Page 52 of Stars Above the Never Sea (The Last Faeyte #1)

Where there was once wood is now twisted darkness, the plants consumed by the black moss-like growth.

I run my fingers over it, feeling the roughened edges.

The texture reminds me of a healing cut.

Of the scab that forms, and I grimace before pulling a little of the moss away from a blackened branch to see what’s beneath.

Oozing black liquid drips, splashing the ground as I turn the moss over in my hands. Lift it to my nose. This is the scent from the dock, the one I could not place.

It smells like decay. “How widespread is this?”

“It started with patches, here and there. Now, though, it’s everywhere, or close enough. Enough that people are unable to take anything from the land. Some tried to eat the lichen when the land failed, but it didn’t end well.”

My stomach turns at the thought of putting it anywhere close to my mouth. “Poisonous?”

“It seems so, but only to digest.” Callan brushes the moss from my hand, his face grim.

Taking my fingers, he uses his shirt to clean off the sticky sap.

“It begins with a low fever that grows into delirium. Screaming, crying, beyond reason or discussion. When the delirium ends, the sole thing left is despair. They lose all hope, all thought of anything beyond returning to Ellas. Before we understood what was happening, we had to build the wall to stop the endless wave of people just walking off the edge. Throwing themselves into the Sea of Stars.”

Nausea surges at the thought, and I find myself rubbing my hand against my leg as Callan helps me up.

“There is very little hope left,” he says quietly. “Petyr’s court lose themselves in music and dancing. Feigned happiness and gaiety while the world around them slowly dies. But the town does not have that luxury. So they carry on, but every day becomes a little harder.”

His words blur against reality as we arrive at the outskirts.

The wall pushes closer again, creating a tight, constricting barrier that runs around the back of the homes that stretch out in front of us.

They, at least, have not changed so much.

Although there are many more of them than there used to be.

The mud and stone-built dwellings run in a spiral that I know leads to the hearth at the center. Beside me, Callan is silent as we walk.

There are few faces to be seen. Fewer still bother to look up as we pass them, and none that are familiar.

Here, on the edges of town, there seems to be no hope at all in the slumped figures that lean against doorways, wrapped in oiled cloth to protect them from the bite of the wind that skitters against my face.

We follow the winding path as it curves, and the numbers grow. More eyes take in my face, some of them glimmering with the vibrant reds and purples of Caelumnai maegis, others dulled and exhausted. Callan raises his hand to some, staying close to my side.

I glance at him as we approach the hearth. “They seem to know you.”

He’s not looking at me, his eyes focused on where the path opens up ahead. “I prefer to spend as little time around Petyr and his sycophants as possible.”

Understandable. Nodding, I tug the frock-coat around me to ward off the chill.

I stop on the edge of the vast, open space.

Surprised at the familiarity. The hearth glows even now, the giant fire in the centre of the stone courtyard continually lit to be used by those in the town.

Even now, a cluster of townsfolk are standing to the side, prodding at giant pots that curl steam into the air as they hang from iron bars. “They use it for communal eating now?”

“It works out easier, with the rationing. Everyone eats together.” Callan points to the rows of roughly hewn wooden benches. My fingers curl as if I can still feel the splinters I used to get from them. “Breakfast and dinner, and then the Travelers—those who remain—usually speak after dinner.”

Memories bring an ache to my chest that has me blinking quickly as I look away. My breath catches as I take in the far side of the courtyard.

Two sturdy upright posts staked in the ground support a dark wooden crossbeam that runs over the top. Several stairs lead up to the makeshift staging area. And above it, a thick, coarse-looking rope swings idly, nudged by the wind.

The breeze against my face is no longer comforting. My voice is tight. “What is this?”

When I cross to it, he follows me. There are more eyes on us as I stride closer. Callan catches my arm, but I shrug him off.

“ This does not belong here .” My voice no longer sounds like my own.

Callan pushes in front of me, blocking my view as he grips the top of my arms. “Selene. Look at me.”

They dare to spill more blood on Hala’s ground.

My eyes lower, my vision wavering. My words are my own once more. “Petyr is so desperate to save everyone that he built his own gallows for a people already dying?”

He placed it at the once-beating heart of a broken town.

