Queen of ruination.
Days pass, and I crumble beneath the weight of guilt and sorrow. My body is heavy and so I don’t try to move it. I curl up in Niko’s bed and stay there.
Tiernan and Sam and Adira take turns pounding on the door, but I only bury myself deeper beneath the comforter. I hate the sunlight that pours through the windows just as surely as I hate the starlight. Beautiful things are only a stark reminder of the horror looming beside me at all hours.My horror. My darkness.
I do not deserve the light when all I contain is empty darkness.
The magic of the island grows stale in my veins, for though its power is still fed by the burgeoning dreams of the mainland, the dreams of its own people have gone dark. The sirens’ mourning song echoes through the kingdom, a mirror of the grief winding through my thoughts even in sleep. A grief that will not relent because I am at the root of it.
I learned early in my life that no one cares about sadness. Sadness is soft; sadness is quiet. So I turned my sorrow to rage and made them pay attention.
But the same anger that has always protected me destroyed everything I care about. I cannot hold it close without thinking of everything it has cost me. I cannot let it go without floundering, my broken pieces swept away in the wind before I can gather any of them up.
A week passes when Tiernan tries to take an axe to the door. But the magic of the Lunaedon outlives its master, after a few hours of no progress, he is forced to abandon the effort. Sam brings food night after night, but it rots in the hallway, untouched.
I feel no physical hunger, only the hunger of my shadow. Its appetite rattles against my ribs, drags claws down my lungs. I scream into a pillow, thrashing in the sheets as I fight to shove it down; to think of anything but the hollow ache of it, the dark pull. Sweat beads on my brow as I fall into a restless sleep, my dreams no better than waking.
Willa.
My name drifts through my consciousness, fragmented and warped. The tone is foreign, and I shy away from it, curling into myself. Everything hurts, everything is raw and empty.
They are coming for your throne, Willa. You must not let them take it.
I want to scream at the voice; to tear into it with blades and demonstrate all I’ve given in service of my throne. But I am so tired—so, so tired—of proving to everyone how much I am willing to sacrifice. Of only existing in the pieces of myself I can hand over.
They come, Willa. With enchanting words and hollow hearts. Beware the Aeternalis. Beware the Carrion King.
The name snags something near my heart, and my eyes fly open. But as I blink away the vestiges of unconsciousness, I find I am still entirely alone except for the shadow still looming above me. I cannot see the buttery rays of sunlight filtering through the windows, nor the constellations of Letum carved into the onyx headboard. I only see the shadow.
For a wild moment, I wonder if my grief has driven me mad. Has seeing the truth of myself so clearly in the light of day finally pushed me over the edge of sanity? Have I conjured imaginary voices to soothe the unbearable edge of loneliness?
They come Willa.
Had there truly been someone whispering those haunting words in my ear? Or was it my own paranoia and fear speaking to me in unconsciousness?
Before I can consider it further, something shifts in the air. It is the same as when the Aeternalis arrived in the kingdom: the magic behind my heart pulls painfully taut, rising in a sudden rush from where I’ve kept it smothered.
I taste the sweetness of dreams along my tongue, feel the surge of nightmares in the frenzied beat of my heart.
The shadow writhes above me, and I try to ignore its frenetic movements as I dip into flow of Letum’s magic. I am not practiced at deciphering the feel of things yet, so it takes me far too long to sift through the flow of power to determine where the disruption is originating.
It is not a ward opening at all. Someone is touching the heart of my island.
Only one person would dare go into the Crocodile to touch what’s mine. Only one person would survive it.
Pan.
As if it’s been released from an iron prison, rage careens through me, washing the world in shades of crimson. I lurch from bed, my shadow following silently behind me as I shove my feet into boots and buckle weapons at my hip.
There is no thought to self-preservation as I paint myself into the Crocodile—the dark jagged strokes of rock, the clean lines of my father’s barn—there is only ruination.
If I am fated to ruin everything I touch, I’ll be sure to take the Aeternalis with me.
A moment later, the hush of the cave presses against my ears. My father’s decrepit barn rises above me, and this time, I don’t hesitate before I push through the door with a snarl. Past the blood-stained concrete where I once found my baby sister. Past the rope hanging from the rafters where my father chose death over me.
Magic floods through me as I find the stone steps leading to the heart of the island, buried beneath a pile of old boxes andbroken tools. Hunger gnaws at my stomach, and I no longer care whether it is mine or the shadow’s, so long as it is fed with Pan’s blood.
I tear around the final corner, and the world freezes.
