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While each village seems to have its own spattering of important days scattered throughout the year (see Chapter Seven for as comprehensive a list as I was able to assemble), there is one day every local on the island celebrates: The Flame of Life Festival.

Akeisa: Religious Figures and Rites

by Guildmaster Klement

Einar had grown up on stories of the Flame of Life Festival. It had been one of Petya’s favorite days of the year, a vibrant celebration of life and devotion to the goddess. He’d even tried to convince her to attend this one, hoping that the knowledge that something so beloved had survived the centuries might banish some of the pain she carried. But Petya was unwavering—she would not set foot onto the shores of Rahvekya while an Imperial still sat on the throne.

So it was probably just as well that Guildmaster Klement had sent his regrets, pleading an unexpected obligation. Einar suspected that the man had been more interested in talking to Petya than him, anyway. There had been hints that an invitation to come to the ship and speak with her would be most welcome, but Einar had pretended not to understand.

Klement’s fascination might be well-meant, but Petya had enough painful memories to deal with without some overly curious scholar mining the shards of her past.

Petya may not have joined them, but Einar knew she would still celebrate the day in private. For many years, he’d done the same thing, taking a moment to light a candle and spare a thought for those lost to him. He’d never imagined he’d get to actually attend the festival. Or that the ocean goddess most on his mind wouldn’t be the one of ancient legend, but the one whose lips he could still taste.

The festivities here in Aynalka had spilled out onto the beach, where they’d cooked seafood in giant pits in the sand and opened cask upon cask of sweet wine and crisp cider. The people had feasted as the sun dipped low over distant waters, with music and laughter and drinks that flowed freely and heated the blood.

But that was only the first part of the celebration. The part where children danced and screamed in delight, and ate far too many of the sugar-glazed cakes baked with the spring’s generous tealberry harvest. When the first stars lit the sky overhead, the children would be tucked safely into their beds, and the people would finally ignite the massive bonfire that waited on the beach.

Then the villagers would celebrate the more carnal side of life. Einar and Naia would celebrate it, too—and find out if the Lover cared to join them.

Naia was seated next to him at the table, her soft warmth pressed against his side making it impossible for him to focus on dinner. Even though Aleksi sat on her other side, he proved an equal distraction—Einar had spent centuries listening to the Lover’s warm laughter and smoky voice, but anticipation had turned both into a newly pleasurable torment.

He’d spent much of his life navigating by the stars, but he had never craved a glimpse of them quite so much as he did now.

Across the table, one of the village elders was telling Aleksi and Naia about the origins of the festival. Jenz was easily in his ninth decade but still had a full head of snow-white hair braided with leather strips and adorned with small chips of goddess-touched glass. His pale skin had been weathered by sun and sea, and his eyes were the perfect aqua of Siren’s Bay. There was a look to the shape of his features—a heavy brow, strong jaw, a bold nose that angled sharply down to a mouth made for laughter—that was achingly familiar.

The old man reminded him of Petya.

“In these times, it isn’t unusual to see a storm this late in the season.” His voice was deep and easy, with the cadence of a practiced storyteller. “But in ancient days, when the goddess walked these shores and the island bloomed green even in winter, sailors felt safe enough venturing north to fish the waters of the Great Reef. So the whole island was shocked when a storm whipped through, blowing hard enough to tear the very roofs from their cottages. They knew this was no ordinary gale. Only the storm god in a temper could cause such destruction.”

Naia propped her chin on her hands, her eyes alight with fascination. “And this is why you celebrate?”

The old man chuckled. “I won’t say I’ve never lifted a bottle and spit into the teeth of a storm in my day, but that’s a different kind of celebration. No, today we honor the goddess.”

He lifted his glass as if toasting the goddess, but there was a look in his bright-blue eyes, one Einar had seen reflected back from every person who had shyly approached their table. A look that said maybe, tonight, they were also celebrating Naia . “The goddess knew the sailors would be lost without her aid. So she told the people to prepare a great feast, for their friends would surely be hungry upon their return. And then she walked into the sea.”

“To spit into the teeth of the storm herself.”

Jenz grinned at Naia, as if she’d answered a trick question. “The goddess would never allow the storm god to take what was hers. And every sailor who’s ever drawn first breath on this island belongs to her.”

Naia’s eyes sparkled as she refilled the man’s wine. “So what happened?”

The ancient sailor turned those piercing eyes on Einar, and it was his turn to be tested. “Well, boy? Do you know the legend?”

