Hope.
I swallow, the bitter taste of reality sinking in. The water’s up to our knees, swirling faster, creeping higher. Soon, we’ll either float to that unreachable top—or go down, lungs bursting, bonesleft to rot with whatever else the goddess decided wasn’t worth saving.
“Alright, listen up,” I say, forcing steel into my voice. “When it’s time, hold your breath and kick like hell. Stay close. If you start drifting, grab onto someone and don’t let go.”
Vinicola’s got that wide-eyed, panicked look that says he’s already halfway to giving up. But to his credit, he nods, clutching Zayan’s arm like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world. Zayan stands firm, jaw set, unflinching even now. I tighten my fists, nails digging into my palms until they hurt.
The water’s at our waists now. Cold and biting, surging up around us as we press back against the wall, trying to keep steady. I glance up at that dark tunnel.
What a way to go…
Gypsy Flint—drowned by the whims of a goddess, entombed at the bottom of the ocean alongside her lover and two misfits she picked up along the way.
My body would never be found. My bones would likely never get discovered.
“Alright,” I mutter, barely a whisper against the roar of water around us. “Come on, then. Fill us up.”
Because what else is there to do but spit in the face of death and dare it to come closer?
As if it heard me, the water surges up faster, hitting our chests, our shoulders. My pulse thunders in my ears, my heartbeat pounding hard enough I can almost hear it echoing back. Cold cuts to the bone, and I grit my teeth, pulling in one last breath as the water closes over us.
Darkness. Only darkness now, cold as iron.
I kick upward, lungs burning, my muscles straining as I fight against the pull of the deep. The pressure is brutal, wrapping tight around my ribs like a vice, squeezing till I feel my chest might burst.
And then—just then—my fingers break the surface. I gasp, dragging in air like it’s the first breath I’ve ever taken, choking as I pull myself onto something solid, rough, and real beneath me. The others drag themselves up too, coughing and sputtering, a miserable lot, but alive.
It’s only after we catch our breath, after we take in where we are, that I feel it. Whatever hell we just survived—it was only the beginning.
Because the real Trial? The real Trial starts now.
47
Zayan
The first thing that hits me is blue. Deep, endlessblue.
It’s everywhere, bleeding into the walls, lurking in the shadows, hanging thick in the air. It takes a second to realize what I’m looking at—a thousand tiny carvings, all bleeding this eerie blue glow, like the place is lit from the inside out.
I straighten, letting it all sink in.
Spirals, waves, and sea creatures are carved in the walls—octopi with twisting tentacles, slithering eels, fish with teeth that seem to grin back at me. Every last one of them has the Lady’s mark seared somewhere on their scales or skin, like she’s branded each one herself.
The four of us stand in a cave, though calling it that feels wrong. It’s something more profound than that. This is her place. It’s hershrine.Only… not the kind humans tend to. No candles, no incense, no faded scriptures. Nothing that makes you think some poor fool comes in here to worship every morning.
No, this place hums with something raw, something wild—like it’s one heartbeat away from coming alive. It’s power in itspurest form, woven into every corner, every carving, as natural as the sea itself.
I don’t need any ringing in my skull to tell me it’s real. I can see it, feel it,smellit.
High above, a narrow opening cuts through the ceiling, letting a thin shaft of light pierce the dark. It catches on a pool in the far corner, the water glimmering with an impossible shade of blue, like someone’s trapped liquid sapphire inside. Particles in the air seem to shimmer, scattering iridescent colors across the walls.
To the right, three thick stone pillars rise from the ground, each one bound in heavy, rusted chains, the metal streaked with age and time. Around their bases lie piles of cannonballs, stacked in careful rings, as if kept ready for something.
The carvings on the walls pick up the light’s blue hue, casting shadows that stretch across the stone.
“Well, fuck me,” Gypsy mutters, straightening up, running her hands through her curls before twisting them into a knot. Water splashes down onto the puddled stone. “You ever seen anything like this, Rancour?”
Fabien cocks an eyebrow, licks off a droplet of sea water that stayed on his lips and shakes his head.
