Page 57

And the Water Surges

I ’ve lain here for what feels like forever on the cold, damp floor.

Hungry. Thirsty. Drained. Netharu’el comes now and then, demanding answers, threatening me. But I have nothing to give him.

Would he even understand if I tried? All that escapes me are ragged, broken caws. I don’t know how much time has passed. I don’t know what’s happening to my actual body. Can it die if I stay away too long?

Can it wither? Fade? Has anyone tended to it? Do they wonder why I haven’t woken up?

The door creaks open. Then it clicks shut.

He’s here again.

Netharu’el. The man who draws me in. The man who keeps me captive. The man who wants to break me.

He lifts me, fingers wrapping around my delicate throat.

His eyes are deep and black as soot, a locked gate barring every thought.

“Ready to talk, little bird?”

“Let me go!”

His brows lift, shifting slightly against the curve of his horns. “Well, now, it speaks.”

“Let me out!”

“Oh, but we won’t have it that easy.”

He drops me into the basin, releasing his grip on my throat. The cold strikes instantly, sharp, invasive, digging deep into my bones.

It spreads like a thousand tiny needles radiating through my fragile form. I don’t feel cold like this in my real body; there, I’m immune.

It’s a living thing, crawling beneath my feathers, settling into me like frostbite.

I cough, my voice rasping. “You understand me?”

“Naturally, my dear.”

“How in fires is that possible?”

He smirks, but not in the same way he smiles at Iszaelda.

Unlike when he calls me Sota, tosses pillows, teaches me how to shoot, or whispers against my ear, this smile is sharp, edged with amusement and cruelty.

“Let’s not talk about me.” He pulls out a dagger, balancing it against the rim of the basin. “Who sent you?”

I stare back at him, silent.

“Who. Sent. You?”

“No one.” The cawing is shrill, like a flat ear caught in the throes of its voice breaking.

“You sought me out alone? Of your own will?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is that so?”

“Let me go!”

“Oh, little bird.” He shakes his head, slowly, like a predator toying with its prey. “So naive. You’ll never be free.”

“Why?”

He lifts the blade, rolling it between his fingers.

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Who you are. Why are you here. And who you serve.”

His face looms over me, watching from the edges of the basin.

The room is dim and heavy with shadows; his eyes burn white against the darkness. From Eístla’s vision, his horns look massive, gnarled like twisting branches, stretching taller than ever.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Speak, or else?—”

“Or else what?”

“I’ll kill you.”

So Netharu’el tortures birds in secret?

What even is this?

“Do it if you must.”

“You’re not afraid.”

“No.”

I scoff, but it comes out as a pitiful whimper.

His head tilts. “Then you mustn’t understand what awaits you if I do.”

I scoff again. This time, it sounds better, but I don’t answer.

“By all means,” he drawls. “Would you care to enlighten me? I’m curious.”

“I die.”

He drags the dagger’s tip along the rim of the basin’s steel. A sharp, grating clang. The sound scrapes through my ears, shrill as a rust eagle’s cry.

“Not quite,” he murmurs. “The bird dies. But since I’ve bound your consciousness, you won’t be able to return to your actual body.”

How does he know about my ability?

“You’ll be trapped,” he continues. “Forced to rot in that decaying body until someone, if anyone, frees you.”

The dagger glides over my chest, pressing just enough for me to feel the sharpness against my fragile, pounding heart.

So that’s why I can’t escape.

He’s bound me with Arzakean.

Think!

How do I break this?

How, how, how?

What words should I use? Can I even undo it? Salahfar said no one can break another’s spell, but am I breaking it?

Maybe it’s all about the wording.

“Last chance,” Netharu’el whispers. “Tell me who you are. Maybe then, I’ll set you free.”

Sure you will.

I meet his gaze. His eyes are blacker than lead, as dark as sea urchins lurking in the ocean depths, the sky drained of stars, and the abyss gaping at the bottom of Gann Gavannoa’s endless chasm.

