“The trench,” Gavriall begins again.
“I’m not fucking talking about the Sceleratus Trench!” The anger coursing through our bond erupts with startling speed, and I blink,resisting the urge to physically move away from its intensity. From its heat. Because I’ve seen Zephyra angry. I’ve experienced it firsthand. I’ve seen her frightened too, and whatever this is—it isn’t that.No.The thought of returning to the Syl has elicited a different response in Zephyra. Something primitive. Visceral.
Gavriall must sense it too, even if he can’t feel it the way I can. He leans up on his elbows as I ask, “What is it, Zephyra? What aren’t you telling us?”
She doesn’t look at me.Won’tlook at me. Her jaw clenches tight as if she’ll never speak again. Until finally, she lifts her chin and says, “It’s not in the trench, and I can’t… I’m not going to tell you how I know that. I just do.” Her gaze shines bright—too bright—as it finally lands on mine, and desperation winds through the cord with her anger now. “Can you trust me here? Please?”
We stare at each other for a long moment. Only a gentle drip of water from the cavern wall breaks the silence. Even Gavriall seems to know better than to speak, instead watching us intently. He doesn’t matter right now. Only Zephyra matters—her, and the question still echoing between us.Can you trust me?Yesterday, I would’ve answered with a resounding no, and it would’ve been deserved. But then she jumped atop a dryad for me. She didn’t run from the cult either. Somehow, Zephyra of the Syl—liar, thief,mermaid—is still here with me, searching for Abysses. She is asking me to trust her.
More shocking still, I think perhaps I can. Ido.
For now.
“Okay, mermaid,” I say quietly. “Okay.”
Her lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but no longer a scowl either. The cord dims to a faint, soft light as her anger fades. Her fear too. Exhaling slowly, she nods. “With all the evidence from the isles and this entry, it really sounds like the Sol. Monsters. The heat of the ocean. Merrow don’t often frequent its sea, and those who do live there cluster in the center. Maybe we can map out where the monsters are located. Maybe they aren’t swimming aimlessly. Maybe they’re defending a location.” She swallows hard and glances between Gavriall and me. “There are depictions of Vila riding onthe back of a kraken. A lot of times, in ancient sketches, she’s drawn interchangeably with krakens. There’s something there.”
I nod too, still struggling not to study her. Not to stare. We have direction now, at least. Purpose. “The Sol, then.”
“The Sol,” Gavriall echoes. “Sounds as good a plan as any. If the warlock can flex his magic, wecouldtry to find the precise location through echolocation.” Gavriall flashes me a condescending grin and quickly explains, “Echolocation is the ability to locate objects by reflected sound, as used by animals such as dolphins and bats.”
My gaze snaps to his. “I am not a fuckingdolphin.”
“No, but you’re about two sharp fangs away from a bat.” He gestures to my wings with a laugh. If I weren’t so exhausted, I might knock him out. One bolt of magic to silence him. At least for the rest of the night.
“I am not screaming in the ocean to try and find ancient ruins,” I say coldly. “That’s a ridiculous plan and, frankly, insulting. If there’s magic in the Sol, there will be a pull. I’ll feel it.” I force myself to focus, to imagine that final moment when I hold Mortem’s heart in my hands. Something in my gut has to tell me when I’m close. I was made of Mortem, crafted in his image, sculpted by his chosen elders. I have to feel the heart when it’s near—a pull, a tug, anything like the addictive magic whirling in my veins. “I’ll feel it,” I say again. Desperate.
“The Sol,” Zephyra agrees.
Gavriall shuts his eyes once more and drapes an arm over his forehead. He falls asleep within seconds. I don’t stay to watch him, to force small talk with Zephyra. Standing, stretching my limbs, I duck inside the empty tunnel to be alone. Energy coils hot inside my body, and my muscles tremble. I’m exhausted. I feel as if I’ve been pulverized. And it’s beginning to feel hopeless. Mortem’s heart. Abysses. Immortality. I thought if I concentrated on the mission at hand, everything would fall into place. I thought everything would—would meansomething.
“Please,” the boy cries. “Please help me.”
The obsidian steps of Tower Arcana are drenched in blood. His father’s blood. The boy knows this is illegal. He will incur punishments a dozen times over from the guards or the soldiers or maybe even the warlocks themselves for desecrating their sacred grounds.
They were meant to cleanse the rot of this city. They were meant to be heroes.
Where had they been when his father was murdered?
He looks down at his father. Gray streaks through his thick black hair. Matted to his face with blood. His skull is broken. Cracked. The boy can see his father’s brain. All the while, his father stares at the cloudless sky in frozen anguish.
“Please fix him.” The boy’s voice turns rough, edged with rage. The older men on the steps do not respond. They just stare at him. Stare at his father. Their lips do not smile nor frown, as if they have no opinion on his pain. As if they cannot understand the grief pummeling him. “The Scars did this. They—they came into our home, and they beat him. They b-beat him with a hammer.” Tears stream down the boy’s face. “Please, you have to—”
“We do not have to do anything. We answer to Mortem and the king,” the middlemost old man says. His scraggly white beard wobbles with every cold word.
“But you’re supposed to protect the kingdom—”
“Your father was a thief. He stole. The punishment doled out matched the crime. Mortem has claimed him.”
His father… a thief? The boy swallows, unable to see through his tears. The world before him blurs. Obscure. Indistinct. It no longer looks like home. His hands curl into fists, and he slams them on the step. “Fucking help me!”
The middlemost old man descends a single step. And then, he smiles. “What is your name, boy?”
“Arion. Arion Stone.”
“Arion Stone.” He continues walking down, down, down, pausing just before the boy, where he slides aside the boy’s father with his boot. “I cannot help the wastrel. He was rot, and all rot must be purged. However, I can help you, if you so choose. I can grant you the power to purge the rot yourself.”
“What? How?” The boy’s breath sticks in his throat. He glances at his father. He can only see blood and brain. He misses his father’s laughter. His father’s smile. He wasn’t rot. Was he?
