He’d commanded them to sink the patrol boat—he could command them to stop. But Loren’s eyes were wide and wild when they met hers, his chest heaving and his skin deathly pale under the salt spray that coated them both.
“I can’t,” he whispered, the words somehow reaching her over the howling wind.
Araya’s stomach dropped as another tendril slammed into the hull. The boat lurched sideways, flinging her against the mast and sending Loren sliding into her. He wasn’t controlling them. Whatever power had bent them to his will before—it wasn’t working now.
Araya choked on a scream as the darkness climbed above them. It curled higher and higher, blotting out the sky in a wave of pure darkness.
They would all die here unless someone did something. And Loren wasn’t doing anything—he wasn’t eventrying.
She lunged forward, grabbing his hands and digging her fingers in like he was the only solid thing left in the world. A jolt ofsomethingshot through her—whether it was magic, aether, or something else she had no idea. But whatever it was, the darkness around them shuddered, rippling like it had felt it too.
Loren’s hands twisted in her grip, but Araya didn’t let go. She wasn’t going to die like this.
And then, the wave broke.
The void crashed over them, swallowing the boat whole.
The waveof shadows crashed over the skiff, plunging everything into darkness so complete it stole the world away. The howling wind, the groan of the boat, the crash of the waves—all of it vanished, replaced by a silence so complete it took on a life of its own.
The only thing she could see in the suffocating blackness was Loren. She clung to him, and he gripped her just as tightly, pulling her into the curve of his body as cool shadows traced over her skin. They curled at the edges of her sleeves, winding through her hair and wrapping around her throat—inspecting her.
Loren bared his teeth, snarling something in Valenya. Araya lifted her head, opening her mouth to remind him that she couldn’t understand him?—
But it was the shadows that answered.
A thousand voices whispered at the edges of her hearing—like leaves rustling in the wind or waves crashing against a forgotten shore. They rose, merging into a single, deafening voice that rattled her teeth in her skull. She couldn’t understand the words, but the pain behind it was a familiar friend. Scorn—rage. The burn of a wound that had never healed.
Loren stiffened, his grip tightening as he snapped something back, his voice sharp with an anger that didn’t quite mask the desperation in his response.
Whatever he’d said sent a ripple through the void, every tendril of shadow quivering and whispering among themselves. For a moment, nothing happened, the air thickening as that ancient power studied them both.
And then, the shadows retaliated.
A tendril lashed out, wrapping itself around Loren’s forearm. He flinched, a strangled cry escaping his lips as the darkness sank into his skin like molten metal—branding him.
“Loren!” Araya reached for him—but he just dragged her close, curling his body around hers as the shadows clawed in around them. A raw sob tore from her lips as the darkness screamed, her fingers twisting in his shirt. They were speaking again—demanding something that Loren either couldn’t or wouldn’t give them.
This was a test, and Loren was failing it.
Before she could think better of it, Araya twisted out of Loren’s grip.
"Wait!” She called out, her voice falling strangely flat in the vast darkness that surrounded them. To her shock, the shadows froze, that ancient focus snapping to her.
Araya swallowed hard, forcing herself to take another step forward. “I—I don’t speak Valenya,” she said, her voice shaking under the weight of that ancient regard. “But… I think you can understand me, can’t you?”
The silence stretched for a long moment, thick and suffocating,before a slow ripple shivered through the darkness. The voices swelled, rolling over her like a crashing tide.
We speak all tongues,they hissed.
They were listening. Gods—they were listening.
“Araya—” Loren reached for her, but she shook him off, wiping her sweaty palms on her borrowed tunic. If he wasn’t going to save them, she would.
“What is it you want from him?” she asked, staring into the void.
The void shuddered, and for a moment, the whispers fractured again—echoes splintering into overlapping voices of rage, disappointment, and something far older. Something wounded. Then, they merged again, their words slamming into her with so much force she felt them in her bones.
He is unbalanced. Shattered. Drifting where he should root.