“Of course,” Einar replied. “The villagers lit signal fires on the beaches to guide their sailors home. The fires burned for three days before they glimpsed the first of the sails.”

Jenz beamed at him like a proud grandfather. “So they did. The goddess had met the storm god and demanded that he release her people and take his foul mood elsewhere. Not being used to such outright defiance, the storm god relented. All seventeen vessels made it back home, with the goddess at the helm of the flagship. They had taken such a beating that not a single ship was seaworthy, but they rode the waves sweet as can be until everyone was safely back on land.”

Naia smiled, looking thoroughly enchanted. “That’s beautiful.”

“I’ve always thought so.” The old storyteller reached across the table to pat her hand. “It’s an honor to have another with us who can hear the moods of the sea, especially on this night.”

Naia raised her glass. “To the sea,” she murmured. “And to having good reasons to celebrate.”

“To the sea,” Jenz echoed, and finished his drink. Then he set his cup down. “Speaking of celebration, I’ll let you three enjoy the sunset. Those of us with old bones and achy joints leave this night to the young.” He grinned as he pushed himself to his feet. “Besides, someone has to keep the children tucked up in their beds.”

As the old man took his leave, Aleksi observed, “I can’t decide if that sounded promising or ominous.”

“Probably depends on your mood.” Einar propped one elbow on the table so he could have a clear view of Aleksi’s face—and his reaction. It was hard to keep his voice casual when so much hope rode on his next words. “And on whether you’re up for a little wicked revelry tonight.”

“When am I not?”

The words were flippant. Automatic. Which didn’t mean they weren’t true, but it almost certainly meant that the normally perceptive Lover had not guessed at their motivations for the evening.

Einar had tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter. That there was no path tonight that ended in defeat, when Naia was already won. He’d told himself that Aleksi was a secondary goal—a gift for Naia, or a way to ensure that she lacked for nothing. Perhaps he simply wanted to share with her the joy of an experience deeply coveted by so many—few who were blessed with the Lover’s touch ever forgot the experience, no matter how many centuries passed. Einar had not.

But the lies he had told himself were unraveling. The tension rising in him now was far too exquisite to be anything but deeply, painfully personal.

If he’d had a quiet moment alone, he might have been able to find the truth at the heart of his tangled feelings. But a priestess appeared out of the swirl of people, her status made clear by her flowing sea green robes and the bronze diadem that circled her forehead. “My lords. My lady.” She inclined her head in a gesture of respect before sweeping her hair back over her shoulder. “I’m Riika, the Flame Bearer for Aynalka. Normally, it would be my duty to light the bonfire, but we all agreed. We would be honored if our lost prince would serve as Flame Bearer this year.”

It was the first time Einar had ever heard the word prince applied to him without feeling the pinch of it. Perhaps it was because the lost part seemed so much more important to her. On this day of all days, those who celebrated would cherish the proof that, even if it took thousands of years, the goddess would always bring their loved ones home.

Well, a goddess would.

He glanced at Aleksi and Naia. The Lover only smiled in encouragement, and Naia touched his shoulder. “Go,” she whispered. “It’s all right.”

Even knowing that it would only fuel the villagers’ speculation, he couldn’t stop himself from catching her hand and lifting it to his mouth for a kiss. She smiled as his lips brushed the backs of her fingers, a sweet flush coming to her cheeks, and it was harder than he wanted to admit to make himself rise and follow the priestess.

At the edge of the festivities stood a polished table surrounded by a protective circle of white-haired elders. Seashells and tealberry blossoms lay strewn around a tall bronze lantern. Sigils had been hammered into it—the seashell of the goddess, the kraken that flew on his own banners, swooping lines that looked like the waves crashing against the shore. Delicate glass shielded a flame, the distinct teal color that came from oil harvested from the great swordfish that thrived only in the coldest seas.

“The Flame of Life,” Riika said reverently. Two of the elders parted so she could pick up the lantern and cradle it in her hands. “Come.”

As she turned, Einar realized that much of the laughter and chatter had ceased. Silence reigned, and it seemed as though every eye in the village was on them as they walked to where dirt and grass gave way to the rock and sand. Tiny wooden structures draped in colorful bits of fabric lined the high tide line in either direction, each with its own small fire pit in front of it where driftwood and kindling waited.

“For the night’s revelries,” Riika explained with a smile, following his gaze. “Not all celebrate in a carnal way, and many will choose to return to their own beds. But it is considered good fortune to pass the night beneath the stars. Each fire is a beacon, welcoming our lost loved ones home. And it’s a celebration of new love.”

