Evie
The Seer of Essence’s burning red gaze swings to me.
“The scholar.”
I force myself to meet those terrible eyes without flinching, and my brain’s already racing, cataloging what they might find, trying to prepare defenses for secrets I’ve kept—
The Crown. They’re going to see the Crown.
But the Seer of Origins speaks first, his ember-gold eyes fixing on me with that ancient, knowing weight.
“The Thorne lineage.” His voice rumbles like thunder. “Scholars. Researchers. Hoarders of knowledge stretching back seventeen generations. A family that measures its worth in books preserved and secrets uncovered.”
I don’t react. Because this isn’t news.
“And you, Evelyn Thorne.” He tilts his massive head, studying me like I’m a specimen under glass. “You watch your older siblings succeed and wonder if there will be anything left for you to discover. You measure your worth in what you know, because knowing is the only currency your family values.”
Fine. Keep going. Tell them I’m forgettable. Tell them I’ve spent my whole life in my siblings’ shadows. It’s nothing I haven’t told myself.
“You fear being unremarkable.” The Seer’s tone carries no judgment, which somehow makes it worse. “You fear that no matter how many books you read or patterns you catalogue, you will always be Thorne child number four, the one whose name people forget to mention.”
Stop.
“But there is one person who never forgot you.” The Seer’s ember eyes soften fractionally.
“One person who made you feel seen. A brother. Third-born, but first in your heart. You love him fiercely. You would burn down libraries to find him, would sail impossible seas, and would face judgment from beings older than time itself.”
My eyes are stinging, but I refuse to blink.
“This love is pure and true,” the Seer concludes. “And now, your heart is breaking.”
The Seer of Essence moves before I can process what’s happening, and those burning red eyes are locked onto me, pushing into my mind like a hot knife through butter.
I gasp.
It’s like being stripped naked in front of a crowd and having every imperfection examined under bright lights.
“I see a worry that consumes your thoughts and haunts your dreams.” He moves closer, his massive form leaving no wake. “You seek a thread you follow across these waters, growing more desperate with each dead end.”
“My brother.” The words come out hoarse. “I’m looking for my brother.”
“Yes,” the Seer says, lower now. “The brother whose signature ended in a blast pattern on volcanic rock. The brother you refuse to believe is—”
“Don’t.” I hold up my hand like I can physically stop what’s coming. “Don’t say it.”
The Seer of Essence falls silent.
The Seer of Consequence drifts forward, and when he speaks, his layered voice is almost gentle.
“The brother’s thread was cut.”
“No.” I shake my head, stepping back, nearly tripping over a coil of rope. “You don’t know that. You can’t know that. He could be anywhere. We haven’t checked every island, every shore, every—”
“The scholar who hungers for truth now runs from it.” The Seer’s silver eyes swirl with pity. “But truth does not change because you refuse to hear it. Oliver Thorne died on the night of the storm. This is not a possibility—it is a certainty.”
My legs won’t hold me, and I grab the railing, trying to stay upright while the world tilts beneath my feet.
“You’re wrong,” I scream, as if saying it louder can make it untrue. “The Council said he was missing.”
“The Council lied.” The Seer of Consequence cuts through my denial. “As did the two among you who have known this truth since the night he died.”
The words don’t make sense at first—until suddenly, they do.
Two among you.
Process of elimination. Five people on this boat. Two of them know.
Kieran found me on the Crown when I was half-frozen and barely conscious, and he brought me back to his room without a word.
He sat across from me in the Ember Archives and helped me research, even though libraries are his least favorite place on earth.
He insisted on coming with me on this journey and stationed himself between me and every threat we encountered as if my survival was the only mission that mattered.
He confessed his kill count to me in a moonlit spring while his hands shook against my skin, and then he kissed me like it was the most dangerous thing he’d ever done.
He was inside me—barely, just enough to make me feel the absence of the rest of him—before he pulled back and said everyone he cares about dies, as if he’d already started grieving me.
He looked at me two nights ago and said whoever did this will bleed for it with fury in his war-torn eyes.
Was that all a lie?
I round on him, and he steps back, his face whiter than when the Geryon exposed his divine blood.
“Did you know?” I ask, each word tearing up my throat on its way out. “This whole time, while you were telling me we’d find him, while you were promising to help—did you know my brother was dead?”
“No,” he says, hard and immediate. “I sat across from you two nights ago and promised you blood. If I’d known, you’d have known the same night, and I’d already have a name and a body to show for it.”
My scanning locks onto him, searching for the thermal spike that would tell me he’s lying. It doesn’t come. His signature’s running hot with rage—not guilt—and I’ve catalogued enough of both on Kieran Cross to know the difference.
“I believe you,” I say, and his shoulders drop a fraction, just enough for me to know my belief was the only verdict he was waiting for.
Then Callie’s laugh cuts through the chaos, bitter and broken.
“Oh, please.” She’s leaning against the remaining mast, her arms crossed. “Kieran’s half in love with you. Of course it wasn’t him. Because it’s always them—Logan and Jade. The two of them against the world, keeping their precious secrets while the rest of us suffer for it.”
My gaze snaps to Jade.
She’s so pale she looks like she might faint. Her mouth is open, but no words are coming out. And she’s moving, just slightly, an instinctive shift toward Logan, so subtle she probably doesn’t realize she’s doing it.
Logan’s hand twitches toward Jade, guilt flashing across his carefully blank face before he locks it down.
Just like that, the pattern clicks into place.
Jade changes the subject every time I mention Oliver. She couldn’t meet my eyes when I talked about searching the islands. She’s never said we might be able to find him—not once.
Because she and Logan have known Oliver was dead since the night of the storm.
“Is it true?” The words come out hollow. “This whole time, while I was searching, while I was hoping… you knew?”
Jade’s face crumples. “You have to understand—”
“Yes or no,” I say, flat and emotionless, like a switch has been flipped and the part of me that feels has gone dark. “Did you know Oliver was dead?”
Jade’s chin drops to her chest.
“Yes.”
I stagger, grabbing the railing again to keep from falling.
Because she knew he was dead, and she let me keep hoping.
“How did it happen?” I ask, and it comes out as barely a whisper. “How long have you known? And why didn’t you tell me?”