Page 15 of Lore of the Tides

Syrelle had used Lore from the start.

From the first moment he had seen her in the apothecary, he had manipulated her. Perhaps that alone she could have forgiven.But since the day he had chosen to appear as Asher, to lie to her, betray her—how genuine could those feelings truly be, when they had bloomed from the rot of his own greed? Any affection he had shown her, any feelings he may have felt, were forever coated with the bitter tang of his own selfish desires.

Lore, despite the reality of her situation, wanted to believe that the Syrelle version of himself was the lie. That he was treating her with indifference so that Coretha couldn’t use it against him; after all, that would only further hurt his desire to beat her out as heir.

Lore wanted more than anything for Asher to be his true self—the joyful, teasing male who cared for his friends and knew what it was to be trod upon by those born to privilege. But that version of him could not coexist with the one that plucked a human from her home and thrust her into jeopardy all for his own gain, not caring if it consumed her in the process.

Anger seethed within Lore, swirling, smoking, choking her from the inside out. She didn’t want to feel this anymore. She had to stop thinking ofwhySyrelle had done what he did.

It would drive her to madness.

She could no more comprehend the cruelty of his mind than the fledgling bird when the cat killed it for sport.

She needed to focus on what shecouldchange.

Getting to Finn, finishing the path she’d started, and acquiring the second book before Syrelle. Those she could do, because she had no other choice. Failure was not an option.

She didn’t know how she would manage it, but she knew with certainty that she could not let an Alytherian bond toAuroradeland harness its might.

She blocked out the sight of Syrelle’s ticking jaw, his familiar gaze, and Thadrik’s heavy, irritating breathing in the corner behind her, where she knew he stood across from his commander, itching to use his knife on her.

She focused on memories of Finndryl.

On his rare, crooked smile. His graceful hands as he chopped ginger, placing a piece on his tongue to savor while he worked. The sway of his locs with each practiced movement of the knife. How he looked in the dappled light of his favorite place, the Wilds, behind his house. The way Finndryl’s face softened,almostvulnerable, as he dozed with his head propped on his crossed arms while Lore foraged close by for herbs and mushrooms.

Always close by, Finndryl wouldn’t let her stray far—worried about her, though he’d never confess to it.

The sensation of his muscled shoulder pressed to hers.

His low, rumbling voice weaving stories while she burned with fever, freeing her from the poisons’ nightmares.

Good girl.Her abdomen clenched as she remembered his praise in the woods.

The scrying magic took hold, and Lore was no longer gazing at a bowl of water in her hands, nor at a mirror or more accurately, a window. Her magic, kindled by the feeling of being close to Finn, protected by Finn... Lore tumbled into the bowl itself, her consciousness separating from her body entirely, moving through the water as if she were spectral, a ghost.

Separated from her physical self, she cast her awareness throughout the ship; surprise flicked through her as she felt the presence of many people. A few gathered in the galley for dinner; more lounged on hammocks in what she assumed was either the barracks for the guards or the lodgings of the sailors, she couldn’t be sure—they were strangers to her, and their forms were obscure, unclear, as if she could see their shadows but not who cast them.

She moved on, pushing past the sleeping forms, moving through a few storage rooms, the armory, and then she felt a tug of something familiar.

She sniffed. Smelling spice, the hint of something smoky like whiskey or aged bourbon. She pulled on that thread and grasped hold of it with her mind, this thread that she and Finn had builtfiber by fiber as they’d laughed and worked in the tavern, weaving themselves together. Round and round the loom the thread looped, until, when they fought, united in the tower, it had tied itself into a knot, binding them.

She followed the thread down yet another level. It seemed as though Yissa, the trickster god, had designed this ship, with its twisting corridors and seemingly endless levels. Until finally—there!

His form was not shadowy or hazy; he blazed with a sunlike brightness that astonished Lore—warming her from the inside out. Finally, she saw him, clear as day.

Lore could cry.

Finn was safe. Whole.

Here.

Chapter 5

Sweat glistened on Finndryl’s bare shoulders and back, contouring each corded and flexing muscle, illuminating the power in their every ripple, a testament to the raw strength he wielded with each deliberate movement. Finndryl held on to one of the wooden beams slatted across the low ceiling of his room, suspending in the air with just the grip of his hands for leverage as he pulled himself up again and again.

Lore’s gaze swept over him hungrily, greedy to see that he was alive and really, truly, here on this ship with her. The vision of him was sharp, vibrant, as though she were standing in the room with him.

His ankles were crossed, and his black pants, woven from thin cloth, did nothing to conceal the outline of his muscular thighs.