41. Chapter 41
Chapter forty-one
T he Lunaedon shudders.
Gently, at first. Paintings quiver in their frames, and the thick curtains begin to sway though there is no breeze. Glass rattles in the lanterns along the walls, the sound beginning as a soft chime in the hush of the entrance hall, before fluctuating to a clanging ring with the increased force of the attacks at the gates.
The large windows at the edge of the hall emit an ominous groan, and the lanterns tumble to the ground with a crash.
Glass sprays everywhere as more follows, and for a moment, I’m tempted to close my eyes and open myself; to pull Niko through the wards to one of the remote worlds I’d glimpsed as the star. A world where there’s nothing but wilderness. No one to protect. No one to rule. No sacrifices to be made.
Only us.
Niko’s lashes flutter wildly as another painful tremor ravages through him. I stare at the dark sweep of ash against snow-white skin and know I can’t do it. Even if I could somehow find my way through the wards, he would hate me for it. The monster he’s embraced, the pain he endures—it’s always been for a reason. This island and its people. Letum is embedded into his soul.
He's turned into the worst version of himself, bore the pain and horror and death, all to protect his world.
If I leave it to ruin, he’ll never forgive me for it.
You’re no hero, Darling. You have the heart of a villain.
The old me would have run without looking back. It wouldn’t have mattered what Niko’s given up to keep the balance between worlds, I would have stolen him away for myself without remorse.
But my time here has shredded through the walls I’ve spent two centuries building around my heart, shining light into places I’d thought long dead. And now, there’s nothing left to keep hope from spilling from my soul; nothing to temper the fire Niko’s awoken inside me.
I can be the hero, if you will be my villain.
He woke me up. Peeled back the layers of mud I’d buried myself in and reminded me who I truly am. Not someone who runs—but someone who fights.
Leaning in, I kiss Niko’s cheek and whisper, “Stay with me.”
The floor trembles beneath my feet as I stand, painting myself into leather armor with hardly a thought. My gladius hangs on my hip, a throwing knife strapped to each thigh. There is comfort in the familiar weight of them.
“How long can you hold the palace?”
I don’t ask Sam or Adira. I ask Marina. The Aeternalis’ right hand. The fallen pixie. Her lips go tight, as she understands what I’m asking of her. How long can she return to the hated version of herself? The one capable of shoving aside her feelings and doing what needs to be done.
Just hurry, she signs. We’ll do what we have to. The Lunaedon won’t fall under my watch.
I don’t need to be told twice. Squeezing my eyes shut, I burrow deep into myself. Past the pain, past the scars marring my heart. Past the boredom and the darkness. Down, down, down, to where the pool of power shimmers. The one that’s always been there, if only I’d thought to nurture it. Starved and waiting for me to feed it the dreams of my soul.
I plunge into its colors. Let them race through my veins. And with them, I begin to paint. I capture the iridescent blues of the Crocodile, the glistening black stalactites and stalagmites. Long, sweeping strokes form the shapes of the cave and more delicate ones depict the smells and sounds. The rhythmic tick of the tide against the hull of the Indomnitus; the briny scent of salt and sand. The pull of time, the feel of it racing through our blood.
The Lunaedon shudders again and more glass crashes to the floor as distant shouts ring in my ears. I block out the discordant clang of steel on steel, the bursts of explosions and cries of horror, and focus only on the soft drip of moisture on the cave walls. I release my terror and worry—for Niko, for my friends, for the kingdom—and think only of the peace of the cave.
With bated breath, I carefully paint each detail until the Crocodile fully comes to life in my mind—until I can feel the warmth of the heated rock beneath my skin, and the way Niko had smelled when he’d trapped me between his arms and whispered of the power flowing through me.
My breath escapes me in a rush, as a violent tug slices through my chest.
And when I open my eyes, it’s to find myself kneeling in the exact spot I’d knelt beside Niko so many weeks ago and pleaded with his ribbons to help me. The sudden silence of the cave is almost deafening in contrast to the clamor of battle raging around me only seconds before.
I rise to my feet, brushing off the knees of my pants. With a leveling breath, I scale the steep rock wall that dips into the bowl of the Crocodile. The tide has risen in the short amount of time since Niko and I were here, and my boots squelch unpleasantly in the silt as the water laps up over the toes.
Tick, tick, tick.
The water laps against the keel in time to the rapid beat of my heart.
The Indomnitus looms above me, still and haunting as ever, and as I climb the gangway toward the upper deck, I try not to think of the hollow expanding deeper beneath my ribs with every step. The ship is a ghost: of itself, swallowed by the waves of the sea, and of its captain, lost to wounds inflicted by the cruel hand of fate and love.
I grit my teeth as I reach the deck, forcing a sudden wave of nausea down my throat with a hard swallow, as I take in the stunning wood and silky sails. A morbid statue of the King of Carrion, mired in time. The lines of him with none of the life.
