No answer.
The storm rages on, the thunder a constant growl in the sky, but I do not know how many times I call her name. Each time, my hope both swells and withers. Then, somehow, even through the fury of the storm, I hear something softer. A slap. Low, dull. Wet.
I follow the sound to the island’s edge, where the wind howls louder. There, snagged on the jagged lip of a rock, a strip of fabric thrashes like a shredded flag.
My stomach knots.
I step closer, heart thundering, and reach for it. The wind fights me, pulling it back like it wants to keep the truth hidden. But I seize it anyway, fingers closing tight around the tattered cloth.
The moment I touch it, I know.
Zema’s cloak.
It is soaked through, but not only with rain.
Blood.
I lift my gaze to the ocean, to the waves that crash and churn.
“Looking for someone, Your Highness?” a voice says behind me.
Smoke curls between my fingers, and I feel the leather-wrapped grip of Death Singer solidify in my hand. I spin, blade flashing in the moonlight, the tip a breath from the throat of the male before me.
Modok, Lord of Mor’Thravar.
His leathers are rain-darkened, his face cast in shadow. The sides of his head are shaved close, but a long, frayed braid whips in the wind. His presence stinks of rot, of the thing festering inside him, leeching through his skin.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
Modok clasps his hands at his waist, his thumbs brushing together in thought. The blade at his throat does not make him flinch.
“I could ask you the same question,” he says. “This island is within my territory.”
I do not waste breath on his claim.
“Where is she?” My grip tightens on Death Singer. “Where is Zema?”
“My Prince,” he says, shaking his head slowly, his voice thick with mock regret. “You knew this was inevitable.”
“No.” The word is barely more than a breath, but my grip on the blade does not waver, though beneath my skin, my muscles tremble, and my blood turns sluggish with dread. “You had no right.”
Modok’s lips curl. “I had every right, Your Highness.” The title drips from his tongue like something bitter. “She was my kin. My house. My sister. And I am bound by duty to obey my king’s command.”
“King,” I bite out. “My father.”
Modok nods once. “He wished to free you from distractions.”
The words strike like a blade to the ribs. I swallow against the bile rising in my throat. “You speak as if she meant nothing. She was your sister.”
His jaw tightens, the muscles ticking beneath his bristled skin. “She was Awakened,” he grits out. “An abomination. A curse upon my house.” His eyes gleam like embers in the dark. “But I have taken care of it.”
Death Singer dissolves into smoke, curling away from my grip like mist in the wind. My wings flare wide, the sudden gust kicking up dirt and rain as I lunge. The force of my leap sends us both crashing to the ground, my knees pinning his ribs, my fists slamming into his face. Once. Twice. Over and over.
Bone cracks beneath my knuckles. His head snaps back against the wet earth, his lip splits, blood staining his teeth. But still, he smiles. That same smug, infuriating smirk. He does not fight back.
“Retaliate, Modok,” I growl, slamming my fist into his jaw. “Fight me.” Another strike. Another. “Give me a reason.”
He only laughs, the sound wet, gurgling, but full of knowing. He understands. He sees through me. He knows I want this, need this, need to rip him apart, to make him feel even a fraction of what I feel.