Where people gather, and laugh, and mourn, and eat.

Where they cannot escape the threat constantly lingering over their heads.

Where so much blood has already been shed.

If I tilt my head, I can almost see the stone glisten once more with the blood of the townspeople who fought on that day. “What could this possibly be used for?”

Callan stares down at me. His jaw is tight, the bronze heavy with the weight of his brother’s actions.

“Treason. Refusal to yield to the reaping process for the military. Should someone attempt to escape over the wall and be caught in the process, the punishment is swift. Theft of crown goods, including supplies brought over on Volatus . The early years here were difficult. More dangerous. They don’t get much use nowadays. ”

Petyr is not a god. He is not Caelum, nor Hala. He has no authority over life or death, and yet he wields it anyway.

A hand brushes my cheek, but I twist away from it. “Desperate men do desperate things. I told you this.”

Gesturing at that rope, I step back, putting distance between us. “You also said that evil men do evil things. Which is this supposed to be?”

“Petyr is not the whole of Asteria—”

“Petyr does not belong in the same gods-damned breath as Asteria,” I hiss back at him. My hand flies out, pointing at the people edging closer as my voice raises. “They are dying because of him, and others like him, and yet he needs more death. Always more, Callan.”

Petyr did not give the order. Not that day. But he would have. It’s written in the exhausted eyes of the people around us, in the gallows that stand with stained straw and embedded footsteps beneath it.

I study Callan’s face. His skin blanches. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m one of them .” He almost spits out the word. “We’re doing the best we can—”

“Are you?” My voice is shrill. I tear my eyes away, squeeze them closed, although the image of the gallows remains. “What exactly are you doing, Callan?”

This male. This man, who carried an entire ship across the Sea of Stars and almost killed himself in the process.

That man, I could respect. Perhaps it is unfair to expect any more.

And yet I do.

His eyes tighten.

My heart is so heavy inside my chest that I could drop to the floor for the weight of it.

“Your brother lines dying people up and executes them for not wanting to be part of a military with no purpose. Do you do anything to stop it? What do any of you actually do here to demonstrate to Hala that you are a people worthy of redemption?”

The gallows. The gluttony. The exhaustion in the faces around me.

The sheer gall of their assumption that I would set foot on this desecrated ground and immediately dedicate myself to saving them when they seem to want to do nothing to save themselves.

When they only seem to repeat the behaviors that brought them so low.

“This is not the place.” His eyes flare bronze, his abrupt words pitched for my ears alone. “There are people watching us, Selene. Tread carefully.”

He steps past me, pausing to mutter words that burrow into my chest. But Callan doesn’t look at me. No smile lingers at the edges of his mouth. There is no game here. “I am truly sorry that you think so little of me.”

“I—”

“Cal!”

At the shout, his face changes. The shift is instant, the pinched brow smoothing out. A carefree smile pulls at his lips as he raises his hand, as if I’d imagined the disagreement between us.

As if he’s someone else entirely.

By the time I have steadied myself enough to turn, an unfamiliar inritus is slapping Callan on the back, grinning widely. “I’d thought we were done for. Expected you days ago.”

Callan laughs, slipping his hands into his pockets. “We were delayed, but you should know better by now. How’s your da doing? Any improvement?”

If I look closely, I can just about see the strain that lingers in his eyes. But he hides it from the people here. From this inritus, and his clear relief at Callan’s return.

The male looks to be in his late teens. Broad-shouldered and tall with a barely visible blond scruff that covers his jaw, the girth of a craftsman emphasized by the oil stains covering his hands.

The smile slips. “Not so well. Matthias believes he should have gone months ago, truthfully. But you know him. He’s determined to hold on for as long as possible, no matter how much Esa and I tell him otherwise.

Ellas has to be better than this place.”

Despite his bravado, he rubs a hand over his face. “Who is your companion?”

I decide to save Callan from the dull flush that crawls over his cheeks, and nod. “My name is Selene.”

His stare deepens, as does the furrow between his eyes. “Selene?”

Callan’s feet shift, just barely. Enough to position himself between us. “Something wrong, Ryn?”

But Ryn is staring, the color leached from his face. I take a step toward him. “Are you feeling unwell?”