for a moment, then turns to the Fifth Sister. "Bring us the three fastest horses in your stables. And bless them with haste charms, if you can spare it."
"At once, First Sister."
"I’m not—" Hela starts, then sighs and and spreads her smile a little wider. "Yes, the horses. With haste."
Minutes later, the three burst through the gates of the dwarven capital astride horses boosted with magically enhanced speed, hooves barely touching the ground as they blitz across open farmland toward the border.
Nela shrieks with delight the entire way, her hair throwing out flaming embers behind her like a comet’s tail.
Bela’s shadows ripple off her shoulders in great, living sheets of smoke that seem to swallow the very sunlight around her as she howls with unrelenting joy.
Hela leads the charge with a greatsword of light hovering across her back, blazing like a fallen star against the deepening dusk.
Wheat fields part in their wake like water, scattering seed and startled birds alike, and farmers look up from their work to watch three impossibly radiant, divinely beautiful women thunder past them in a blur of angelic light, utterly certain they’ve just witnessed something they’ll be talking about at taverns for the rest of their lives.