Page 114 of Cursebreaker

Think I feel Owen’s hand on my shoulder.

But it’s too late. The sea has found a home in me, its favorite daughter, and I am no longer a girl.

I am a force. A reckoning.

I bring my hands together, and with a clap that echoes off the walls of the cavern, I split the sea.

The Deathwail cleaves in half.

Wood crashes to the ocean floor below, the bodies of Will’s crew—of the cannibal pirates who tortured and killed countless people—who tortured Henry for twelve long days—plummeting to the bone-dry depths. But not Will.

No, not Will.

He appears in a whirl of black shadows at the entrance of a domed structure, its columns wrapped with seaweed, a statue at its center.

I’m already moving, racing toward the structure—toward Will—making my way to him on dry land. And I don’t have to look over my shoulder to know that Owen follows me.

But Will doesn’t run. He just stands there, at the top of the steps, as if he were waiting for me to catch him. As if this were exactly what he wants.

My stomach drops. He did this on purpose. The Sword—he wanted me to expose the Sword. And if Hildegarde hid it anywhere at Castle Grim, why not her secret haven beneath the waves?

“The Sword!” I yell at Owen. “It’s there!”

He curses. We run faster.

As we race toward the structure, Will takes a step back, pivoting on his heel to enter the dome, as if inviting us to follow.

“Azeron!” I roar as I climb the shallow steps into the folly, Owen at my heels.

Will leans casually against the statue in the center of the structure, his hands in his pockets. I wonder if I imagine that he tenses, his eyes flaring at my use of his true name, because a moment later, a lazy grin tugs at his lips as he lifts his gaze to the ceiling and reads aloud, “Only blood can heal the land. Only truth can mend the past.” Will flicks a glance at the statue of Hildegarde—at the sword in her grasp—and tsks, shaking his head. “I must say, I really thought the Sword would be here.” Will draws a wicked-looking knife from his belt, points it at me. “Perhaps an offering of your blood—”

Will moves toward me at a preternatural speed my eyes can barely detect.

But Owen is faster.

Owen chokes, blood splattering the stone floor, and I scream, grasping at my own chest, because it feels as if the blade that protrudes from his back pierced my heart instead.

Will rolls his eyes, wiping the dagger on his sleeve as Owen drops to the ground at the foot of the statue. “Such wasted potential.”

I charge him, blades drawn, but he vanishes in a whirl of shadows just as my dagger slices the skin of his throat.

“Aster?” Owen gasps, his gravelly voice thick with blood.

I sheathe my dagger and drop to my knees beside him. “It’s all right,” I say, trying to mimic Margaret’s calm, measured tone. “You’re going to be all right.”

I close my eyes, my shaking hands hovering over the wound in his chest. The Manan in the water thrums all around me, flowing through my veins. I can heal him. I know that I can.

But when I try to stitch Owen’s flesh, it’s as if there were no thread of Manan to grab hold of.

As if Owen were already a ghost.

Already dead.

“His blade wasn’t cursed,” I tell him. “I just need to… to close the wound. I can repair your heart—I know I can—just as Killian did for Father. You’re going to be all right. You—”

“Aster,” Owen says again, softer this time—weaker.

I open my eyes, tears streaming down my cheeks.