21
Harper
The Hollowborn don’t leadus into the heart of a fortress, or a cavern full of skulls, or the dark, whispery tunnels I half expect. They lead us up to the top of the hill by the sacred pools, then down a slope where there’s just… a town perched at the edge of the ocean, black-stoned and smudged with salt. The buildings are low and squat, made from the same glassy stone as the cliffs, but their roofs are patched with sea-grass, their doors painted a weird array of bright colors.
It’s so normal it throws me off my stride.
The Hollowborn who met us at the lava pools surround us, all in their skull face paint, but no one here seems frightened by us as much as they seem curious about who we are, while still being busy with their own lives. There’s just too much going on… nets full of glistening, translucent fish being hauled up by grumbling men with arms like tree trunks, women in wraps and loose pants shoving baskets of seaweed into buckets, kids running wild, hair wind-whipped, feet blackened by dust and sand. The older kids are clambering on the rocks by the tide pools, daring each otherto jump in. The littler ones chase something that looks like a featherless chicken, screaming with laughter as it outmaneuvers them with comical ease.
I slow down, mouth open, and Lucien almost collides with me. “Is this—” he starts, then stops, because for once, he doesn’t know what to say.
Alaric gives a low whistle. “I thought they’d live in caves.”
Gareth grins. “I thought they’d eat children.” He points at the pack of kids. “Guess not.”
Sevrin laughs. “We’re not the Dravari…”
I shove him, and he grins at me.
The air smells like smoke and brine and like something being pickled. I’m so busy staring at the unexpected normalcy—there’s even a laundry line strung between poles, a pub with a crooked sign, and a guy hawking shell necklaces on the corner—that I almost miss the shifting emotions around us. The deeper we get in the village, the more people stare. Not angry. Not scared. Just… wary. Measuring.
None of them wear the bone-white paint, and only some of them have weapons. They look, for all intents and purposes, like the neighbors I grew up with, if all the male neighbors had shaved heads and wore nothing but black and silver. But while the men are mostly bald, the women’s hair has been shaved at the sides but left long on top, twisted into braids or ponytails. Every single one of them is tanned, their eyes yellow, gold, or copper.
Kids slowly begin to swarm us, curious and fearless. The smallest, a girl with missing front teeth, tugs at my sleeve and asks, “How is your hair so golden?”
“I was blessed by the gods,” I tell her, grinning.
She beams and runs off, probably to spread a rumor that will last for years to come.
Sevrin leans in, voice low. “They’ve never seen real Dravari before. Only stories. And the stories are… not flattering. I think most of these kids think you’re something else. Something they’ve never heard about before.”
“I guess that might be better than them knowing we’re Dravari,” I joke.
He smiles.
We walk on, trailing a mixed parade of warriors, princes, and kids. We come across the black sand beach. Dozens of boats, each a different shape, some long and sharp as needles, some squat and round, bob on the water. The harbor’s a patchwork of wharves and docks, planks warped by centuries of salt and tide. Fishermen argue, hands waving like birds.
I glance at Alaric. He’s squinting at the boats, probably calculating exactly how they’re different from our boats. “These are impressive. I feel like these would be both faster and more durable than our boats.”
Lucien elbows him. “Too bad the sea monsters won’t let anything cross to our lands, or we could see how our boats would compete.”
Gareth shakes his head. “It might be a good thing that that’s not possible.”
Sevrin gives them a serious look and says, “We could definitely destroy you.”
I don’t know what to say. This isn’t what I imagined. I thought Sevrin’s home would be a wasteland, full of ghosts and sorrow. Instead, it’s alive, loud, and beautiful.
We pass a garden, a literal garden, boxed in with sea rock, full of fat-leafed succulents and stunted tomato plants, and I stop dead. There’s an old woman on her knees, tending the tiny patch, singing under her breath.
There are plants here. Actual plants.
“Keep going, up this way,” Sevrin says. “My mother and sisters are at our house just up ahead.”
His mother and sisters? Of course they’d be here. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
Nervous, I dust off my clothes and try to fix my hair. This is the first time I’m meeting his family, and maybe the last time. I want to make a good impression. I want them to know that when he leaves here with me, he’ll be safe and loved.
“They’ll love you.”
