Page 196 of Daughter of the Serpent

This was hers.

She had taken every step. Every wound. Every betrayal. Every heartbreak had been a catalyst to bring her here, to this very moment.

And it was at that moment she realized that she was not broken.

She was remade.

She smiled once, brief and hopeful, leaving Godvick behind as she moved toward the ships.

Toward the sea.

Toward her fate.

Sylvie’s hand greeted the wooden railing like an old friend. Each step deeper into the vessel marking a quiet triumph - a testament to all she had endured, and the impossible feat she had overcome. Around her, the longship stirred with life: oars groaned in their locks, the sails above snapped impatiently in the morning wind, and the mingled scents of salt, sweat, and pine filled her lungs.

Her fellow delegates scurried across the deck with a certain urgency, preparing for departure. Rope coils were flung, shields fastened, packs secured. The sea lapped gently against the hull, as if awaiting. Cora stood among them, wrapped in layered furs, a freshly honed axe gleaming at her hip. The empty space where her left hand had once been was stark, but it hadn’t diminished her - it had forged something harder in its place. Her gaze swept the horizon, sharp and unyielding.

But Sylvie saw it.

A flicker of fear.

They all wore it.

Not openly, but beneath every clenched jaw, every forced smile.It pulsed among them like a current - low, quiet, dangerous. Because this time, it wasn’t mortals they would face.

It was the gods themselves.

A shift in the air pulled Sylvie’s attention.

Movement to her left.

Elder Farga passed by, his long red robes billowing softly with the sea breeze. He met her gaze momentarily as he stepped past her, his eyes narrowing in displeasure, a leather satchel held tightly in his grip.

Of all the ships set to leave Mardova’s shores, of course he had chosen this one.

It was customary that a selection of the elders join them on the island of the gods. It was a way in which they could maintain order, even while away from Mardovian shores. But elder Farga’s presence prickled along her skin like a warning.

There was something in the cold, cunning way he looked at her, as if weighing her worth and finding it lacking. Something in the way his fingers, long and bone - thin, clutched the bundle tight against his side, as if guarding something precious.

The wind shifted, catching the flap of the worn leather satchel, revealing a flash of something gold, and pulsing with life.

A horn.

Its surface was adorned with intricate runes that radiated with magic, and even at the sight she could feel the energy from it sharp against her skin.

The horn of Valentus, Sylvie's mind whispered in recognition. Though she had never laid eyes on it before, she had heard tales of its legendary power. Crafted by the gods themselves, its sound was said to be both deadly and maddening to those of ill intent, capable of warding off evil and repelling magical creatures alike.

Sylvie wondered why elder Farga would possess such a potent artifact, and what purpose he intended to use it for. The mysteries surrounding the horn only deepened her sense of apprehension, as she grappled with the implications of its presence aboard.

“Sylvie!”

The voice rang like wind chimes - bright, familiar. She turned and found Thyra weaving through the crowd, her face lit with relief as she stepped aboard.

“I’ve been lookingeverywherefor you!”

Gone was the girl draped in robes and soft linens. Thyra now wore a warrior’s leathers, her hair braided back tight, a blade strapped to her thigh and a heavy satchel slung over one shoulder. She looked older somehow - ready.

Sylvie blinked hard, forcing her festering thoughts away. “Here I am.”