3. The Last Light #2
"Just promise me you'll talk to me. At some point. That's all. "
"I promise," I said, and meant it. Even if I couldn't keep it. Even if the conversation we needed to have wasn't the one he imagined.
"Good. That's good." He smiled then, the real one that made his whole face change. I'd become so accustomed to taking what he offered—comfort, normalcy, affection—while giving back only what I could convincingly fake. And still, he looked at me like I was everything.
The dancing went on for another hour, songs flowing into each other without pause.
I danced with Marel, then with Henrik when he handed off his fiddle to someone else, then with Jorik who was drunk enough to be truly entertaining.
Thatcher appeared at one point to claim a dance, spinning me around until I was dizzy and laughing.
"How much have you won?" I asked when he set me down.
"Enough." He looked pleased with himself. "The one from Millhaven is terrible at cards but keeps betting anyway. It's like watching someone throw money into the sea."
"Careful."
"I'm being reasonable. Just taking enough to make it interesting."
The music slowed again, and couples began to drift apart. Some headed back to their blankets and wine, others gathered around the fire where Dorna was preparing to tell one of her famous stories.
"Ghost story?" I asked, settling back onto Lira's blanket.
"Something fitting for tonight," Dorna announced, settling herself more comfortably near the fire. "The old story about Morthus and his bride."
A few people groaned good-naturedly. "Again?" someone called out.
My stomach clenched. Not this one. Not tonight.
"It's the best one," Dorna shot back. "Besides, some of you young ones haven't heard it told properly."
I caught Thatcher's eye across the cave and saw my own discomfort reflected there. Sulien had gone very still beside the fire, his knuckles white around his cup.
She cleared her throat and launched into it, her voice taking on the cadence she reserved for the most dramatic stories.
"You all know how it began—Morthus, Aesymar of death and King of Draknavor.
Cold as winter stone, implacable as the tide.
For millennia, he ruled his domain without passion, without mercy, without love. "
"But the heart, even the heart of an Aesymar, is not so easily commanded," Dorna continued.
"In his great temple stood a mortal priestess named Osythe.
Beautiful, yes, but also brilliant. She managed his mortal temple with such reverence that even Morthus himself took notice.
A woman who feared neither god nor mortal, who spoke truth even to those who could destroy her with a thought. And he fell in love."
A few appreciative murmurs hummed around the fire.
"Now, when Olinthar learned of this attachment," Dorna said, and my blood ran cold at the casual mention of his name. "The King of Gods reminded Morthus of divine law. No god may lay with a mortal, let alone take one to wife. Such unions are forbidden, an abomination against the natural order."
Hypocrite, I thought bitterly.
"But Morthus had already fallen too deep," Dorna's voice rose dramatically. "He stood before the rest of the Twelve in their great council and declared his intention to marry Osythe properly."
Sulien's jaw tightened, and Thatcher shifted uncomfortably, smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt.
"Axora demanded a trial by combat," Dorna continued. "If Morthus could defeat any champion they chose, then the law would bend to his will. But if he lost, he would abandon this foolishness forever."
"Who did they choose?" one of the children asked.
"Pyralia," Dorna said with relish. "Aesymar of fire and passion. She stepped into the arena wreathed in flames that could melt stone, wielding fire that could burn even gods."
The story rolled on—three days and nights of fire against shadow, passion against death, until finally Morthus emerged victorious.
"The wedding shook both realms," Dorna continued. "Every god was forced to choose a side. And everyone, mortal and god alike suffered for it. Those cracks still run through the heavens to this day."
"But here's the truly remarkable part." Dorna's voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried through the entire cave. "When it came time for the wedding vows, Osythe refused Morthus's offer of ascension. 'I choose to remain mortal,' she declared. 'For that is what you fell in love with.'"
"So what did he do?" Lira asked, though she knew the answer.
"Something that had never been done before," Dorna said. "As god of death, Morthus had power over the boundary between life and the afterlife. He reached into Osythe's very essence and simply... froze it in time. It wasn’t true immortality, wasn’t godhood. It was suspension. She exists now in the space between life and death—aging slowly, but still fundamentally mortal.”
At least she survived, I thought, anger rising in my chest. At least she got access to divine healers, to magic that could fix anything, heal everything. Unlike my mother, who'd been discarded back to the mortal realm—Elaren—to die.
"Osythe lives with her lover in Draknavor now," Dorna finished. "Their son ascended in the last Trials—Xül, Warden of the Damned. And every day, Morthus proves that even gods can choose love over law, compassion over command–”
"Very romantic," Thatcher called out. "Now tell us one we haven't heard fifty times."
"Ungrateful boy," Dorna huffed, but she was smiling.
I spotted Sulien sitting slightly apart from the chaos, watching the revelry with a soft expression I rarely saw on his weathered face.
"Mind if I sit?" I asked, settling beside him without waiting for an answer .
"Course not." He shifted to make room, his shoulder warm against mine. "Good night, isn't it?"
