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A t the edge of the newly formed island, Arc lifted his hand and turned it over, watching for what he had seen off and on during the last two days.

And there it was. The flesh at the end of his fingers and on his wrist glimmered like the sea in the moonlight.

An orange cast lined the borders of the strange markings, fluctuations that came and went with no apparent reason.

Spelled salt water didn’t injure elves. He hadn’t run into any poisonous plants of late. How could he when they’d been in the North where so little grew? His mind listed off the various curses he’d studied in scrolls and in his lab in Illumahrah. Nothing fit.

As King of the Elves, he was the most powerful of the healers. If he couldn’t heal himself, no one could.

Trying again, he imagined a cool breeze sliding through his bones and blood, a spring’s refreshing gust. He mentally pushed the imaginary healing to his afflicted hand, visualizing the discolored flesh and interior damage returning to a healthy glow.

Gathering the magic of his elven crown, he fed the power into the healing process, but as soon as the imagined gust of magic hit the edge of his cursed hand, it fell away, dissolving.

His shoulders slumped, and he exhaled, wishing he had access to the scrolls, scrolls that were forever ruined beneath the ocean.

None of the scrolls he’d read mentioned anything about a sickness such as this.

Except for the orange hue here and there, the affliction wasn’t too visually different from the color of dragon flesh affected by spelled salt water.

But the way the condition came and went…

He shoved his hands through his hair. Rigel and Haldus might have known what to do.

He should’ve asked about this before leaving.

Instead, he’d stubbornly hoped the condition would fade, that it was some lingering magic from earlier battles with the sea folk.

Perhaps a few of the sea kynd had tipped their coral spears with a venom previously unseen during their interactions.

Arc scanned the expanse of land, hoping to spot a medicinal plant that might be tried against this condition. Aside from a cluster of stunted scrub pines miraculously healthy despite their time underwater, the land was bare.

Kyril loped to his side and sat back on his haunches.

The gryphon’s head blocked out the sun, creating a pleasant spot of shade.

Arc set his hand against the gryphon, and the creature twisted its head, eyes focusing on Arc’s diseased—or cursed—hand.

Kyril stretched his neck as if he were going to examine the area.

Arc pulled away. “Let it be. We have enough to worry about without fretting over a few elven fingers.”

The gryphon nudged his head lovingly before trotting off to join the group.

Arc remained, looking over the edge of the new island.

Salt water churned below, far enough away to protect them from sharks or other such water beasts, but the distance would be nothing to a sea kynd.

If Arc and the rest of them were discovered, it would be a slaughter.

Perhaps he could concoct a defense to thwart attack and raise an alarm if any disturbed the area.

Closing his eyes, he expanded his senses.

The wind pushed this way and that, its haunting voice whispering about arguments fought in the distant past and calling his name in its particular fashion.

The wind’s essence, cool against his mind and full of information, showed his mind possibilities based on history.

When he, Vahly, and Nix had fought the old elven king, the evil Mattin, the old king had used air magic to create a wall of darkness.

Those against Mattin had thrashed against the slightly transparent clouds of gray, unable to reach the evil king or to help during the fighting.

The barrier had been horrifying, but perhaps such an air spellwork could be used for good?

Arc pictured the wall that the old King Mattin had created, its cloudy depths, its sticky strength.

Magic twisted inside Arc like a creature that longed to be free.

He opened his eyes and extended his fingers.

Dark gray magic curled away from his hands to form a wall all along the island.

Lines of heat and a deep ache burst across Arc’s forehead and through the afflicted hand. Gasping, he went down on one knee.

Vahly ran to him. “What’s wrong? And what is this?” Her gaze traveled the perimeter.

“It’s for our protection. From the sea.” He coughed and got to his feet with Vahly’s help, feeling foolish and hiding his affected hand in the folds of his cloak.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurting because you created this?”

“I’m fine,” he lied. His stomach turned and his knees felt weak, as if something sapped his strength. But he didn’t think it had anything to do with this magic because the spellwork hadn’t felt evil in and of itself. He had been wrong before though, and perhaps he was again.

Vahly rubbed his back. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes.” He touched her soft cheek.

A smile stretched her rosy lips, and he grinned.

“I don’t believe you, elf,” she said. “You’re just being brave again and keeping secrets as you elves love to do. Don’t think I’m letting this go forever.”

“Come.” Arc took her arm. His body warmed at her closeness, at the fresh, green scent of her magic-touched skin.

Her lips truly looked ripe as berries, and his own mouth parted as he imagined a day when they could be finished with war and grief and simply enjoy one another.

“Let’s rest. The wall will alert us if anything attempts to attack. ”

Vahly grumbled but came along. She looked beautiful when she was grouchy.

The group rested and ate, talking and playing dice and doing their best to ignore the dangers literally all around them. He asked Nix and Vahly to teach him a new dice game, and he laughed in all the right places as he won every imaginary coin they put out to bet.

But the strange affliction stained every moment.