67. Willow
Chapter 67
Willow
O ne moment, I’m wrenching my sword from the Graftspawn’s grotesque body. The next, it explodes into a crimson mist, splattering my face with warm, iron-tinged droplets. Before I can wipe the gore from my eyes, the ground beneath me lurches.
Fissures spider across the arena floor, water gushing forth in violent geysers. My gaze locks with Geraldine’s, terror mirrored in her wide eyes. Max clutches the Youngies close, their faces pale with fear.
Then we plummet.
Water engulfs me, a roaring, arctic embrace that steals my breath. My body instinctively seizes, lungs burning as they fight the urge to inhale. The current drags me down, down, down, my silver hair billowing around me like specters in the murky depths.
For a heartbeat, an eerie calm washes over me. The icy water numbs the throbbing gash in my side, almost soothing. Then gravity shifts.
I’m caught in a maelstrom, tumbling end over end. Electricity crackles across my skin, setting every nerve alight. Bile rises in my throat as nausea rolls. My fingers clench desperately around my sword’s grip, the only anchor in this watery hell.
Just as my vision starts to darken, I breach the surface. Air floods my starved lungs as I gasp and sputter, blinking furiously. Shadowy walls loom around me, their surfaces pulsing with otherworldly purple bioluminescence. Most of the light, however, emanates from beneath the water’s surface—crisp and bright, like liquid starlight.
My limbs flail as I fight to stay afloat, panic clawing at my chest. Then my boots scrape against something solid. Sand. A ledge. Hope surges as I drag myself through the shallows, fingernails digging into gritty sand.
I twist around, still half-submerged, and freeze. Above me—or is it below?—I glimpse the shimmering image of the fort, its trees and columns impossibly inverted. My mind reels. This isn’t some underground cavern system. It’s as if reality itself has been turned inside out.
Splashing draws my eye. Others are coming through.
“Over here!” I call out, my voice echoing strangely off the cavern walls. Relief floods me as familiar faces break the water’s surface. Geraldine’s dark hair plasters her skin as she swims toward me, Max close behind. He helps pull out Colin and his friends. Those gloves give him abnormal strength. It’s so good to see him embracing them. The Youngies cling to each other, their frightened whimpers carrying across the water. Becky emerges, coughing violently, supported by Heath.
As I help drag them to shore, movement catches my eye. Looking more feral than I’ve ever seen, Alfie scrambles to his feet and bolts down a shadowy tunnel without a backward glance.
“Coward,” I mutter, the word tasting bitter on my tongue.
I turn my attention back to the group and conduct a frantic headcount. Several exhibitors, clearly deciding they’re better off alone, dash off in various directions—notably, different from the one Alfie chose. Their departures leave us with about forty remaining.
“You’re bleeding,” Geraldine says, her voice tight with concern. She gestures to my side, where the Graftspawn’s claws had raked me earlier.
I glance down, surprised to see the wound knitting itself closed before my eyes. “That’s . . . strange,” I murmur, running my fingers over the newly healed skin. “In Elphyne, water is a rich source of magic. It has healing properties, but . . .”
“Our wounds aren’t healing,” Max points out, wincing as he examines a nasty gash on his arm.
A chill runs down my spine. Is this another sign that I’m not entirely cut off from the Well? But why would my mother let me believe I was mortal? Unless . . . she foretold this moment years ago. She knows I’ll be allowed in this exhibition if everyone thinks I’m mortal. Her psychic abilities showed her my arrival in Avorlorna. She even knew I would be at Shadowfall Keep.
I push the thoughts aside as the other exhibitors gather around me, their faces a mix of fear and expectation. “What’s next?” Becky asks, wringing out her sopping hair.
Their gazes settle on me, heavy with unspoken trust. We’re supposed to be competitors, yet here they are, looking to me for guidance. The realization sends a flutter of both pride and terror through my chest.
“The scrolls,” I say, remembering Alfie’s fixation. “Does anyone have one?”
