“I know,” I answer.
Isaac helps steady Mylo as he climbs in with Dante, who still hasn’t moved.
I make a noise as they settle, and Mylo gives me a nod. He knows what I leave unsaid:Be careful, please.
I settle beside Dante, holding on to his arm as his head slumps against Mylo. His skin is cold and clammy, but he’s alive and breathing. I force myself to believe he’ll be all right.
Lorne keeps a lookout at the cave entrance while we load up. Isaac whistles to let him know we’re all aboard. Once Lorne joins us, Giorgipushes us off with an oar, and the tunnel swallows us whole. Isaac grabs the other oar, and the two of them steer the boat off toward the Batu Basah Ocean.
Ice drifts in fractured sheets across the surface of the underground river, cracking and shifting with each ripple. The walls of the cavern glimmer faintly, as if lined with countless tiny crystals, catching the faint light and scattering it in fractured beams that dance across the water. Stalactites hang from above like jagged teeth, mirrored by stalagmites thrusting up from the riverbank, forming a cathedral of stone that seems both ancient and watchful. Shadows stretch and twist in the inky darkness, the air damp and heavy, carrying the scent of mineral and cold.
The tunnel curves almost immediately, black as pitch. The boat rocks gently at first, then harder as the current tugs us deeper. The air grows damper, heavier. We all breathe through cloth, and still, the bitter taste of hemlock burns my tongue.
A groan echoes from beneath the surface. Something brushes against the hull—long, slick, and heavy.
Aila curses, gripping the boat’s edge. “Tell me that was just the current.”
“Not unless the current has scales,” Isaac mutters, staring into the water and notching a bolt to his crossbow.
Water slaps the side again—harder.
“We’ll be fine,” Giorgi says tightly. “Just don’t fall in.”
We round another bend, and icy droplets rain down from the jagged ceiling. The tunnel narrows. The hemlock glows faintly along the walls, casting everything in a sickly, green hue.
Somewhere ahead, a light glimmers.
The exit.
“Just a little farther,” my uncle says.
I cling to Nadya on one side and Dante on the other. I cling to hope, to the soft, steady heartbeat of the man I love, lying limp in the hollow of this boat.
The river current slows, then stills.
I blink against the sudden rush of cold moonlight as the cavern opens into the sea. The Schierling empties into a quiet cove nestled beneath jagged cliffs, where the Batu Basah Ocean glitters in shades of steel and silver. The air is sharper here—wet and biting, the kind of cold that seeps beneath skin and bone.
A ship waits for us in the shallows. Broad-shouldered, low-slung, and cloaked in sails so dark, they disappear against the night sky. Built in Messanya, judging by the look of the iron reinforcements along the hull—but there are no banners flying. No markings. Nothing to give away who we are or where we’re going.
Aila is the first to disembark. Mylo follows with Dante’s limp body propped on his shoulder. His boots sink into the slushy gravel as he splashes toward the waiting crew, who lower a rope ladder and help guide him up with careful hands. I follow close behind, soaked to the knees, Nadya and the others on my heels.
By the time we all climb aboard, the ship is already lurching forward, breaking through a thin layer of ocean ice. The sound of it cracking beneath the hull is almost deafening. I grasp the rail, boots slipping on slick planks, and feel the cold biting through my gloves and cloak. The wind screams around us, whipping hair into my face, carrying the sharp tang of salt and frozen water. Each sway of the deck sends a shiver through my body.
We move quickly, herding the injured toward the companionway. The wood beneath my fingers is slick and bitter with frost. My heart pounds, not just from exertion, but from a gnawing worry for Dante. Uncle Kormak remains on deck speaking to the crew.
“This way,” Mylo says.
Tension coils in my stomach. Every sharp sway of the ship reminds me how fragile we all are, how little separates us from being thrown intothe freezing waters.
The companionway creaks beneath Mylo’s weight as he descends, still balancing Dante on his shoulder. I follow, noting how the narrow stairwell smells of damp wood and the faint, oily tang of the ship’s lanterns. Each step is cautious; one misstep could send Mylo and Dante tumbling. I keep my hand pressed against the wall, trying to steady myself and my racing thoughts. For a moment, I allow myself a heartbeat of gratitude for this small reprieve from the wind before pushing down the fear gnawing at my chest.
Below deck, the air is still frigid, though there’s some small comfort in being out of the wind. The room he lumbers into is small, spare, with nothing more than a single cot and a bucket of half-frozen water in the corner. The cot creaks under Mylo’s weight as he gently lowers Dante onto it.
“I think he’s fevered,” Mylo mutters, wiping his brow with a shaking hand. “He’s burning through his shirt.”
I kneel beside him immediately. “Dante,” I whisper, brushing damp curls from his face. He doesn’t stir. His skin is flushed, far too warm. Sweat beads at his temples, adhering to his lashes.
I press my hands gently to his chest and call the power forward.
