43. Chapter 43
Chapter forty-three
R ivulets of water stream from my clothes, and my hair is plastered into sodden ropes down my back, as I climb up out of the lake and onto the shore of the skull island. I swipe at my eyes in an attempt to see to the shoreline where I left Dawson. From this distance, it’s impossible to make out any details, but there’s no sign of movement.
He probably ran the moment I dove into the lake, terrified of the power I would wield when I emerged. And rightfully so. It sings beneath my skin like a siren’s song. Every bit of life lighting up the cavern of my chest like a signal fire, even as Dawson’s final words echo in my mind.
I want you to remember how hard you fought for this.
He’d meant it as a warning—a strike against my insecurities. But the truth is, I won’t ever forget. Not because I can’t, but because I don’t want to.
It’s taken two hundred and twenty-seven years of searching, but I finally understand where I’m supposed to be. In my search for power, I found so much more. Love. Friendship.
Home.
I used to think home was a stagnation and a vulnerability. But the roots of a home don’t grow in the soil. They begin where all the most precious things do: the deepest corners of a heart, the protected realm of magic and dreams. Home imbues us with strength and gives us a reason to fight. It is the path leading back to ourselves, a steady signal light in the dark chaos of the world.
Home is an anchor, and only an anchor can provide true freedom. The freedom to jump, to fall, to fly wherever I choose, and never be drawn too far by the winds of the universe.
I may be the island’s anchor, but Niko—Niko is mine.
Closing my eyes, I reach for my magic. It no longer shimmers in a small pool behind my heart, but threads through every part of me, lighting up the shadows with luminescent dreams. I don’t have to concentrate, nor grit my teeth to keep it from slipping—it’s there, simmering at the surface of my skin, waiting for my call.
I think of my home and feel the violent tug in my chest. The air pulls tight around me, and the world blurs in a riot of color.
And then I’m kneeling in the entrance hall of the Lunaedon, my waterlogged clothes dripping small puddles onto the ebony marble. Shattered glass litters the floor, and dread curdles in the pit of my stomach, as I realize the broken windows haven’t repaired themselves. The only sign of life is the shining pool of black blood, where Niko had lain when I left.
I climb to my feet, as the ground beneath the castle shudders. The island’s magic spills through me, stoking my rage into an untenable thing—a beast of destruction and vengeance.
I am the anchor of Letum now. Which means the deaths of the Strayed are now mine.
The Lunaedon doors disappear before I touch them, like the palace itself is urging me forward. The breath shoots from me as I race down the front steps, shock nearly sending me tumbling down them.
The Strayed.
So many, they obscure every sweeping hill of the palace grounds, every inch of neatly trimmed grass. Which means, somehow, the magic protecting the Lunaedon—the power imbuing the gates—has faltered.
They move like a crawling blight over the land, wild bouts of their mad laughter ringing between the sickening sound of violence and death. Their chaos is pervasive, as they dart between Silva Lucai and city folk alike, fracturing their battle lines beneath the vicious onslaught. The Strayed fight with a renewed insanity, their empty eyes glinting with fervor as they slice through Grove-dwellers on the ground and send burning arrows sailing through the wings of pixies fluttering above the fray.
I lurch down the stairs, horror unfurling alongside my magic. I’d been so focused on saving Niko—on restoring the island, and its tether to the children of my world—I hadn’t considered what that meant. I’d wanted to share in Niko’s burden, to help him hold the weight of death.
But it isn’t only me who now holds the power to kill.
The Strayed’s taunts ring out in chillingly young voices, their skeletal faces plastered in masks of blood and matter. I dive into the nearest cluster, slicing through flesh with determined accuracy. Despite my centuries alive, I’ve never witnessed a war so intimately, and I’ve certainly never fought in one. And though my fighting skills are well-honed, I’m in no way prepared for the overwhelming destruction. The horrific noise of metal on flesh, of agony and rage. The scent of desperation; of blood and sweat and feces.
