Chapter 61
ChApter
Sixty-One
We follow Giorgi’s lead through thickets and frostbitten branches, down an incline where the snow grows deeper and the air heavier. Mylo grunts with every step, Dante limp against his shoulder.
Sir Donovan’s death weighs on me, his grim resolve still etched in memory, but it is Sir Holden who breaks me.
His face, his voice, the way he met my eyes before turning into the dark, choosing to die so the rest of us might live.
He was the steady one, the kind one, the knight who never doubted me, always on my side through everything, even when Torbin lashed out at me.
He was my shield long before this night, and now he is gone.
The ache claws at my chest until I can barely breathe.
But I cannot let my sorrow claim me. Not in this moment. His sacrifice demands more than my tears; it demands that I keep moving, that I carry his faith in me forward. So I bury the grief deep, force it down with every step, and let it harden into resolve.
I can’t lose anyone else.
My eyes go instinctively to Dante. He hasn’t stirred once.
I can’t stop looking at him—at the pale set of his mouth, the bruises at his throat, the blood dried at his temple, the bloody wounds on his body. The way his hair clings to his skin, damp with sweat and soot.
He gave everything to save me. He was willing to fight for my freedom.
And now I don’t know if he’ll ever wake again.
I still don’t know what happened in the arena, but I can only guess that the seer—Dante’s mother, if I heard him correctly—took the last breaths of Torbin’s life and pushed them into Dante. Because he’s still alive. But alive doesn’t mean awake.
“We’re here,” Giorgi calls in a low voice.
The cave opening looms ahead, black stone choked in hemlock and frozen moss. It isn’t a wide opening, but it’s deep and swallowed in shadow. The sound of rushing water echoes within, cold and fast and merciless.
The air is thick with the bitter scent of hemlock—numbing, dizzying. My lungs ache just breathing it in. I cover my mouth with my cloak as the others do the same.
“We need to stay low,” my uncle warns. “The air will clear once we’re deeper. And mind the water.”
He gestures to the small, black boat tied to a wooden post in the tunnel, frost cohering to the edges. There’s just enough room for all of us—barely.
As we file in, Nadya and I slide into the rear of the boat, still holding hands.
“I’ve got you,” Nadya whispers.
“I know,” I answer.
Isaac helps steady Mylo as he climbs in with Dante, who still hasn’t moved.
I make a noise as they settle, and Mylo gives me a nod. He knows what I leave unsaid: Be careful, please.
I settle beside Dante, holding on to his arm as his head slumps against Mylo. His skin is cold and clammy, but he’s alive and breathing. I force myself to believe he’ll be all right.
Lorne keeps a lookout at the cave entrance while we load up. Isaac whistles to let him know we’re all aboard. Once Lorne joins us, Giorgi pushes us off with an oar, and the tunnel swallows us whole. Isaac grabs the other oar, and the two of them steer the boat off toward the Batu Basah Ocean.
Ice drifts in fractured sheets across the surface of the underground river, cracking and shifting with each ripple.
The walls of the cavern glimmer faintly, as if lined with countless tiny crystals, catching the faint light and scattering it in fractured beams that dance across the water.
Stalactites hang from above like jagged teeth, mirrored by stalagmites thrusting up from the riverbank, forming a cathedral of stone that seems both ancient and watchful.
Shadows stretch and twist in the inky darkness, the air damp and heavy, carrying the scent of mineral and cold.
The tunnel curves almost immediately, black as pitch. The boat rocks gently at first, then harder as the current tugs us deeper. The air grows damper, heavier. We all breathe through cloth, and still, the bitter taste of hemlock burns my tongue.
A groan echoes from beneath the surface. Something brushes against the hull—long, slick, and heavy.
Aila curses, gripping the boat’s edge. “Tell me that was just the current.”
“Not unless the current has scales,” Isaac mutters, staring into the water and notching a bolt to his crossbow.
Water slaps the side again—harder.
“We’ll be fine,” Giorgi says tightly. “Just don’t fall in.”
We round another bend, and icy droplets rain down from the jagged ceiling. The tunnel narrows. The hemlock glows faintly along the walls, casting everything in a sickly, green hue.
Somewhere ahead, a light glimmers.
The exit.
“Just a little farther,” my uncle says.
I cling to Nadya on one side and Dante on the other. I cling to hope, to the soft, steady heartbeat of the man I love, lying limp in the hollow of this boat.
The river current slows, then stills.
