Chapter 21
Heat presses down… I shift beneath Lowan’s cloak, and his hand is already at the small of my back—firm, insistent.
“Just a little longer,” he murmurs, voice a low scrape. “Keep hidden. Even here.” His gaze rakes the crowd as if he is daring someone to cause trouble.
I nod, though sweat slides down the curve of my spine.
The air is thick with salt and spice, alive with sound.
Men and women call across the port in a lilting rhythm, loading crates brimming with fruit—bright orange globes, glossy green melons, stalks of sugarcane—and baskets of vegetables I don’t even recognize.
It takes only a glance to realize this isle is the mainland’s garden. Ships leave heavily laden with harvest.
I tug the hood lower, watching as Selene pushes through the crowd as though she belongs here—which clearly she does.
Zillah follows close behind her, both of them alight with energy I haven’t seen since we escaped.
They halt before a striking woman whose long silver braids form an elegant twist on her head.
Her skin gleams, deep and beautiful, in the sunlight.
She wears a vivid band that binds her breasts and a flowing skirt that flares at her calves when she laughs, powerful muscles shifting beneath.
Selene grips her hands, and the two of them fall into a rapid, animated conversation. They welcomed Zillah into the fold as if no time had passed.
The silver-braided woman gestures toward a line of curious carts pulled not by horses, not by men, but by shimmering constructs shaped like bicycles fused with something more arcane—wheels edged with light, spokes humming as if alive.
The sight draws a delighted gasp from a child nearby, and I almost mirror it. Selene waves us forward.
Since the carts are built for only two, she and Zillah climb into the first while Lowan guides me toward the one behind. The driver, lean and grinning, grips the glowing handles.
I settle beside Lowan, the cloak stifling, and murmur, “Where do you think we’re going?”
His arm hooks around my shoulders, pulling me tight into his side as his eyes sweep shadow to shadow. “No idea,” he says, mouth near my ear. “If Selene leads, we follow. No one will touch you here.”
The cart jolts forward, wheels humming with a soft, magical whir, and the dock slowly gives way to winding streets. I shift under the weight of Lowan’s cloak, grateful when a pocket of breeze sneaks beneath the hood, cooling my damp skin.
The air is thick with spice and salt, sharp and sweet all at once.
Children’s laughter carries from a yard of palm-thatched huts, where they chase each other with sticks and bright ribbons.
Vendors shout prices in sing-song calls, haggling over baskets of fish still gleaming from the sea.
I catch the tang of roasted plantains, the perfume of hibiscus flowers braided into women’s hair.
The sun beats down, unrelenting. I want to shove the hood back and breathe like a normal person, but Lowan leans close. “Almost safe,” he murmurs. His hand presses gently on my back, and I sigh, resigning myself to the stifling heat.
The road climbs, carrying us away from the bustle of the port.
The carts creak and rattle, wheels slipping on the steep incline as the sea drops farther below.
I glimpse turquoise waves crashing against dark cliffs, light shattering across their surfaces until it feels like the entire ocean is made of diamonds. My stomach twists at the dizzying drop.
Lowan’s hand brackets my thigh—possessive, anchoring. “Don’t worry,” he rumbles. “If you fall, I’ll catch you. If we fall, we fly.”
I give a shaky laugh. But it works—the fear ebbs. Up here, the air is cleaner, cooler, brushing the sweat from my skin. I lean into it, letting myself feel relief for once.
The carts descend again, looping around the far side of the island.
It grows quieter here, more rural. Palm groves shade clusters of huts, some patched and crooked, others neatly kept with flowering vines curling up their posts.
Children dart barefoot between them; neighbors call greetings across narrow paths.
It feels close, communal—like everyone belongs to each other.
Our driver turns down a sandy lane and stops before a larger hut set apart on a rise. It’s well-built, shutters flung wide to catch the sea wind. The door opens. A woman steps out.
Her hair—white as moonlight—falls in countless tiny braids woven into one thick plait down her back. She wears a loose, colorful wrap and a flowing skirt that stirs in the breeze. She is regal without trying to be, and I know before Selene even squeals that this must be her mother.
Selene is off the cart before it halts, barreling into her arms with a sound that’s half laughter, half keening sob. Zillah follows at her heels. The woman lifts Selene as if she’s still a child, spinning her in a circle. They babble so quickly I can’t catch a word, voices tangled with joy.