“Never!” I hiss.

“Then I suppose I have no choice but to?—”

“Zegay al. Bel hal ve!”

The dagger closes in, and the walls shatter. My mind splits open.

I flee out of the bathroom, out of Netharu’el’s grasp, out of the cage my stolen body has become. And I leave Eístla behind.

I gasp, a raw, desperate inhale. It feels like I’ve been drowning for days. Like my lungs were wrung dry, flattened, waiting for me to return.

My eyes snap open. The ceiling looms above me, likely made of kapok wood. The trees of Gorgoroth look different from the inside.

I jerk upright. Too fast. I collapse. Elbows slam against the wooden planks, the impact rattling through my ribs. My breath hitches, coming in shallow, gasping breaths. Two blackened stains mark the floor beside me, just as they do beside my bed. They moved me. This is Netharu’el’s and my hut.

“Iszaelda!”

Forget it. I crawl to my feet, fighting the dizziness that refuses to fade.

I stagger to my feet, but the room tilts and spins. Nausea coils inside me. My vision blurs, the edges of the world smearing together.

I stumble toward my dresser, gripping the wood for balance, and yank open the top drawer. Clothes. I pull them on quickly, my hands moving instinctively, not caring what I grab, just something that covers me.

I snatch my scabbard, tighten it around my waist, and keep moving.

“Iszaelda!”

I bolt forward, bare feet pounding against the grass.

The sun hangs low, its light a molten blend of gold and copper, deepening into embers of red.

Late aftenday. Eredusk is close. The sky is streaked with heavy clouds, thick and brooding, swallowing the last glow of the horizon as a storm builds in their depths.

Behind me, Netharu’el follows, the door slamming behind him. “Wait!”

“Go away!”

“Stop!”

I cut right, running into Gorgoroth’s shadows.

My hands are raised like shields as I weave between banyan trees, creeping vines, tillandsia, and jagged kapok trunks.

I push past branches, thorns snagging at my skin, leaves slapping against my face, arms, and legs.

The jungle fights back, grasping at me, ripping at my clothes, tangling in my hair.

The ground creaks beneath my steps, roots splintering underfoot.

Distant jungle calls ripple through the thick air, a rising chorus before the night takes over.

A leafy branch lashes my lip, snaps, and lands on my tongue. It tastes sharp and bitter. I spit, grimacing, and surge forward.

Jump. Catch hold of a hanging vine. And it betrays me.

It lurches, twisting, swinging me from side to side.

I climb higher, hands scraping against the rough surface.

Higher. Higher. The vine is slick and treacherous, lined with barbs that tear at my palms. Each gust of wind pushes it sideways, making every movement unsteady and unpredictable.

Keep going. Higher. The air is heavy as a mountain, the storm looming overhead, pressing into every breath.

My hands burn, raw from the thorns. My feet slip, struggling for a hold. At last, I haul myself onto a branch high above the tangled canopy.

The jungle falls away beneath me, leaving behind its suffocating humidity, but the air remains dense.

The storm’s slushy gray clouds are slung low, curling around me like damp wool.

My pulse pounds as I scan the horizon. The Academy sprawls in the distance, a narrow stretch of gray stone nestled between wild grasslands and untamed jungle.

A vast clearing unfolds, with cascading waterfalls, rock formations, scattered groves, and winding paths that snake through the land. Beyond that, Nimuala. Its cluster of huts lines the edge of the forest.

Past me, an ocean of kelp-green and olive-hued treetops sprawls to the horizon, uneven and restless. They move in rhythm with the wind, rising and falling like the waves of a vast sea. Alive and churning.

Far to the west, a dark shape cleaves through the clouds—Ogroth, its peak towering over the land. From here, the volcano looks like a sharp-edged triangle carved into the sky.

I pace back and forth, feet pressing into the branch. No matter how hard I stamp down, it refuses to bend. It’s too thick, too solid.

