“Not what you were expecting, Duskae?” he asks, though there is no hiding the tenderness there.
For a moment, I can’t speak, can’t think of anything to say about this... nothingness.
“It’s exactly what I was expecting,” I eventually answer, “and that is absolutely terrifying.” I partially turn to him in the saddle, eyes locking on each other, “I just can’t figure out howyouare fromhere.”
He huffs a laugh, “If that’s a compliment, El, I’ll take it.” His gaze turns more serious then, “You’ll understand very soon.”
“Okay,” I say slowly at his ambiguity.
Zakarius takes us on his perfectly mapped route through The Shadow Wastes, and we don’t see a single soldier, outpost or watch tower. Fortunately, the prick is impressively good at his job.
We ride past the husks of what were once homes—ramshackle structures with walls sagging inward, their wooden beams brittle and splintered from years of neglect. Some are little more than weather-beaten frames, their roofs long since caved in, leaving only scarce remnants. I’ve never seen The Shadow Wastes as anything other than this. Nor have my parents or their parents—the curse extending well beyond our lifetimes and into the recesses of history. But stories of what lived before travel on the wind in whispers. Whispers of what could be again, if only this wretched curse was broken.
The wind howls through the ruins, dragging loose materials and splintered planks across the ground, their scraping echoes reverberating through the emptiness. Doors hang from rusted hinges, creaking endlessly—the sound serving as the anthem to this forsaken place.
Even the wind feels wrong here. A hollow howl through lifeless streets. It doesn’t carry birdsong, or the rustling of leaves, or the distant murmur of a world moving forward.
And then, movement.
A shadow flickers behind the remains of a doorway—a hunchedfigure, wrapped in threadbare cloth, eyes hollow with fear. Another shifts behind a shattered window, their face gaunt, their skin stretched tight over bones. The moment they see us, doors creak shut, wooden slats hurriedly drawn across windows, blocking us out as if our very presence might bring death upon them.
A child—small, filthy, his ribs visible beneath a tattered shirt—stands frozen in the street, clutching something to his chest. His mother appears a second later, snatching him back into the shadows, vanishing behind a splintered door that slams shut with finality.
One man, draped in rags so threadbare I can see the jut of his bones, does not flee. He just stands in a doorway, eyes hollow, watching us pass. He does not beg. He does not cower. He only stares.
Not with hope. Not even with fear. But with despair that turns my stomach.
They’ve learned that in The Shadow Wastes, hope is a luxury they can’t afford.
My chest aches at the resignation in their eyes—there is no more hope, no more desire to simply get through the day. They have given up.
Even the Virellin slums, as ruthless as they were, pulsed with something. A fight to survive. A hunger for tomorrow. But here? Here, there is nothing but surrender.
Kael’s voice rumbles low, interrupting my thoughts, “Are you ready to understand?”
He lurches forward on Nyx, into what looks like more cracked earth. Before I can even think, I shout, “Wait—what do you?—”
A tremor ripples through the air, a force I can’t name but feel in my bones. My stomach lurches, weight vanishing from my limbs as if the ground itself has fallen away. A gasp rips from my throat—except I’m not falling, not really. But for a moment, I am nowhere. I am nothing.
And then—the world does not shift. It does not change.It folds.
Bending. Warping. Buckling. The world twisting in on itself.
One breath, and the air is dry, lifeless.
The next, and I am drowning.
Damp air swells in my lungs, heavy with rain-drenched earth and flowers, so vivid it’s dizzying. Leaves glisten, fat droplets of water clinging to emerald canopies that stretch impossibly high, swallowing the sky. Beneath them, the earth is dark and rich, every inch teeming with life.
I stagger, chest heaving. It is too much. Too bright. Too full. My mind cannot hold both places at once. Cannot reconcile the death behind me with the impossible paradise before me.
I rip Kael’s arms from my waist, unfolding myself from his embrace and scramble down from Nyx.
My hands tremble. My knees buckle. I sink to the damp earth, pressing my fingers into the rich, fertile soil, as if needing to confirm it is real. Needing to ground myself in something.Anything.
I clamber to the blooms, they glow with a soft, impossible light, their violet-blue petals open and abundant, thriving as if the world has never known hunger. Their beauty takes my breath away. My eyes prickle with tears threatening to spill down my cheeks, and this time, I don’t stop them. I have stolen these for Seren countless times, risked my life to get a glimpse of them, sold my meagre possessions—my body—for just one, and here they are, wild, free and abundant. I pick one, two, three of the flowers from their stems, marveling at their radiant allure.
Ronyn and Seren drop to their knees beside me, arms wrapping around mine, grounding me in memory itself—like Revryn’s loft, like hope. Seren’s dusty cheeks show the trail her tears have left, her smile in full bloom, and I think it might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