I’ll be damned if he ends up like his ship. The very thing that connects us—pain—has also made us into survivors. We fight and we scrape and we claw. We don’t give up, even when the world demands it.
Niko and I—we’re eternal.
Heaving a deep breath, the heat of newfound determination swirling through my veins, I plunge forward, searching the deck until I find the lattice hatch. With a grunt, I lift the hatch to reveal a steep set of stairs disappearing into shadows. Holding on to the railings, I lower myself slowly down until my feet find purchase on the lower decks.
“Fuck,” I mutter aloud, peering into the dark. The only light spilling in from above is swallowed by a black so abiding, I feel as though I’ve gone blind. Feeling my way slowly forward with one hand, I keep the other trained on the gladius at my hip, having learned well enough to expect the unexpected in the kingdom of dreams.
I can only hope there isn’t a blood-sucking tiger, or some other monstrosity borne of a child’s imagination, lurking in the dark. I’ve just begun to wonder whether I’ll be able to imagine myself a torch without accidentally burning the entire ship down, when a pinprick of light suddenly flares to life in front of me.
A single will-o-wisp twinkles in the darkness, so far from its home in the forest. Holding my breath so as not to spook it, I slowly open my fingers, reaching my palm toward its soft glow. While the people and creatures of Letum have gravitated toward me in the weeks since my magic began nurturing the island’s, the will-o-wisps have kept a steadfast distance.
The small light drifts toward me, dancing over my fingers, before settling lightly in the center of my palm. Its presence vibrates from my hand, up my arm, warm and light, like the little faerie is made up of sunrays.
I’m still staring in wonder, when I notice another small light drifting from the deep darkness. Then another and another. The will-o-wisps’ pleasant hum fills the harrowing silence of the ship, as hundreds of them appear, their soft lights winking as they circle around me. Some tangle in my hair, tugging gently at the strands, while others graze over my arms, sending tiny zaps of electricity racing from each point of contact.
I keep still, afraid one wrong move will fracture the moment and send them scattering. Just like Niko’s ribbons when I was terrified and desperate, the small faeries’ presence in the dark is enough to soothe the edges of my worry and make me feel less alone. They begin to swirl more earnestly, their lights blurring and shifting into an incandescent line.
They wait expectantly, shivering and humming, their glow emanating through the darkness and lighting up the bowels of the ship. I follow their lead, past shining canons and neatly coiled nets. Through another hatch, and down to lowest deck. The Indomnitus is expansive, far larger than it appears from the outside. Together, we venture into its depths, walking until we reach the very back of the ship.
The will-o-wisps flee the confines of their line, and swarm into a glowing cloud in the far corner. Their buzzing hum grows excited as they dart around in the air, and my breath stops in my throat as I realize what’s beneath them.
Another hatch. It appears out of place within the belly of the ship, as it is not made of the same shined wood as everything else, but of carved obsidian.
Just like the doors of Lunaedon.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the will-o-wisps. They hum in appreciation, zipping around me as I lean down to place my palm to the onyx hatch.
Like the doors of the palace, the magic is attuned to my touch. It disappears immediately, revealing an ominous staircase. Unlike the steep, wooden stairs of the ship, these are wide and carved of stone. They wind gradually deeper, lazing downward, before listing to the left and disappearing from sight.
Familiar panic claws up my throat—the kind that begins in my stomach, effervescing until it floods through every vein. Readying me for what comes next. It’s a panic I’ve grown attuned to in my centuries alive, one that’s kept me out of enemy hands more times than I can count.
I know by the slick, cold feeling sliding over my skin, that whatever lies at the bottom of the staircase is dangerous.
The heart of Letum. The lifeblood of Somnya.
The Aeternalis’ creation borne of dreams and adventure and magic. For a moment, I feel his grief burrowed deep in my chest—of how terrible it must have been to watch the world he’d created in response to his abandonment ultimately leave him, too.
The island had been something good once. A resting place for those exhausted by reality, a way to hold onto childhood for just a moment longer. Perhaps, Pan had once been good, too.
Because isn’t that the paradox of living? Holding true to yourself against the currents of the world; holding on as pieces are carved out and carried away by the tide?
What would Pan have been if he hadn’t been so alone for so long? What would I have been if my father had been willing to protect me the way he’d protected Celie?
As I peer into the winding stairwell, I realize it no longer matters—what matters now is what I will be. What the island will be. The heart of my magic has always lied in possibility, and it burgeons in me now. Endless and beautiful.
My pulse slows. My shoulders relax. And I start down the stairs.
The will-o-wisps drift beside me, their soft hum the only sound aside from the pad of my feet and the beat of my heart. There have been so many times in my life when I’ve despised its incessant rhythm, but now, it drives me forward.
