My stomach groans as if to say,“Who cares?”It doesn’t matter what brought me here. Food is food. I’d be a fool to not to get my fill while I still can.
I pluck a peach for myself, pleased to feel its skin slightly soft to the touch. I lift it to my lips, yearning to see if its flavor matches its indulgently sweet fragrance. My teeth sink into the fruit’s supple skin. Its juices swim along my tongue and down my throat, awakening my taste buds with pure euphoria. It’s criminal that I’d ever considered any of the peaches from Caligo edible before now. I devour it faster than I should, making a sticky mess of my face and hands. I tug on the branch, grabbing as many peaches as my hands can hold, which turns out to be four. If only I’d thought to bring my knapsack along.
I pivot, intending to head back towards our temporary camp, then pause as a streak of near-white yellow along the distant horizon catches my eye.
Blue hour is upon us. Not only that, but it’s nearly dawn. I’d been so enraptured by my pursuit of the bird’s shadow and my subsequent hunger that I hadn’t noticed the incremental brightening of the sky.
I really should head back.
But my feet have other plans.
They carry me past the peach tree and up a grassy incline with impressive speed. And when I trip halfway up the hill, I drop the peaches before scrambling back to standing, jogging faster in obedience with the irrational urgency. It isn’t like the dreamlike trance from minutes prior. Every part of me is fully alert and aching to fill this acute, intrusive hunger—one that cannot be satisfied by the consumption offood, any more than a stomach is satisfied by sight alone.
Whatever it takes.
My parents asked me to find a way to survive, and this is it: my chance to no longer be a burden.
I continue to climb. The tree line gives way to a grassy ridge, sparsely populated with boulders and a few bushes bathed in a violet hue not unlike in the halls of Caligo. There’s little else between me and the calamitous horizon.
“Orelle?” A masculine voice calls my name in harmony with the wind as I crest the hilltop.
Pinpricks of heat spread across my neck, down my spine. I slow to a halt, yet make no move to turn around to confirm what I already know.
Kalden has found me.
But I don’t want to be found. Not now, when I’m minutes away from experiencing the one thing I should fear more than the Sols—the one thing that’s plagued countless nightmares, and maybe a few dreams.
“Orelle,” Kalden says again, striding up the hill to stand at my side, his smoky bergamot scent washing over me.
“What?” I snap, eyes refusing to move from the view in front of me. I don’t want to miss a single detail or second.
In my peripheral vision, I sense his searing gaze switching between me and the skyline. I catch the curt nod of his chin, like he’s decided on an unspoken question.
I expect his fingers to take hold of my arms and drag me to the shady cover of the forest at our backs. Or all the way back to camp, to where I left my helmet. Surely, he won’t stand idly by and let me expose far more of myself to the impending daylight than what we discussed during training.
And yet, he says nothing. Does nothing.
I hold still, in case any movement will break whatever it is that’sconvincing him to not interfere in what’s about to become my greatest act of treason. His treason, too, since his helmet is notably absent.
Deep indigo brightens to a more vibrant hue as a beacon of golden light ascends over the inky landscape. Rich oranges and yellows bleed from a near-white orb in the center, spotlighting the sky and stealing my breath.
“Is that . . . ?”
“It is,” Kalden confirms.
The orb grows brighter and brighter. Inviting me forward. Painting the sky in colors far richer than those found in the murky underground of Caligo.
I take a few shaky steps, reaching out a gloved hand like I can scoop up this view—this devastatingly beautiful and unquestionably egregious view—and pocket it alongside my most cherished memories.
The light becomes overwhelming, violating my senses. My eyes shut of their own accord, unable to handle its purity. Golden orbs dance behind closed lids, and there’s an audible shift in nature’s ballad—birdsongs and gargled calls from unnamed creatures. A rush of heat licks my exposed skin like a sinful kiss trailing across my forehead, cheeks, and lips. My treacherous pores devour it.
Bit by bit, I open my eyes.
Head bent, I catch sight of a lock of my hair. The dull tawny shade is now a bright bronze. Tiny beads of moisture, leftover from bathing in the creek, glisten throughout my curls. I wrap a strand around my pointer finger, marveling at the glossy reflections.
When I draw my gaze up, my knees tremble. Gone is the expansive dull landscape. Along the horizon, fiery sand dunes and the glittering teal depths of the ocean in the distance embrace a brilliant blue sky. The narrow leaves on the scattered trees I’d once known to be a near-black shade of green are now a vivid olive.
Nothing is untouched by the sun’s generosity, by its magic. Itbathes the earth in life.
