The trance shattered.
Collin splashed forward, away from the sound. He staggered out of the creek, spotted a row of huts still standing. As he passed, it was clear the villagers had fled in haste—doors flung open, food left burning on stovetops, candles weeping wax into the dark.
He was trotting past an open doorway when a soft whimper made him stop.
He listened. Another sob.
Cautiously, he stepped inside.
“I won’t harm you,” he whispered into the shadows.
Beyond the entryway, pale moonlight spilled through a cracked shutter—and revealed her.
Dragonfly.
She was crouched against the wall, arms wrapped tight around herself, shivering like a child expecting a blow. A body lay nearby—an old man, still and silent.
Collin rushed to her. Relief nearly knocked him to his knees. He’d feared the worst—braced himself to find another friend dead at every corner. But here she was, alive.
He pulled her into his arms. She gasped at his force, then sagged against him, trembling.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said into her hair, voice raw.
She sobbed into his shoulder. “Oh, look what I’ve done.”
Still holding her, he looked down at the man. No blood. No visible wound. Her sword lay nearby—untouched.
“What happened?”
“I was supposed to burn these houses,” she whispered. “Lekyi and the guards vanished when the villagers ran. I waited—I wanted them to leave. But this man wouldn’t go. I drew my sword, tried to scare him. He lunged. I hit him with the flat. He cried out, clutched his chest, and fell. I think—I think his heart gave out. I didn’t mean to...”
“You didn’t kill him,” Collin said quietly. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“But now the powder won’t light!” Her eyes gleamed with panic. “If Eric sees, he’ll punish me!”
He touched the leather pouch in her hands—damp. Then noticed her soaked clothes.
“The powder’s wet,” he said. “That’s why it won’t catch. Why are you—”
“I fell,” she confessed. “In the creek. I was running, I couldn’t see, and then—”
Collin clenched his jaw. The thought of her stumbling alone through the darkness filled him with fury.
He took her hand. “We need to go.”
“But the fire—”
“Forget the fire! We shouldn’t be here. We never should’ve come!”
The climb to the summit grew more grueling with every step. The path all but vanished beneath gnarled roots and tangles of vine, forcing Collin to release Dragonfly’s hand so they could push aside branches and claw through the brush. The group moved in a slow, uneven line—single file through a corridor ofthorns and shadow. Often, they came to a full stop as guards hacked away at the dense vegetation choking the trail.
Nesaea was isolated by both geography and indifference. To the north loomed a cavernous gorge, and beyond it, the near-impenetrable eastern reach of Black Timber Forest. No well-marked trail connected the village to the mountain summit—only the fading footprints of those who passed before. Any path carved through this wilderness was a transient thing, born of necessity, erased by time.
Some said the journey to Nereid could be made by skirting the shoreline, but even that route depended on the tides. One misstep could trap a traveler on a sandbar, or force them to brave waves that crashed like hammers against massive stone. Logan had told tales of young men from long ago who had sought meaning—or oblivion—along that perilous stretch of coast. None had ever returned.
Ahead, Logan slipped. He fell back into Nic, who stumbled into Dragonfly, sending her tumbling into Collin. He caught her reflexively, trying to brace her without losing his own balance. But the slope was treacherous, thick with wet, decaying leaves.
As Nic yanked Dragonfly forward, Collin’s foot found a rotting log hidden beneath the underbrush. He lost his footing entirely.