Everything I’ve gone through keeps its beat steady and my thoughts clear. That’s the thing about spending your life learning to manage anxiety—when it comes time to fight, you’ve already imagined the worst that could happen. You’ve gone through every possibility in your head, every outcome—there is no fear of the unknown to hinder your decisions.
Together, the will-o-wisps and I descend into the heart of the island. The stairs feel like they go on forever, spiraling deeper and deeper, and the world begins to feel like it's tilted slightly off its axis. Or perhaps it’s me that’s tilted, beginning the day I fell into Niko’s world. My world, I think fiercely. For whatever happens, this island is mine. And I will no longer let anything of mine be taken from me.
I told Niko I could be the hero, but there’s nothing heroic about my heart, as my feet finally find stone. There is possessive darkness, obsessive love—it’s a villainous selfishness that keeps me moving. Because there is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep this place of wonder; the world that gave me power and freedom.
After what feels like hours, we finally reach bedrock. The air is thick and humid, stuffing itself unpleasantly in my lungs. The will-o-wisps float forward, and my breathing hitches as their small light illuminates the entrance to a magnificent cavern. I step inside, in awe of the sheer magnitude.
The cave is at least twenty times larger than the Crocodile above us, sparkling not only with the eerie blue lights, but lights of a million of different colors. Violets and blues and oranges and reds, their luminescent shimmers all reflected in the still waters of a giant lake spanning the entirety of the space.
Following the will-o-wisps to the water’s edge, I gaze out at the expanse of water, feeling vaguely like one more step will have me freefalling through time and space. The will-o-wisps race away, over the surface of the water, to gather at a small island at the center of the lake. Made of the same obsidian as the Lunaedon, its cragged rocks gape and curve in a vague imitation of a skull. The tiny faeries settle their lights between two matching arches, giving the island the appearance of having awakened, opening its eyes to watch my every move.
Marina’s words come racing back to me: beneath the Indomnitus, in the cradle of death. The skull island must be the heart. Which means the lake is the blood.
Slowly, I pull my sword from its scabbard. Heartbeat steady, I run the blade over my palm. Blood beads up over the shallow slice, and pools in the lines of my hand.
Balling my fingers into a fist, I hardly feel the pain, as I reach over the water and squeeze.
For Niko. For Letum.
But more importantly, for me.
A horribly familiar laugh echoes off the cave walls, bouncing from the high ceilings and landing like a punch to the chest. I whirl around with the sword clutched steadily in my uninjured hand, to see Dawson leaning against the archway to the Indomnitus. The only way out.
He gestures noncommittally at the lake, his eyes glinting. “Now, now. Don’t let me interrupt, Willa Darling.”
My blood freezes as my name rolls off his tongue like an icy blade. It contains none of the affection with which Niko wields it—instead, it rings through the cavern like a warning.
“I daresay…my brother would never forgive me for it. He certainly knows how to hold a grudge.”
I bare my teeth and plant my feet, savage fire blazing through my chest. I’ll tear Dawson apart before I let him stop me, and I’ll enjoy every moment of it. For what he’s done to Niko. To Marina. To so many others.
“I’m sure there are plenty of things higher on his list of grievances with you, Dawson.”
“I don’t know about that,” Dawson hums, gesturing again to the water. “We both know how Nikolas delights in his schemes. Stopping you would ruin years of his work.”
Now that I know of their relation, the similarities between the two brothers are impossible to ignore, despite the eternal youth of Dawson’s face and sun-deep tan of his skin. The sharp curve of his cheekbones is a mirror of Niko’s, and though Dawson’s eyes are a clear, crystal blue, the corners of them tilt slightly upward in the same manner.
He steps smoothly from the archway, his face a terrifying mixture of madness and humor. Like he’d relish nothing more than to laugh wildly as he drains the life from me. The siren’s horrified screams of agony fill my ears, while the gnarled scars on Marina’s back and throat fill my vision. For a moment, I feel none of my own pain—only theirs. Only Niko’s, as his sacred place was desecrated by a rot that would haunt him the rest of his existence.
I spin back toward the water, determined to end this once and for all. To save Niko from the island’s hold, and then slaughter Dawson where he stands. But something in Dawson’s answering laugh slices straight through my spine. A deranged, twisted echo, not of defeat—but of delight.
Acute wariness spikes through me, as I slowly turn back toward him.
“My brother pretends to be above reveling in others’ pain, but there can be no other reason for the way he’s manipulated you, love, aside from the sheer enjoyment of it. Once a Strayed, always a Strayed, I guess. Though even I can think of less cruel ways to accomplish my ends than convincing a poor, abandoned woman of my ardent affection.”
Dawson tsks, his mouth spreading into a vicious grin. “Though I suppose it wouldn’t be the first time for Nikolas, now, would it?”
The way he speaks sends dread sluicing down my spine—like everything in the world is hilarious, but none of the humor reaches his eyes.
