I turn my attention back to my journal. So much has happened since I arrived in Bowen five nights ago. It makes for great tales. Unexpected sadness pierces through me at the thought of Llyr never reading my stories again. He was my biggest supporter.
A shadow falls across my face. “Is that supposed to be me?” Vilder asks, nodding toward the sketch accompanying my story.
My mouth falls open. He wasn’t supposed to see that. His expression is a mix of surprise and something else. Intrigue? Amusement,perhaps? His eyebrows are raised, his lips a thin line. I scramble for an explanation, a witty deflection, but my mind’s blank.
He leans his twin swords against the railing and moves closer. They’re made of another type of stone—similar to the shadowshard I’m carrying. I count seven gold glyphs engraved into each blade.
He tilts his head for a better view. “You’re good,” he says, smiling. “Is it a journal?”
“My life is way too dark to journal about,” I mutter, snapping the book shut.
He tilts his head. “You write stories?” He sounds genuinely interested.
“Just some short stories. It’s...” My shoulders slump. Only Llyr and Em have ever read my stories, and they both betrayed me in the end. “It’s mostly different versions of my own life where I’m not the victim,” I say, staring out toward the sea. The ship rocks gently beneath us, the ocean stretching endlessly in all directions. “Maybe if I write it enough times, it’ll feel real and I’ll stop being so scared.”
He slides down next to me on the sun-warmed deck. “I’ll teach you how to defend yourself,” he says. “Will you let me read one?”
I glance up at him. Llyr once told me that stories are made to be shared, so I tentatively hand him the worn leather-bound journal, its pages filled with years of scribbled thoughts and meticulously crafted tales. I watch him carefully as he flips through the pages, studying the many different sketches. Which story will he choose? A nervous flutter blooms in my chest as he settles on one.
I study his face as he reads, noticing every small smile, chuckle, or wide-eyed look of surprise.
“You have talent. I like it.” He nods to himself.
I feel a surge of excitement at his words. “You think so?”
“Ooh!” Seniia claps her hands.
I turn toward her where she lounges against a coil of rope, propped on one elbow, reading.
She puts down her book on medicinal herbs. “Coming from Vilder, that is ahugecompliment, Laïna!” Seniia’s blue-green eyes sparkle. Closing her book, she walks over and flops down into a cross-legged position, facing us, resting her staff in her lap.
Gray lifts her head from her paws, staring at the white-feathered serpent, who in turn slides from the staff and up Seniia’s arm, eying the wolf from its vantage point atop her shoulder. Does that thing ever blink?
Seniia nods toward Vilder. “On the Western Plains, those born under the yellow wind moon often become olams, right, Vilder?”
He grits his teeth but lets out a grunt of approval.
“What’s an olam?”
Seniia looks to Vilder.
He stares at the ocean for a long time. “It’s a master storyteller,” he finally says, “sometimes referred to as a singer. Although you can technically be a singer without having reached the status of an olam...”
Seniia nods enthusiastically. “Youhaveto hear them someday, Laïna. They can listen to the wind, hear its stories, and when they perform...” She sighs. “It’s like the world around you ceases to exist. Their words and their music wash over you, a tangible force carrying you away on currents of sound. They’re not just stories; they channel the very essence of the wind—its power, its sorrow, its joy. They weave the wind’s whispers into stories that sing, and it’s breathtakingly beautiful. I’ve seen grown men weep at their performances, overwhelmed by the sheer emotion. It’s... indescribable, really.”
A singer. That’s what Aster called Vilder. Is he a storyteller? My cheeks heat at the thought of a master of the craft reading my childish stories.
“It’s quite rare to see a singer outside the Western Plains unless they are performing somewhere,” Seniia says, then purses her lips. “I’ve heard there’re hardly any moonborn in Arià at all. That they are all born with the gifts of the yellow wind moon. There must be something to it, because I can only think of one C’elen presently alivethat was born there. He is, in fact, the ealdorman at the temple where I grew up, but he’s so old he’s basically ancient.”
“The explanation for that may not be what you’d expect,” Vilder mutters.
Seniia ignores him. “How does that work with your anam’caeur?” she asks instead.
He shrugs. “I’ve never really thought about that.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “You have a bonded wolf, and you have never thought about your anam’caeur?”
“Yes, but . . .” His expression darkens.