I glance at Lowan. “That’s her mother, isn’t it?”
“I’d say that’s a safe assumption.”
The woman sets Selene down, laughter spilling from them both, and waves us all inside.
The hut is open and bright, with walls and beams of polished wood that gleam golden in the light.
A constant breeze drifts through expansive windows, carrying the scent of salt and citrus.
Out the back, I can see the ocean again—calm here, glittering beneath the sun.
She sets out cups of cool water steeped with sliced fruit, the flavor sweet and tart on my tongue. Her smile is wide as she greets us all, pulling Zillah into a warm embrace before turning back to Selene.
“And who are these friends you’ve brought home this time?” she asks.
Selene beams. “This is Zillah’s brother, Lowan.”
The woman clasps his hands. “Lowan. I’ve heard much about you over the years.”
He arches a brow, skeptical. “Hopefully, all good things.”
“Of course.” She winks at him.
“And,” Selene continues, “this is our other friend, Metra.”
I step forward, heart thudding, and push the hood back. The woman inhales sharply, eyes widening. “Metra Donovan.”
For a heartbeat, she stares at me, lips parted as though she’s seeing both who I am and what has happened to me all at once.
Then her expression softens. She draws a steadying breath, straightening her shoulders. “It seems you all have quite the story to tell,” she says gently, “but first, you need tending.” Her eyes fix on me with a kind of motherly certainty that makes my throat ache.
She turns to Lowan. “Get her out of that stifling cloak.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Fingers brush my shoulders, tugging the heavy fabric back. Relief floods me as cool air wraps around my skin. I catch his gaze as he folds the cloak away, and something darker flickers there—protective and claiming.
Selene’s mother studies me with quiet intensity. “I will arrange guest quarters at once,” she says. “And I assume you’ll need a healer?”
“Yes,” Lowan answers before I can, the word edged like a blade. I nod in agreement.
“Excellent. I’ll send for one immediately.” She takes a step closer, eyes drawn to the ragged edges of my hair. Her hand hovers just shy of touching, as if asking permission. “Your hair…” Her voice drops, threaded with sorrow.
My fingers lift and brush the uneven strands where the King’s blade hacked one side nearly to the scalp, and left the other side jagged. Shame prickles my skin, though I don’t want it to.
“I can shape it into something that suits you,” she offers softly. “If you’d like.”
The knot in my throat loosens just enough for me to whisper, “I would like that. A lot.”
The guest hut smells faintly of salt and wood smoke, open to the ocean breeze through slatted shutters.
Selene’s mother had pressed food into our hands—fruit, flatbread, something spiced and steaming—and then showed us to this small, tidy place.
Just enough for sleeping and bathing. Just enough to feel safe.
Lowan lingers only long enough to brush his thumb across my cheek.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” he says lightly.
“Besides, I need to make sure Selene and Zillah aren’t already christening their hut.
” His crooked grin makes me huff a laugh despite myself.
Then he’s gone, leaving me in the quiet hush of the room.
The healer enters not long after. She is older—or at least, she appears so.
Her hair is pure silver, unbound, spilling down her back like a river of light.
Her face is lined, not with frailty, but with the weight of centuries.
If she looks sixty, I can only imagine how long she has truly walked this realm.
She studies me in silence. Her expression is unreadable, too carefully held. I bristle, tugging the thin wrap Selene’s mother gave me tighter around my shoulders. “I don’t need pity,” I mutter.
“No, child.” Her voice is low, steady as the tide. “You don’t.” She tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?” I shake my head, my throat dry.
“I see someone who survived.”
My chest tightens. I force my voice out. “Can you heal me?”
She steps closer, fingertips hovering just above my arm, my face, my shoulders.
“I can heal the marks on the outside. But the rest—the wounds inside you—only you can heal.” Her hand stills on my shoulders, where the burns seared deep.
Her gaze sharpens. “These, though… I am uncertain. I have never seen their like.”
A cold pit forms in my stomach. “What do you mean?”
“The burns are too deep. Too… marked. I cannot take them away.” She pauses. “But we can reshape them—if you wish it.”
“Reshape them? How?” Her lips curve, faint but sure. “You will see.”