I pull my magic up, and thread it before me, weaving it into a shield as I fight my way toward where my friends have clustered. Adira and Sam stand back-to-back in the midst of the fray, their weapons sheathed at their sides, their eyes closed in concentration. Adira’s fingers dig into her own face, blood welling beneath her nails, as she burrows into crazed mind after crazed mind.
And Sam—beautiful, calm, Sam. His face has gone worryingly pale, and his body strains and trembles as he struggles to keep a large factor of the Strayed beneath his thrall. As he gives up every bit of his own peace for the peace of the island.
Tiernan and Chrys guard their flank, each battling three of the Strayed. Any that make it through them are immediately felled, their throats opening beneath an invisible blade.
Marina. Sacrificing her happiness to protect the hope of dreams.
Like Sam and Adira and Niko.
Humility and gratitude lace through my rage. I’ve been so terrified to sacrifice anymore pieces of myself—to be anyone’s hope—but it was because I’ve always done it alone. If I had Niko’s fight or Marina’s loyalty or Sam’s calm faith beside me, perhaps everything would have been different.
The heat of my rage ebbs, as I fight my way toward them—slicing out with my weapon and magic, in turn—and an unfamiliar calm settles over my skin. One borne of possession, of love—that rises from the heart of the island to imbue my own.
I’ve never had anything to call mine—nothing to claim, to hold, to protect. And now that I do, it fuels me far more than any fear.
Skidding to a halt, I plant my feet and beckon my magic to my skin. The Strayed around me begin to scream, and for once, there is no amusement in it—only fear, as they witness the glow of dreams, of possibility, stream from me like silky waves of starlight. My power pulses and swells, the resounding vibration throwing everyone nearby to the ground.
I reach to the star above and the star inside me, their power one and the same. This time, there is no resistance, no thought, as I open. Only endless time and limitless freedom.
Through the wards, I glimpse my world along with a million others—worlds so far out on the plane of existence, the death of Letum hasn’t affected them. Worlds cursed by an unspoken darkness, and worlds that burn in the light. Worlds where only gods roam, and others where nothing exists but unending ice.
I sift through them all, searching for one with an emptiness mirroring the Strayed’s. An emptiness, I vow will never exist again.
With another brush of my mind, I send every one of the Strayed tumbling through the wards.
The star beckons me to follow—the possibilities, the freedom that exists so far from here, a tempting gift. A thousand adventures, a million places to see.
But I don’t want any of it. I want Letum, with its dark, and its violence, and its dreams. With its teetering grip on reality. For the first time, I thank the second star for its gift of immortality because now, I will always be here to guard the magic of dreams; to ensure no child ever ends up trapped in the hopeless darkness of their own mind.
It is not vengeance for Celie, but rather, a celebration of everything she could have been.
With a small exhale, I let go of the wards, settling back into my skin. For a moment, it feels oddly foreign; like something has shifted within me, and now, it doesn’t quite fit on the frame of my bones.
I blink wildly against the sensation, as the world around me comes back into focus. Cheers of victory sound out over the Lunaedon grounds. Sobs of relief and sorrow—for what’s been lost and what’s been won.
But I hear none of it. Because with the absence of the Strayed, I now understand why Sam and Adira had been positioned in the middle of the fight. Why Tiernan and Marina fought so viciously, not to protect the Lunaedon, but to protect what lies beneath them. Who lies beneath them.
The grass around them is crisp and dead. And atop it, is Niko.
A sob rips from my throat, as I tear across the field. Through pixies and Grove-Dwellers and people of Caelum.
He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine, I think furiously, dropping to my knees beside him. It’s only the pain that’s overwhelmed him.
His eyes are closed, his lashes still. His lips—his beautiful lips—have gone pale and parted. His ribbons lie motionless around him, like someone has tangled them up and then strewn them about. Discarded, like forgotten trash.
Panicked tears pour down my cheeks, and my throat clenches as regret and fury mingle in my stomach so furiously, I’m sure I’ll shatter entirely.
Because I know without Sam’s sorrowful words, without Adira’s confirmation.
Dawson was right.
The King of Carrion is dead.