I blink against the sudden rush of cold moonlight as the cavern opens into the sea.
The Schierling empties into a quiet cove nestled beneath jagged cliffs, where the Batu Basah Ocean glitters in shades of steel and silver.
The air is sharper here—wet and biting, the kind of cold that seeps beneath skin and bone.
A ship waits for us in the shallows. Broad-shouldered, low-slung, and cloaked in sails so dark, they disappear against the night sky.
Built in Messanya, judging by the look of the iron reinforcements along the hull—but there are no banners flying.
No markings. Nothing to give away who we are or where we’re going.
Aila is the first to disembark. Mylo follows with Dante’s limp body propped on his shoulder.
His boots sink into the slushy gravel as he splashes toward the waiting crew, who lower a rope ladder and help guide him up with careful hands.
I follow close behind, soaked to the knees, Nadya and the others on my heels.
By the time we all climb aboard, the ship is already lurching forward, breaking through a thin layer of ocean ice.
The sound of it cracking beneath the hull is almost deafening.
I grasp the rail, boots slipping on slick planks, and feel the cold biting through my gloves and cloak.
The wind screams around us, whipping hair into my face, carrying the sharp tang of salt and frozen water.
Each sway of the deck sends a shiver through my body.
We move quickly, herding the injured toward the companionway. The wood beneath my fingers is slick and bitter with frost. My heart pounds, not just from exertion, but from a gnawing worry for Dante. Uncle Kormak remains on deck speaking to the crew.
“This way,” Mylo says.
Tension coils in my stomach. Every sharp sway of the ship reminds me how fragile we all are, how little separates us from being thrown into the freezing waters.
The companionway creaks beneath Mylo’s weight as he descends, still balancing Dante on his shoulder.
I follow, noting how the narrow stairwell smells of damp wood and the faint, oily tang of the ship’s lanterns.
Each step is cautious; one misstep could send Mylo and Dante tumbling.
I keep my hand pressed against the wall, trying to steady myself and my racing thoughts.
For a moment, I allow myself a heartbeat of gratitude for this small reprieve from the wind before pushing down the fear gnawing at my chest.
Below deck, the air is still frigid, though there’s some small comfort in being out of the wind. The room he lumbers into is small, spare, with nothing more than a single cot and a bucket of half-frozen water in the corner. The cot creaks under Mylo’s weight as he gently lowers Dante onto it.
“I think he’s fevered,” Mylo mutters, wiping his brow with a shaking hand. “He’s burning through his shirt.”
I kneel beside him immediately. “Dante,” I whisper, brushing damp curls from his face. He doesn’t stir. His skin is flushed, far too warm. Sweat beads at his temples, adhering to his lashes.
I press my hands gently to his chest and call the power forward.
It comes—hesitant, flickering. But when it touches him, it… falters. Like something inside him pushes back. Like whatever the seer put inside him is resisting my magic.
I recoil slightly, heart hammering. “It’s not working,” I whisper.
Aila enters quietly, her hair damp with sea spray, a wet cloth in her hand. “Here,” she murmurs, passing it to me. “We’ll keep his fever down for now. Your uncle wants to speak with you.”
I glance down at Dante, then to Aila. “Will you stay with him?”
She nods. “Of course.”
I rise on shaking legs and make my way back above deck.
The cold hits me again as soon as I push open the hatch. Snow still falls, soft now, a lazy drift over the ocean. The sails crack mechanically overhead, and the moon throws a path of silver across the waves.
My uncle leans against the railing near the prow, his cloak drawn tightly around his shoulders. His eyes are fixed on the horizon.
I smooth out the skirt of my dress. The dress Torbin made me wear. A macabre wedding dress. My mind spins with how much has happened since he tried to make me his bride.
“You wanted to speak with me?” I ask, approaching.
He turns slowly, his expression unreadable. “I thought I should let you know what was happening. We’re headed to Alphemra.”
I blink. “Alphemra? Why?”
“We’re about a week out. If the weather holds.”
“But why?” I ask again, wondering why he’s avoiding my question. “I thought we were going back to Delasurvia.”
“We can’t,” he says, gently but firmly. “King Silas took your disappearance as a betrayal. He’s trying to take Delasurvia as a result of you breaking the agreement.”
“But I didn’t—” I shake my head, knowing it doesn’t make sense to state my case to my uncle. It’s not he who made the decision. “If he’s trying to take our land, then that’s even more reason to go back there. To fight. To defend what’s ours.”