The frustration inside me boils over. I draw Voenriel and swing her in a furious arc, the blade slicing the air with a sharp, whistling note like a song of steel. But the wind swallows it, drowning it beneath the roar of the shifting canopy. The storm’s breath is thick in the air.

“What’s wrong with you?”

I startle, muscles coiling tight. Spin fast. Voenriel raised as a barrier between us. I step back, half an elf’s length from the edge, where the wind snatches at me, whipping my hair across my face, lips, and chin.

“What in the fires do you want?” I snap.

Netharu’el spreads his arms as he slowly walks forward. “What?—”

“Don’t come closer!”

He stops. “Why?”

“Go away!”

Netharu’el’s eyes widen, brows shooting upward. His body tilts forward, arms outstretched as if reaching for me despite the invisible barrier my words have set.

Something wet strikes my forehead. Then another. A shiver snakes down my spine.

The sky darkens so fast I can see it happen. Thunderclouds swelling, their underbellies as molten black as Netharu’el’s eyes. The sun vanishes behind a wall of storm, its glow swallowed whole.

“Iszaelda, listen to me.”

“You don’t get it, do you? Go. Away.”

Another drop splashes onto my hand, cool against my skin.

His jaw clenches, his gaze unmoving. “No.”

“Yes!”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to! Because guess what? I don’t want you here, I don’t?—”

“What happened, my dear?”

“Nothing!”

“Tell me.”

The sky rumbles, a deep, splintering sound, as if the clouds are cracking apart. Then the storm bursts open, rain crashing down over us, gushing like a torrent or a waterfall.

“I’m not telling you a fiery thing!” I take another step back, balancing on the slick edge of the branch. The ground beneath me is treacherous, rain blurring the world around us. My heels flirt with the drop, but I don’t move. “Leave!”

“Come back with me?—”

“Forget it!”

“We can talk?—”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!”

The rain slams against my face, striking like tangled branches in the undergrowth.

It streams down, slicking my hair to my shoulders. It’s so dense and relentless that every breath pulls water into my nostrils. It spills into my mouth, drumming against my teeth before trickling down my throat.

I cough, gurgle, and swallow. The taste is crisp and fresh, but it chills me from the inside out as if I’ve swallowed ice. The cold sinks from the top of my throat down into my stomach, settling deep.

“You’re far too close to the edge.” Netharu’el steps forward, extending a hand. But I can barely make it out, my vision blurred by the rain clinging to my lashes.

I blink hard. Step back. Wipe the water from my forehead, balancing on my toes.

Teetering forward, then back. But I’m not afraid.

This forest, like Valeanrae, is threaded with vines, tendrils, climbing stalks, and thick satsel leaves to break a fall.

I grew up in this. I know how to survive.

Where to step, where not to. How to recover from a fall.

How to climb even when the vines are slick with rain.

“Come.” His voice is firm, cutting through the storm. “Now.”

“For all the fires, why do you even care?”

“What do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t care if I lived or died, would you?”

“And what makes you assume that?”

“Excuse me, what?”

“Assume. What makes you assume that?”

I glare at him. His onyx-black hair hangs heavy, slick as polished silk, clinging to his skin. His clothes are soaked through, rain-dark and molded to his frame. Every muscle stands out beneath the drenched fabric. His biceps taut, rounded, gleaming.

“That’s not true,” he continues.

“It is. You?—”

He throws his weight toward me. I twist aside. He loses his footing, slipping on the rain-slicked bark. Stumbles. Falls. Slides over the edge as if the branch were coated in glacier ice.

My heart stutters.

The world slows.

I shove Voenriel into its sheath and lunge forward, swinging my arms out. My hands grasp his forearm, but it’s too wet. Too slick. My grip falters. His wrist. Slipping. His hand. Slipping. His knuckles. His fingers. Fingertips. Nails.

He’s going to fall.