Page 36 of Whispers of the Starlit Sea (Avalore Chronicles #1)

Chapter twenty-two

A rick gripped Sorcha’s hand as they raced down the corridor, his sword bouncing against his leg. As soon as he turned the handle, the terrace doors slammed open, and a wall of rain drove them back.

“We should take the long way,” he shouted over the howling wind, pointing back along the corridor.

She shook her head. “Faster!”

She was right. He took a deep breath, tightened his grip on her hand, and together they plunged into the storm.

They fought their way onto the open terrace, rain slashing sideways like knives.

The covered walkway offered little shelter — just enough to funnel the wind into a howling tunnel that screamed in their ears.

Water sheeted from the roof above and poured down in torrents between the stone pillars, turning the flagstones into a slick, treacherous path.

Arick squinted against the downpour, blinking rapidly to keep his eyes clear.

Each breath felt like trying to swallow the storm, the air thick with water and the taste of salt and lightning.

Sorcha stumbled beside him, her skirts whipping around her legs like angry seaweed.

He tightened his grip on her hand and hauled her closer, his other hand skimming the stone railing to keep them both from being tossed into the void below.

She shouldn’t have to face this. The thought stabbed through him as another gust nearly knocked them off their feet.

This wasn’t bravery — it was desperation wrapped in love and fury.

But when he looked down at her, at the fierce resolve in her eyes, he knew he could no more talk her out of it than he could stop the sea itself.

A flash of lightning split the sky overhead, so bright it burned his vision white for a heartbeat. Thunder cracked immediately after, shaking the walkway beneath their feet. Ahead, the terrace shimmered in the rain, barely visible through the curtain of water.

They pressed on, leaning into the wind.

His feet slipping on the smoother tiles told him they’d reached the mosaic. He forced his eyes open again.

“Still there!” Sorcha pointed to the center of the swirled tile pattern.

The piece of broken mirror lay embedded in the center, its surface dull and pitted, reflecting the storm in fractured shadows.

Time had stripped it of its shine, but not its purpose.

Arick sighed in relief to see it still in its place.

He touched it, but it felt like any other part of the mosaic. Wet. Cold. Empty.

Sorcha dropped to her knees beside the mirror while Arick staggered to the railing.

He peered into the dark as he clung to a pillar slick with rain.

The sea below was a churning blur, barely visible through the sheets of water.

Only the brief flare of lightning revealed the jagged whitecaps far beneath.

Where was Rona?

There was no sign of anyone on the water. No glow of magic, no hint of movement. And even if Rona was singing, he’d never hear it over the constant thunder. He turned back to Sorcha.

A bolt of blinding white exploded overhead, so bright it seared through his eyes. The tower groaned. Stones rained from above as the lighthouse began to collapse in on itself.

“Arick!”

Sorcha’s scream cut through the chaos. He lunged toward the sound, still half-blind, just as the pillar he’d been leaning on splintered and toppled over the edge.

He found her by instinct more than sight, his vision still smeared with afterlight and rain.

“The stairs!” he shouted, gathering her against him. Her fingers grasped his sleeve with reassuring firmness.

The narrow stairwell was a risk, but it was closer than the open terrace, and offered at least some protection from the falling stone and driving rain.

Chunks of debris bounced off his shoulders as they barreled down the narrow, spiraling stairwell. The walls trembled with each distant rumble of thunder, but after several turns, the shaking eased, and they slowed their pace, breath catching in ragged gasps.

Sorcha leaned out of one of the embrasures. “Rona…under,” she said in his language, her hands sketching the movement.

Arick winced. “Won’t she crush herself if it collapses?” he asked.

Sorcha let out a short, breathless laugh and switched back to her own tongue, her hands translating for him. “She always could wriggle her way out of trouble. Even as a guppy.”

“Then we need to get there first,” Arick said grimly.

They pressed on, feet pounding against stone as thunder and waves hammered the cliff just beyond the walls. Arick halted when his boot splashed into the cold water pooling on the steps. The last few were already submerged.

“The cavern’s flooded.” The words stuck in his throat, dread curling in his gut. How powerful was this storm, to send water this far through the tunnels?

They waded through the rising water and splashed across the submerged landing to the door at the bottom. It stood unguarded. Had the king pulled the guards away once the prisoners were gone? No, this was still a vital access point. They wouldn’t have left it unprotected.

