The last page had no words. It was just an illustration—a simple watercolour of the Sun and the Moon sitting together on the edge of the world, watching the stars come out.
I carefully tore the page from the binding. The sound of the paper ripping echoed in the vast cavern.
My hands trembled as I folded it.
Fold the corners. Tuck the edges. Pull the centre.
Eamon had taught me how to make paper boats when I was six.We used to float them in the puddles outside the house after a rainstorm.
I shaped the hull. I creased the sail. A paper boat for a fisherman of secrets.
I stepped to the water’s edge.
The usual comforts of the dead—the burial, the headstone—remained out of reach. I held the only truth he’d left behind: a fragile piece of the story he had protected with his life.
I crouched down.
“You told me to trust him,” I whispered to the dark water. “To trust the connection.”
I looked back at Riven. He was standing apart from the others, watching me from the distance, simply waiting.
“I’m going to finish this, Dad,” I said, my voice thick. “Just like you taught me. I'm going to fight.”
I placed the boat on the surface of the water.
It bobbed for a moment, white against the black current. Then, the river caught it.
I placed my hand on the water and summoned the gentle warmth of a daughter’s love.
A tiny sphere of golden light drifted from my palm. It settled in the centre of the paper boat, shining like a lantern.
The current carried it away.
We watched in silence as the little boat drifted downstream, a single point of defiance in the encroaching dark, carrying the light towards the sea.
“Goodbye, Eamon,” Dane said softly from behind me.
“Rest well,” Goran rumbled.
I watched until the light was just a speck, and then nothing at all.
I stood up. The cavern’s chill seeped into my bones, but for the first time in days, the crushing weight in my chest felt lighter.
He was gone. But the course remained.
And I wasn’t walking the path alone.
Riven stepped awayfrom the group, retreating further into the gloom at the edge of the subterranean river. He stood looking down into the black water as if searching for a reflection that wasn’t there. His shoulders were rigid, the tension returning to his frame now that the immediate crisis of the battle was over.
I followed him, leaving the rest of the team behind. The others stayed back—Dane speaking in low tones to Una, the twins standing shoulder to shoulder by the tunnel entrance, their heads bowed in silent respect. They gave us the space we needed.
“You’re quiet,” I said.
I had felt the distance in him since I woke up back at the Cistern. He was present, lethal, and protective, but beneath the surface I could feel his unease. I hadn’t pressed him. I felt the internal war he was fighting, and I knew he would only drop his guard when the burden became too great to hold alone.
“I am listening,” he replied, his voice low.
“To what?”
