“Hurry!” Zayan’s roar cuts through the air, his legs a blur as he tears across the sand. “Before the land is gone!”
I shove myself forward, ignoring the throbbing ache in my legs and the way my chest feels like it might burst.
“Move it!” Gypsy barks, dumping her sand into the pillar. I watch it lower—barely, infuriatingly—but those waves are closing in, and time is slipping through our fingers like the sand we’re trying to pile.
Fabien paces alongside me, shouting, “Run like your life depends on it, bard!”
I grit my teeth, legs burning. My lifedoesdepend on it. Oh, Mother, what would you do in a situation like this? I don’t even want to think about it.
I push harder, my heart drumming against my ribs. If the waves reach us before we lower the pillar enough to grab the item on top, we’ll have to dive to the seabed for sand.
No, no, no, no. It can’t come to that.
The thought of plunging into those dark, churning waters sends a fresh jolt of terror through me. Swimming? I can barely float! But diving into a sea so vast and indifferent? That’s another level of madness entirely.
A nervous laugh slips out, a last-ditch defense against panic. And then… Then, my pace turnsfrantic.
As if summoned by my terror, words start spilling into my mind, taking on a rhythm all their own, as they tend to do in these moments:
What are you chasing, you funny little bard?
Why do you tremble, with fear on guard?
Do you think the waves won’t find their mark?
Do you think you can flee from the sea’s cold dark?
.
You’re just a speck, a grain of sand,
You can laugh and dream, jest as you stand,
But when your time comes, the sea won’t bend,
And perhaps this run will be your end.
A shiver crawls up my spine. No, no—this is not the time to write my own eulogy! I need words of courage, words that might actually get me through this.
The funny little bard, so fast and strong,
He thinks he can face whatever comes along.
In his mind, he’s ready, for any test or trial,
But the sea sees him differently, and waits with a smile.
.
For the ocean cares not what the bard believes,
It will dance its own dance, as the bard deceives.
Two wills collide, who will conquer, who will yield?
Both may be strong, but only one holds the field.
No, no, no, this is worse! It’s like my thoughts are betraying me, turning traitor at the worst possible moment.