“He’s made quite a name for himself on the mainland, hasn’t he? The dread pirate captain who guts children with a hook.”
He saunters slowly closer, and it takes everything in me not to cede a step. To keep my gaze steadily on his, a wall of solid steel. To keep his words from penetrating my skin and poisoning my heart.
“But the stories never get it quite right, do they?” He looks at me to finish the thought, and when I simply press my lips into a tight line, Dawson lets out a beleaguered sigh like I’ve ruined his fun. “The stories, Willa…they all paint Niko as a villain, but he’s something far worse—a sniveling hero.”
I readjust my grip on the sword, even as a knot forms in my throat. The hilt is slick in my palm, and I’m not sure when that happened. When my heartbeat ratcheted higher in my chest; when anxiety began filtering through my veins like acid.
“I don’t need to tell you why that’s a far more terrible thing to be.”
He pulls a sword from the scabbard at his hip, letting out a wild guffaw of laughter at my flinch. I follow his movement warily, as he swings the blade around with the haphazard casualty of a teenager tempting danger. Except there is none of the uncertainty of youth in Dawson’s movements. Only lethal efficiency.
“Come now…you can’t really think you’ve found your way to the heart of the island on your own? That you’re the one who’s decided to tie yourself to it?” Another laugh. Another toss. And then a wry smirk in my direction. “That you’re the one who’s decided anything at all. You’re a clever woman, Willa…a part of you knows. ”
His sword slices through the air with a distinct whir, as he gazes at me with amusement. And worse—with pity.
“You know my brother, his careful precision…you know he’s crafted every movement, every emotion, every thought since the moment you’ve arrived. All to make sure you were right here, right now.”
“Niko doesn’t even know I’m here,” I reply acerbically, even as the pool of magic rippling behind my heart freezes over like a pond in the winter.
Dawson’s next words are a blow to the ice, miniscule fractures spidering over the mirrorlike surface of my magic.
“Come now, love,” he tsks like I’m the child, though he’s one who looks like a goddamn teenager perpetually frozen in time. “You’ve experienced far too much of humanity to fall for a few simpering words and a good fuck.”
He spins the sword in his hand again, and this time, I leverage a step backward. Only ceding enough to plant my stance firmly. Because though I don’t stand a chance against Dawson in a physical fight, I hold the power.
And Niko is the one who gifted it to me. Who saw what lay inside me when I was too broken to see it myself. And when I found that magic, he didn’t try to use it for his own gain—he gave me my freedom at the cost of his kingdom.
Dawson may be right about Niko being a hero, but he isn’t the righteous savior of Letum or the divine deliverer from the plague. He’s my hero . Only mine. My liberator, my deliverer—my adytum in a universe of pain.
Dawson’s eyes narrow on the small shift in my stance, the irreverent humor sliding from his face. His expression shifts from one of mischief, to the ringing hollow that exists in all the Strayed. Depraved emptiness glints in his eyes, his handsome face skeletal and haunting in the light.
“Go on then,” he sneers. The sword stops swinging.
I don’t move. “Why are you here if you aren’t going to try and stop me?”
Another ringing laugh, as Dawson prowls closer. “I’ve been alive for a very long time, and I admit, life gets a tad stale after a few centuries.” Closer still, Dawson brings the tip of his blade lightly to my sternum. “What better way to sate the boredom than to enjoy your ruin.”
Dawson tilts his head, his mad eyes searching for a hint of emotion. I only stare at him flatly, well-practiced at giving nothing even as my entire being blazes with rage.
“I want to watch,” he says with a lascivious lick of his lips that sends a wave of nausea barreling up my throat. “Watch as you do exactly as your King commands, his sweet little puppet.”
Dawson’s teeth dig into his bottom lip, and his entire body seems to tremble with malevolent excitement. “Watch as you do what I’ve imagined since Niko was a pathetic little boy trailing around after me, begging for attention. What no one else has been able to do since the Everlasting’s murder.”
I go entirely still, even as adrenaline and dread mingle so furiously in the pit of my stomach, I think I’ll be sick with it. Dawson leans in, the tip of his blade digging more firmly into the fabric of my dress. Panic flushes over my face at the implication of his words, and he drinks it in with relish.
I try to pull it back, to shove it down, down, down, where it can’t hurt me. But the panic is slippery between my fingers, wriggling from my grasp. It multiplies in my chest, over and over, until I can hardly expand my lungs at all.
“Figured it out, have you, love?”
I want to slit Dawson’s throat before he can say more; to throw my hands over my ears and keep myself safe from his next words. But instead, I stand frozen, staring at him. It’s always been fight or flight for me—never inaction. Never freezing.
But all I can do is stand there, as he grins cruelly and says, “There can only be one anchor. If you tie yourself to the island, the Carrion King will die.”