"But you were his favorite."
"I was a vessel. A cup is not missed by the wine." I squeeze her hand. "He may be watching. He is the God of Pain; anywhere there is suffering, He has an eye. But His influence is tied to the land, to the temples, to the rituals. Out here... on the open sea, away from the shadow of Lliandor... His voice is a whisper in a gale."
"So we are safe?"
"We are hidden," I correct her. "The other gods—The Guide, The Arbiter—they hold sway here. They will keep Him in check, provided we do not walk into one of His temples."
She nods, accepting the logic, though I can feel the tremor of anxiety in her touch. I push a thought toward her—not magic, just a deliberate projection of calm. It is weak, nothing compared to what she can do, but she smiles.
"Look," she says, pointing at the water.
A school ofcaesinbreaks the surface, their scales flashing like iridescent rainbows in the sunlight . They arc through the air, sleek and impossible, before diving back into the deep.
"Beautiful," I murmur.
It is a strange word for me. For five centuries, beauty was synonymous with power. It was the terrifying symmetry of a spell, the perfect cruelty of a political maneuver.
But this... this is just life. It is messy and uncontrolled and vibrant.
I take a deep breath. The air smells of salt and freedom. There is no static in my head. No screaming demands. No pressure building behind my eyes.
I am useless. I cannot cast a hex. I cannot summon a shadow. If pirates attacked us now, I would have to fight them with a belaying pin and my own muscles.
But I am at peace.
"I never saw the sea," I admit quietly. "I teleported to ports. I viewed maps. But I never... sat and watched the water."
"You were busy ruling the night," Leora teases gently.
"I was busy drowning," I correct her.
The ship’s bell rings—a sharp, clear sound that cuts through the wind.
"Land ho!" the lookout shouts from the crow's nest.
I stand up, pulling Leora with me. We move to the railing.
On the horizon, a dark smudge is solidifying into a coastline. Green hills rise from the water, lush and vibrant, a vivid contrast to the gray stone of Oshta. White cliffs gleam in the sun, and beyond them, the spires of a city rise like fingers of pale bone.
"Kaynvu," I breathe.
The captain, a burly human with a beard braided with shells, stomps past us.
"Prepare for docking!" he bellows. "We're coming into Ter!".
Leora grips my arm. "Is it safe? Really?"
I look at the city. It is the newest of the sister cities, a port known for trade and—if the rumors are true—a strange, tentative tolerance for our kind mixing with yours.
"It is not Lliandor," I say. "And that is enough."
I look down at my hands. They are blistered, dirty, and empty of magic. But they are mine.
"We are approaching the Emberforge," I whisper to her, the wind snatching the words away. "A new forge for a new life."
The ship cuts through the waves, carrying us toward the shore.
23
