28. Valaria
Valaria
The sea is calm.
Serene. Pale blue spread wide beneath a watercolor sky.
But beneath the surface, it churns.
And so do I.
We’re three hours out from the mainland. Pietro charmed our way onto a disguised reconnaissance boat, its hull matte black and engines near silent. The kind used for diplomatic shadows and deniable rescues.
Now it ferries something more dangerous.
Me.
“Where do you want me to drop you?” The operative asks Pietro.
I move away. Let them strategize.
Arcadia waits beyond the horizon. A name. A code. A myth.
And I’m speeding straight toward it.
I crouch at the bow, wind in my hair, fists clenched. The breeze is sharp, salted, and cold. It tastes like the beginning of something I might not survive.
Pietro appears beside me. He doesn’t touch me. Not yet. Not now.
“You okay?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away.
Instead, I ask, “Do you think I’ll ever be the same after learning who I really am?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “No.”
I glance at him. “Then why come with me?”
“Because I already fell for the woman you are now—and later, no matter what.”
I turn away, staring at the distant shape rising from the sea.
Arcadia.
The island is unmarked on all maps. Just coordinates leading to a swell of dark stone, cliffs ringed by jagged rock. There’s no dock. Only a gravel inlet hidden behind a curtain of overgrown palms.
Pietro salutes the operative still onboard. “I owe you.”
The boat speeds off with no promise of return.
The moment we set foot on the island, something in my chest tightens.
Not fear.
Recognition.
We move through the brush, Pietro covering our backs, his steps silent but steady.
He’s here to protect me.
But I don’t know if he can.
We find the facility after an hour of hiking—more ruin than structure. Concrete swallowed by vines. A domed roof cracked open like a skull. Broken glass glints in the moss.
It’s all so quiet.
Until I step into the courtyard.
And the air shifts.
The pressure. The smell. The hum.
It’s in my bones.
“Val?” Pietro says, low.
I walk to the center.
There’s a rusted bench. A scatter of stones arranged in a pattern.
I stare at it.
And then I remember.
Not everything. Not names. Not numbers.
But motion.
I kneel. Run my fingers across the stones.
Slide one to the left. Another clockwise. Two more in reverse order.
A soft click echoes beneath the earth.
A metal grate swings open near the ground, revealing a narrow tunnel carved into the stone.
I look up at Pietro.
He’s frozen. Alert. Dread on his face.
I rise.
“I know the way in,” I whisper.
“Of course you do,” he says quietly.
“Are you ready?”
He swallows. “Doesn’t matter. I’m going with you.”
I reach for his hand this time.
Because I’m not ready, either.
But ready or not?—
The truth lives in the dark.
And we’re stepping into it.
Together.