Page 99 of Lore of the Tides

“Cuuute.” He leaned forward. “Not to wreck the mood... but when exactly are we going to the cave?”

Lore sighed, scooping up the last of the bones. “I was thinking... tonight. When I can use my powers.”

“That works for me. That leaves time for a nap,” Hazen said, cozying back onto his bedroll.

Lore paused on the edge of the campsite, animal bones in hand. She chewed on her lip, deliberating. “Actually, I was going to see if you and Finn would go hunting. A griffin is blocking the entrance to the cave, so we will need to draw it away with something.”

A groan sounded from deep inside Hazen’s bedroll. “You’re messing with my beauty sleep, Lore!” Hazen whined as he unrolled himself with a huff, splayed out in dramatic fashion in the sand. “It takes more than genetics to reach this height of beauty.”

“Stop complaining. It will build character,” Finndryl said as he gathered supplies.

“I see why they call her a witch!” Hazen mock-whispered to Finndryl, though he winked at Lore.

“What was that?” Lore asked, faking offense.

“I said, I hope we catch something without a hitch!” the prince singsonged over his shoulder.

* * *

The males were hunting. Pytheah was gone. The quiet of the camp pressed in on Lore as she settled against the cliff wall at the back of their campsite.

Lore busied herself rolling up the bedrolls.

What would she find in the cave? What if it was a trap? Lore tightened the buckles on all three packs. Would she set foot in thereand be buried alive? Lore poured sand over the burning coals of the fire. If so, she would never see the sun again, feel the wind on her face, or marvel at the shine of stars overhead. Lore collected a sprig of herbs, the roots of a bush, the leaves of a purple flower, and the venom of a red snake and stashed them in vials, hoping she would not need them.

* * *

It took forever for the sun to set, and yet it set too quickly. Lore walked toward the nesting ground, Finndryl to her left, Hazen to her right.

The day’s activity was over, and the griffins lay on or around their nests, basking in the moonlight. Some preened their feathers, others nipped playfully at their young.

Hazen handed Lore the weasels he’d hunted. “Let’s make this quick. Those beaks look fucking sharp.”

“Lore, are you sure about this?” Finndryl asked as he unwrapped his own bundle of bloodied furs.

She hesitated, then met his gaze. “It should work.” She eyed the griffins, whose hulking forms were utterly terror inducing. “I think.” Lore coaxedSourcefrom the grimoire, urging the breeze to kick up around them, hoping the scent would draw the griffins away from the cave entrance.

Finndryl, ever graceful, took the lead, his movements as silent as the desert wind. They crept along the cliff’s edge, staying low to the ground as the griffins’ cries grew louder.

Lore flung the first weasel into the open. The griffins’ cries intensified into a hungry chorus as they descended upon the bait. She tossed another, its limp body tumbling toward the cliff’s edge. Lore watched, a pang of guilt mixed with relief as a griffin swooped down, its sharp beak snatching the carcass midair.

Finndryl threw a third and fourth, igniting a frenzy of wind, feathers, and flapping wings.

With a smile playing on her lips, she whispered, “Distraction successful,” gesturing toward the abandoned cave entrance.

Hazen eyed a carcass being fought over by two juveniles. “We had better be quick before the others realize how tasty we look.”

Finndryl nodded, his expression turning grim. “The longer we delay, the higher the risk.”

As Lore prepared to throw another, a movement caught her eye. A small, scrawny griffin chick, barely more than a fledgling, was pecking at the ground where the first weasel had fallen. Clearly the runt of the litter, its feathers dull and patchy, its pecks weak and listless, desperate hunger in its eyes. As Lore watched, one of its siblings snapped at the smaller chick before giving it a rough kick. It tried once more, but its sibling repeatedly shoved it to the side, denying it even a scrap of the feast.

It didn’t have enough strength to evenfight. Lore’s heart ached for the outcast.

“Look,” Finndryl murmured, his voice tinged with sympathy.

She couldn’t let it starve. With a quick glance at Hazen and Finndryl, she made a split-second decision.

“Throw the rest,” she whispered, “then run for the cave.” Before they could protest, she moved forward with the last remaining weasel while chaos ensued as griffins jostled toward the feast. Lore carefully approached the chick, her movements slow and deliberate. It watched her with wary eyes, its beak slightly open in a silent plea. With a gentle, underhanded throw, she tossed the last weasel right to it, and it snatched it up with surprising speed. Lore held her breath as she watched the runt devour its prize, waiting for the inevitable backlash, but to her surprise, the other griffins seemed to have forgotten about the runt as they squabbled.