Our wolves have taken an interest in the conversation now that conflict is stirring, though they’re all still finding their sea legs again after our reprieve from the tossing waves. Cratos carefully comes to four paws, padding over to stand next to Stark. Two pairs of malicious eyes glare daggers at the Siphon king.
I should intervene, but my exhausted mind is stuttering to a stop. I struggle to find the energy to even stand and break up their fight.
To my surprise, Venna cuts in, rising to step between Lucien and Stark.
“Cut it out,” she says mildly, and her casual rebuke takes the temperature down a few degrees. “Can we all just pretend to be adults for a second? What doyoupropose we do next, Lucien?”
Lucien strides in my direction, squatting beside me and landing a hand on my shoulder. The touch is unnecessary. He’s clearly still trying to get a rise out of Stark.
“Alistair’s command of Siphon magic was enough to bring down Queen Chiara Sturmfrost at the height of her rule. He’s had five hundred years to perfect his corrupt magic, access to Meryn’s own power, not to mention one of these Goddess Tears, too. A gem that induces subservience, bends his enemies’ will until they worship at his feet, if we are to believe Killian.”
“Right,” I say tersely. “But we havefiveof the Tears, plus your magic and mine. If you’re too afraid to confront your brother, Lucien, I am more than happy to take your two and handle him myself. With that kind of firepower, I could personally wipe Killian right off the face of the earth.”
Lucien’s face turns savage, his fangs extending. The playful, disaffected mask he usually wears goes by the wayside. “No. That is not on the table.”
I sigh. Of course not. “Do you not want this to end?”
“Trust between us only goes so far,” Lucien retorts. “You heard your little soldier friend here”—he gestures toward Stark, whose face goes stony—“he was ready to turn on me just seconds ago. And now you expect me to hand over my crown and my opal necklace, two of the most powerful magical objects in all of Astreona’s history? No. We should head back to my kingdom.”
I throw my hands in the air. “Why?!”
“Because we can rally my troops before going into Nocturna. Alistair may still be looking for the final Tear, but we don’t know what it does. Better to enter with an entire army at our back.” He pauses, smiles. “Once we’re married, of course.”
I sputter indignantly. “Absolutely fucking not, Lucien. My apologies if I haven’t been clear enough about this, but we are not getting married. Ever. I’d rather face Killian alone and fail than doom myself to a life at your side.”
He sighs and drags his eyes toward Stark. “Is this about him? Surely youmust see that this makes political sense otherwise. I wouldn’t care if you kept a lover. In fact, I’m an equal opportunist. I’d welcome youbothinto my bed if you’d like.”
Rage builds inside me. He’s making a joke out of everything, but I’m the one whose friends are dying in this war.
Without realizing it, I’ve reached into the pouch at my hip and I’m clenching the Tear from the tower in my palm. The fabric I wrapped around it has slipped off, and the tip of the opal bites painfully into my skin.
The opal’s warmth grows… and starts to burn.
I gasp, pulling my hand out from the pouch and staring at the gem in my palm. As I do, a band that has been tightly strung inside me snaps and breaks.
Shadows fly from my palm in the direction that my hand was pointing.
Toward the tower.
Halfway across the water, the shadows start to warp and change. The sight is somehow both beautiful and nauseating. It’s like looking at the pool of my blood in the tower when it evaporated and left the dazzling mosaic behind.
What is happening?
The darkness leeches out of the magic until it’s just waves of many-colored light, fractals of color, rushing headlong toward the island.
My jaw drops.
The beams of power—whatever they are—hit the tower, and there’s a loud sound like the chiming of a bell. Even from this distance, out in the water, the sound is so loud that it makes my eardrums ache.
The direwolves all rub their ears, whining. Elias comes racing down onto the deck, his eyes wide.
For a moment, nothing else happens.
Then the island starts to change.
Where only rock and stubborn moss were, plants appear, tangling and chasing one another like they’re racing to reach the tower first. Huge ropes of ivy and some climbing vine with massive red flowers twirl up the sides of the tower, like the red of a peppermint stick.
In mere moments, the rocky, desolate island becomes a lush and tropicalparadise. Trees that should take decades to grow tall sprout and shoot up, instantly bearing fruit. We can even hear the lively calls of birdsong echoing across the waves.