Geraldine produces a scroll from her sodden pocket, carefully unrolling it beside a patch of glowing moss. Max leans in, his eyes widening. “It’s a map of Nocturna—the Subterranean,” he says, voice hushed with awe. “But it’s . . . It’s Avorlorna in reverse.”
I peer at the parchment, my breath catching as I take in the familiar yet alien landscape. A sinister structure labeled “Court of Nightmares” looms where the Court of Dreams should be. The Nexus has been replaced by something called “The Schism.”
“I assumed the Subterranean would be tunnels or something,” I say. “I’ve never seen something like this before.”
“Maybe this is where the Folk slumbered for all those years,” Geraldine suggests.
As we watch, the map comes to life, glowing faintly. A pulsing dot shows our location—inside the Schism—a line snakes across the parchment, leading to a spot marked with an X.
“That must be the treasure we’re supposed to steal,” Heath says, then points at another symbol—a second watergate. “That’s our ticket back to the Nexus and safety.”
But something nags at me.
“Alfie ran in the opposite direction.” I point towards the tunnel he disappeared down. “Towards the Court of Nightmares.”
A heated debate breaks out among the exhibitors. Some argue we should follow the map to the treasure, while others insist we need to investigate why Alfie had different information. The underlying current of fear is visceral—no one wants to venture deeper into enemy territory if they don’t have to. Heath pointed out the watergate is just after the X.
“Willow,” Geraldine says softly, her eyes meeting mine. “What will you wish for if you win?”
I hesitate, acutely aware of the resonance stones broadcasting our every word. I can’t voice my desire to rescue Fox, not with all of Avorlorna listening. Instead, I deflect. “What about you?”
“Your magic,” she replies without hesitation. “You should wish for your magic back.”
Her words trigger a memory—Alfie’s cryptic statement about seeing “Her” in the Subterranean. A chill runs down my spine as a terrifying thought occurs to me. “What if Titania is down here?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “What if she’s in a dreamscape down here? How much do we know about her slumber?”
Before anyone can respond, a bone-chilling shriek echoes through the cavern. Horror dawns on us all simultaneously—if we fell through the watergate, so did the Nightmares from the arena. An exhibitor breaks free from our group and runs for the pool.
“Wait!” I shout, but it’s too late. Something darts out from the shadows and snags his ankle, dragging him, clawing, and screaming into the water.
“We can’t go back the way we came,” I say, my mind racing. “We need to move. Now.”
We run, splashing and inhuman growls spurring us on—a flash of light in my periphery. I spin, slicing with my sword—it cuts through something gelatinous that explodes in a slime shower. Damn, this sword is good. I’ll have to thank Bodin again. Each splat emits a dark, inky blot that floats upward toward the cavernous ceiling.
Shit. Blots.
I glance over my shoulder. Exhibitors bottleneck at the narrow tunnel. More shadows move in the cavern. I hear a clicking—like those spider things. We’re out of time. There’s only one choice left.
I turn to Geraldine and Max, my heart heavy. “Lead the others out,” I say, my hand moving to the charm hiding my pheromones. “I’ll lure the Nightmares in the opposite direction.”
Geraldine’s eyes widen in protest. “No, Willow. You can’t?—”
“Maybe I’ll be lucky and catch up with Alfie before they reach me.”
“It should be you finding the treasure,” she insists, her voice breaking. “You’ve lost so much already. Don’t sacrifice yourself for us.”
I manage a smile, touched by her concern. “Maybe this is where I’m meant to be,” I tell her, conviction growing with each word. “You’ll make the right wish.”
Before she can argue further, I rip off the charm. The effect is immediate—my scent, amplified by my heat, fills the air. The Nightmares’ shrieks take on a hungry edge, just like in the stables with Emrys.
“Go!” I yell, already sprinting down the tunnel Alfie disappeared into. I don’t look back. The pounding of my heart is matched only by the thunderous footfalls of the Terrors as they give chase, drawn inexorably to my intoxicating scent.
The others will be safe. Triumph surges until I realize the bioluminescence is fading, and I plunge deeper into darkness. I hope I haven’t made a terrible mistake.