He reached for the handle and shoved. The door didn’t budge. He tried again, harder. The heavy wood flexed, then bounced back.

“It’s blocked somehow,” he told Sorcha, breathing heavily.

“Open it!” she cried, pointing to the yellow glow seeping through the cracks.

He braced his shoulder and drove into the door with all his weight. Sorcha joined him, both of them pushing against the barricade. His boots skidded on the slick stone, and he nearly went down into the rising water.

Arick motioned her to stand aside. He drew in a deep breath, his heart pounding.

Then he planted his hands and shoved. Muscles straining, jaw clenched, he pushed with everything he had.

The door edged open, groaning against whatever blocked it.

With another heave, he heard something crash behind it.

A final shove, and the door gave way, swinging wide enough for them to squeeze through.

Water surged around his knees as they slipped inside.

A searing yellow glow filled the cavern, and a haunting song rippled off the walls.

A low groan pulled his gaze to the left.

A guard lay slumped against a pile of rubble, his arm twisted at an unnatural angle. Sorcha was already beside him, tearing one of the sheer mantles from her gown. She met Arick’s eyes briefly, then helped him secure the man’s arm against his chest.

“I’ll get him out of danger. Wait for me.”

She nodded, but uncertainty flickered across her face. He hesitated. Had she truly understood?

But he couldn’t delay. He hefted the man over his shoulder, muscles protesting as he waded through the flooded passage. Every step was a battle. Lightning split the sky outside, and the stone trembled beneath his boots.

He couldn’t take the man all the way to the top. He turned at the landing to the barracks and lowered him carefully, ensuring his chest still rose with breath. Then he cupped his hands and shouted down the corridor.

“Coo-ee!”

His call echoed, hollow and unanswered. No time. He couldn’t leave Sorcha alone.

With a final glance at the wounded guard, Arick turned and plunged back down the stairs, each step heavier than the last, fear clawing deeper into his chest with every heartbeat.

What would he find when he reached her?

W ith Arick gone, Sorcha hesitated, the cavern’s yellow light flickering across the rising water. She wanted to follow him. To wait. But there wasn’t time.

Every note of Rona’s song fed the storm. Magic flared from the bracer’s core, the yellow gemstone casting its beam upward, summoning the storm to strike the cliff above.

Sorcha picked her way around the fallen stones, drawn by the sound and the glow.

But when she reached the open cavern, Rona wasn’t alone.

It was Ewan holding the bracer aloft.

Sorcha’s breath caught. The bracer’s beam shone from his hand, steady and deliberate, the yellow light painting cracks in the cavern ceiling.

The hard, bitter line of his jaw was almost unrecognizable.

What was Ciara’s fiancé doing back in the place where he’d been imprisoned? And worse — why was he floating in the flooded cave beside the wrong sister?

Did Ciara know he was here? Did she know what he was becoming?

Sorcha’s gasp drew their attention. Rona turned first, and the cruel triumph on her face sent a ripple of dread through Sorcha.

What was her sister planning? Did she even understand where this would lead?

“Come to join us, sister?” Rona's voice dripped with mockery. Beside her, Ewan picked up the eerie chant, feeding the gem in the bracer with each syllable.

“Never! You’re going to get people killed.” She forged her way closer, but they were in the center of the deepest part of the pool, where she couldn’t go.

“Humans, maybe,” Rona said with a shrug.

“Humans are people too!”

Rona scoffed. “What would you know? You’re just a little Healer. A poor one at that.”

More rock tumbled from the ceiling. The beam from the bracer grew brighter.

“Attacking the tower is only going to bring it down on our heads!”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Rona drawled, “I can’t exactly walk up there to get what I need.” Her eyes gleamed. “Unless, of course, you’re volunteering?”

“Over my dead body.”

“That,” Rona murmured, “can be arranged.”

She resumed the chant, her voice joining Ewan’s. The glow pulsed brighter, sharper. Water surged in response, slapping against Sorcha’s legs.

She shivered, her ballroom gown soaked and clinging, the cold floodwaters tugging at her like ghostly hands.

“Why do you even want it?” Sorcha asked, her voice rising above the chaos. If she could make them talk, it might break the rhythm of the chant and disrupt the spell’s power.

“It’s magic,” Rona said with a scoff, as if that should be enough. Her tone was flippant, dismissive — because of course Sorcha couldn’t possibly understand.

But she’d felt the magic in the mirror. She knew what it was.