It’s Orán. It has to be.
The name douses some of the dread, and with it, something in my chest loosens.
I close my eyes briefly and focus, drawing that thread closer in my mind, tightening my hold on it as if it might slip away if I don’t. It steadies me. When my eyes open again, I lift my head and press my heels lightly into Cali’s sides.
“Velir.”
Faster.
Cali’s pace picks up, her stride lengthening as the wolf breaks into a run alongside us. I lean forward, tightening my grip on the reins, and draw a breath before giving her another command.
“Faelis nael.”
Find him.
Chapter Thirty-Five
What One Finds In Secret Garden
Eridessa
Morning crests, bringing enough sunlight through the curtains for the rays to catch on the dust in the air, transforming the ordinary into tiny, drifting glimmers of gold. I lift my hand and weave my fingers through them, appreciating the way light can change even the smallest of things. This leads to another discovery as my fingers begin to form odd shapes—random at first, then small animals.
Tilting my head back, I watch as the shadows from my creations stretch across the headboard and wall.
Innocent images—until the light is interrupted.
Then they become something else entirely. The farther they are from the light, the more ominous the shadow.
I slip from the bed and pad across the room in my nightgown, drawn closer to the window, compelled to test the theory. The rabbit I form with my hands becomes monstrous against the wall—warped, almost grotesque, as though it might leap free and eat me if it chose to.
The thought sparks another. I fan out my nightgown, watching how the shadow stretches and swells, comparing it to the image of a girl grown impossibly large from one of my favorite stories.
One idea feeds the next, and I grab a piece of paper and fold it a few times. Within seconds, it becomes a rudimentary hat—imperfect, but it works. I turn in a slow circle, searching, then move to a drawer and pull out a small pair of sewing scissors. With a careful snip, I cut into the corner of my pillow and pluck a single feather free.
While walking back to the window, I work to spear the quill through the hat, before settling it into place on my head. Hands on hips, head tilted to the side.
Out of the edge of my periphery, I see it.
A female version of Peter Pan’s shadow proudly dominates the wall on the opposite side of the room.
“What in the world are you doing?” Lila’s voice, rich with amusement, startles me.
I snatch the hat from my head, hiding it behind my back as I turn. “Nothing.” Heat floods my cheeks, betraying me.
She doubles over, laughter spilling out of her. “You are such a bad liar.”
I say nothing, and she lingers there, watching me, waiting me out.
“I was recreating something,” I finally admit. “From an old story. A classic. Peter Pan. Ever heard of it?”
She shakes her head, one brow lifting, curiosity sharpening her expression.
So I explain it as best I can—about the boy, about flying, about his shadow. The part of him that refused to be governed. A piece of him, an echo that moved on instinct alone, sometimes acting beyond his control. And how, in the end, Wendy had to catch it… and sew it back on, making him, in a way, whole again—even if it never truly stopped being its own thing.
I don’t tell her that what resonated the most for me is that sometimes it takes someone else to return you to yourself, and there’s no shame in that—in needing someone else to feel whole.
By the time I finish, she’s leaning in, eyes bright, attention fixed.