Einar tore his gaze away from the little makeshift tents—and thoughts of all the ways he’d like to celebrate beneath the stars this night—and glanced at her. “New love?”

“Mmm.” Riika’s eyes were too bright, as if he’d walked into a trap. “When the goddess bargained with the storm god, she won more than her ships. He followed her back to this island, his heart already half in her keeping. So when lovers celebrate this night, they also give thanks that our goddess found someone who could cherish her, the way she always cherished us.”

Einar had vague memories of that part of the story. As a young boy, the idea of braving a terrifying storm had been more interesting than the part about falling in love. But he remembered the tale ... and he knew what Riika wanted from him.

“You know, don’t you?” she said softly. “You know the storm god’s real nature. His name.”

Yes, he knew. He’d chosen his sigil for his ship, out of arrogance or ego or simply because, in his heart, he’d always wanted to be as fierce a protector as the man in Petya’s stories. “The Kraken.”

Satisfaction lit her eyes. “It will be good, to have the Kraken and the goddess celebrate their love tonight.”

Einar opened his mouth to correct her, but she’d already turned to continue toward the massive tower of stacked driftwood. Riika stopped a dozen paces away, where a slender torch had been stabbed into the sand. The strips of cloth wrapped around it were soaked in more of that distinctive oil, the scent unmistakable as Einar obeyed her gesture and picked it up.

“Deep in the heart of the island lies a temple where our most devoted spend their lives guarding the original flame.” Her voice rose, and Einar realized the entire village was spread out behind them, gazes fixed on the priestess as she lifted the lantern high.

“This is a bit of that fire, saved from the very ones our ancestors lit at the goddess’s behest. Every year, all across this island, the Flame Bearers gather at the temple to bring a piece of that undying flame back to kindle our own sacred fires in memory of the goddess and her miracle. And every year we bring back the ashes, newly imbued with our hope and faith, to feed the original flame. And so it has burned in an unbroken line for longer than time has been counted.”

Riika turned and twisted something at the bottom of the lantern. The glass opened on the side facing Einar, and she held it up, her gaze making it clear enough what she expected of him.

He lowered the torch, and the flame all but leapt to its head. Teal fire engulfed it, and Einar raised it high enough for the villagers to see before starting toward the waiting tower. The flames burned hotter than they should have, the heat of it curling around him and sinking into his bones.

This little spark of fire had existed for longer than he had. Perhaps even longer than Aleksi had. It had survived the sundering of the continents, along with the destruction that catastrophe had wreaked. These people had sheltered it as their world froze over, had protected it while the Empire waged war against them for generations. They’d held it safe when their queen and her king consort had fallen, cherished this flame even after their conquerors had sent a literal god of ice to rule over their lands.

Einar came from a people with stubborn determination and unyielding faith. Petya had raised him with their values, instilled in him their unfaltering love for the sea that gave them life and the land that they called home.

But, try as she might, she had never been able to teach him the final lesson—to love with an open heart. He knew affection and camaraderie. Though he had never been destined to take a throne, he’d learned the weight of responsibility—first to the small family Petya had made for him, and then to his crew.

He knew how to fight to protect what was his, but only from a distance. Only with warmth and hope and the expectation of anything more tucked firmly away.

The Kraken’s heart might not have been gone, but it had certainly been frozen. A block of ice lodged in his chest, protecting him from loss. His entire world had been torn away from him as an infant.

He had not been willing to give anyone the power to do the same to him as a man.

As he lifted the torch and set the waiting tower alight, something within him sparked, too. It burned through him with a purifying fire both ancient and enduring, cracking the ice around his heart with a finality that hurt.

The first agonizing beat of his heart pushed that fire through his veins. He threw the torch onto the rising inferno and turned slowly, recognizing the final truth as his gaze sought and found the objects of his obsession.

He’d always thought the Kraken was the frozen one, a monster that protected itself with the chill safety of the deep. But the original Kraken had loved, and fiercely. Which meant that this ice had always come from the human in Einar, from a man who had lost so much that he was terrified of losing more. The ice had merely imprisoned the Kraken along with the man.

The bonfire roared behind him, flames licking toward the sky as the stars unfurled overhead like diamonds. The flickering light danced across Aleksi and Naia, caressing their faces in a way he envied.

After centuries of confinement, the monster was loose.

And it wanted to claim what was his .