"It is." I followed his gaze across the cave, taking in the scattered groups, people swaying to the music, Dorna trying to convince a very drunk Tam to sit before he fell down. "Remember when Thatcher and I were too young for wine?"
"You were never too well-behaved to sneak some anyway." His mouth quirked upward. "Used to water down my ale thinking I wouldn't notice."
"We were very subtle about it."
"You once got so drunk that you tried to convince me mermaids were real because you'd seen one in the tide pools."
I groaned. "I stand by that."
"I’m sure you do. You spent an hour describing her in perfect detail." He took a small sip of wine. "Complete with what songs she sang and how her tail sparkled in the moonlight."
"In our defense, we had very active imaginations."
"Oh, absolutely. You once convinced half the village children to play pirates and held Elder Keth's goat for ransom.
" His voice held that fond tone he got when talking about our childhood.
"Made him negotiate for an hour before you'd give poor Buttercup back.
Thatcher insisted on being called Captain Dread, if I remember right. "
"And you went along with it. Gave us actual treasure maps and everything." I smiled.
He glanced at me sideways. "You were always the brains of the operation, you know. Even then. Thatcher had the charm, but you had the plans."
Around us, the celebration continued at full volume. Someone had started another round of increasingly inappropriate riddles, and I could hear Thatcher's laugh rising above the crowd as he no doubt separated more traders from their coin.
"You know what I remember most about raising you two?" Sulien said suddenly .
"What?"
"The questions. God, the endless questions." He shook his head. "Why is the sky blue? Why do fish live in water? Why can't we fly? And if I didn't know the answer, you'd just ask someone else until you found it."
"Naturally."
"I always loved watching you figure things out." He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "You've got a good mind, Thais. Sharp and curious and kind. Don't ever let anyone tell you different."
"Father–"
"And stubborn as a mule. Just like her." His voice grew soft, barely audible over the revelry.
"She used to do that same thing you do when you're thinking hard.
Bite the corner of her lip and get this little wrinkle right here.
" He touched the spot between my eyebrows gently.
"First time I saw you do it as a baby, thought my heart might stop. "
I leaned into his touch, this man who'd raised me as his own. "I love you, you know that?"
"I know." His arm came around my shoulders, pulling me closer. "I love you too, little fish. Both of you. More than all the stars in the sky."
It was something he used to say when we were children, when nightmares woke us or scraped knees needed kissing better. He hadn’t said it in years, and hearing it now made my throat thick.
The weight of it all hit me then. Tomorrow the priests would call upon those of age to step forward.
Anyone sixteen or older with gifts was required to present themselves at the festival.
Some would come willingly, drawn by dreams of godhood and immortal power.
Others would be dragged forward by neighbors eager to curry favor, or by family members who genuinely believed the Trials were an honor their loved ones deserved.
Some were simply terrified of those with gifts living amongst them.
We'd been through this before. My powers hadn’t manifested for the festival when I was a child, but at sixteen, I'd spent the entire event barely breathing, terrified that every glance in my direction meant discovery. We'd managed to avoid suspicion this long, but that didn't mean we were safe.
I looked around the cave, trying to memorize everything. Everyone.
They had no idea. None of them knew that one of their own could bring destruction down on all of them. That my very existence was a threat to this—to Saltcrest, to Last Light, to every tradition and person I’d ever cared for.
And Sulien... God, what would they do to him if they discovered the truth?
"I—" The words stuck in my throat. How could I tell him that I was terrified not for myself, but for him? That the thought of him paying the price for my secrets made me feel sick? That I was most afraid of what my discovery might cost him?
"I'm scared," I finally managed.
His arm tightened around me. "About tomorrow?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Listen to me." He turned me to face him, his hands gentle on my shoulders. "Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever the priests do or don't do, nothing— nothing —will ever change how much you mean to me. Or who you are. Everything else is out of our control."
Tears were threatening now, hot and urgent behind my eyes. "But what if?—"
"No what ifs." His voice was firm. "You are my daughter. Mine. In every way that matters. And I am proud of the woman you've become. Proud of your courage, your kindness, your wit." He smiled through his own unshed tears. "Your mother would be proud too. So proud."
Before I could respond, the sound of hooves on stone cut through the drunken singing and off-kilter fiddle. Conversations faltered as people noticed the rhythmic clatter echoing from the cave mouth, heads turning toward the entrance with expressions of growing confusion.
"Probably just someone heading home," a voice called out from the other side of the cave.
The hoofbeats drew closer, accompanied by the soft jingle of harness and the measured tread of horses.
Light appeared at the cave mouth—torchlight. As it drew closer, shapes emerged from the darkness. Riders in white robes.
The singing died completely as the lead rider dismounted, his boots silent on the sandy ground. When he lowered his hood, the firelight revealed features that were beautiful in the way sharp edges were beautiful—perfect and cold and somehow wrong.
"Good evening," he said, his voice carrying easily through the suddenly silent cave. "I do hope we're not interrupting."
Behind him, other figures moved with the same unnatural stillness, arranging themselves around the cave mouth like pieces on a game board.
The priest smiled, white teeth gleaming in the dying firelight.