“Unless you want to stay here,” I snap, already moving. We’ve got no choice now. I glance back at them, a hint of a smirk slipping through. “Didn’t say I wanted to be right now, did I?”
34
Vinicola
My legs feel like they’ve been stuffed with stones, and I can already feel the sunburn spreading across my skin. Sweat trickles down my face, pooling under my chin like a faucet with a terrible leak.
Saints preserve me, I hate running. Truly, it’s an abomination—every ounce of me rebels against it.
I lower my head, squinting against the ruthless sun, praying for some divine shadow to swoop down and shield me, just for a breath. It’s in moments like these—when I’m stranded in places without a single palm tree or building to throw a sliver of shade—that I realize just how different this inferno is from the world I’ve known.
Yes, back home we have a desert too, but it’s practically a tourist trap—a tame patch of sand where pale, sunburn-prone souls like me can try to ‘experience the wilderness.’ I went there once, only once, when my mother was swooning over some guide. We did the whole spectacle: sandboarding, camel rides, the lot. It was the only time she let go of her notion that my father might stroll back into our lives. I despised that trip, and Idespised that man for it. I hated it so much, I decided then and there that I’d bring my father back myself.
And here I am. Doing physical labor so a goddess won’t kill me and my friends.
“Keep going, Vini!” Gypsy calls, sprinting ahead toward the sea like she’s got the wind itself at her back. How does she do it? She’s a blur—swift, strong, relentless, like a storm bottled up in human form. Meanwhile, here I am, trudging behind her, sweating like a pig, feeling more like a sluggish garden snail than a man.
“Aye, Miss Captain,” I rasp, mouth dry and scratchy as old parchment. The salt of sweat mingles with the grit clinging to my skin, and I can taste the misery in it.
Gypsy’s already reached the water again, scooping up another handful of sand with that blasted seashell, her motions as swift as ever. She’s off again, racing toward the pillar, leaving me to trail along like some sad, sunburned pack mule.
“Come on, Vinicola,” I mutter, trying to summon the tiniest bit of her relentless drive. I reach the water’s edge, dip my shell in, and turn, clutching my prize like it’s a royal jewel rather than wet grit.
Torturedoesn’t even cover it. This is an endless, brutal slog through the very pits of hell.
Gypsy’s already halfway back, and Zayan and Fabien are just blurs near the pillar now. Sweat stings my eyes, blurring everything around me, which is probably for the best. I don’t need a clear view of how far behind I am.
How long has it been going on like this? Half an hour? A century?
“What did I ever do to deserve this, Lady?” I whine under my breath. “Truly, what?”
By some miracle, I drag myself back to the pillar, dumping the sand in. It does practically nothing, barely shifts the damnedthing. But just when I’m ready to resign myself, the pillar lets out this strange, low hum—different from before. The sound vibrates in the air, and the sand beneath my feet trembles.
“Uh…” My heart’s pounding, and I’m caught between terror and sheer exhaustion. “Miss Captain? Mr. Zayan? Little help here?”
Of course, Fabien’s the one who comes charging over first, his scowl as permanent as the stars. He sneers down at me like I’m some pitiful stain on his fine boot.
“What did you do this time?” he demands, as if I’m the designated calamity coordinator.
“I didn’t do anything!” I gasp, holding up my hands in defense. “I just added the damn sand!”
The ground shudders again, more violently this time, and I’m fighting to stay upright, teetering like a tipsy sailor. Fabien grips my shoulders to steady me, his fingers digging in with an unexpected firmness. Under different circumstances, I might even call it... kind. But with the rising panic clawing at my chest, all thoughts of sentiment are washed away.
“Fabien! Vini! Look at the sea!” Gypsy’s voice cuts through the chaos. She’s sprinting toward us with a seashell brimming with wet sand, her eyes wide and darting to the waves behind her every few steps.
I turn toward the sea, my heart hammering in my chest. The water, which had been receding, is now surging back. The island—well, it’s morphing again, swallowing up the shore bit by bit.
“Oh, thank goodness…” I breathe, daring to let a sliver of relief into my voice. “Maybe that means we won’t have to keep running like this!”
Fabien shoots me a withering look, grimacing as he jerks his head toward the horizon. “Don’t go thanking fate just yet, bard,” he groans. “Look. At. The. Waves.”
My stomach somersaults as I follow his gaze. Ah, right. So maybe gratitude was a bit premature. The waves rise, each one taller, fiercer than the last, bearing down on us like they have a vendetta. The sea, once calm and peaceful, has turned into a roiling, turbulent force, crashing against the shore with an intensity that sends chills down my spine.
Those waves—they’re not just creeping in. They’re charging right at us.
The island isn’t settling back into place; it’s about to vanish, dragging itself back into the murky depths from whence it came.
Oh… Fuck.
