Page 131 of Cursebreaker

Dirt falls as the being shakes its hair, dusts off its arms, revealing its true form.

Before me stands a young woman clothed in bands of ivy, with skin as pink as the petals that land on her head and eyes like beads of opalescent glass. Translucent wings spread from her back, reminding me of a dragonfly.

I raise the Sword higher, my fists clenched tightly around the hilt.

The woman moves, and I draw back, preparing to strike.

But she drops to her knee and bows her head, stark white hair tumbling over her shoulders.

“Aster Oberon,” she says, her voice as bright as a bell and sweet as birdsong. “We’ve been expecting you.”

I don’t lower the Sword. “How?” I ask. “How did you know that I would come?”

She looks up then, her gossamer eyelashes reflecting the light—light that seems to fracture, as if the sky were made of crystal. But she doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns her back to me, starting toward the doors.

“Wait!” My voice breaks. “I—I thought I would have to fight you! Aren’t you supposed to guard the passageway?”

Still, she doesn’t answer, reaching out to press her hand to the wooden surface.

“My brother died for this Sword!” I seethe, tears rolling down my cheeks. “And—and it was for nothing?”

Her hand grazes the wood, her shoulders sagging, wings drooping. “No,” she says. “Not for nothing.”

She pushes open the doors. Warm golden light spills out, a thick cloud of Manan buzzing in the open frame, obscuring whatever lies beyond.

The woman steps through.

Owen gave his life so that I could obtain this Relic. He sacrificed everything so that I would be able to defeat whatever being guarded the passage between the realms.

Is this some kind of trick? I look around, expecting some kind of monstrous being to step out of the peaceful woods, but I’m alone again. Nothing stands between me and the open doors.

I have no choice but to wipe my tears away, sheathe the Sword at my hip, and follow.

The Manan warms my skin, as bright as the summer sun, buzzing all around me.

I emerge from the doorway onto a wide path paved with pearlescent bricks. Above, the lavender sky looks as if it’s caught somewhere between day and night, dreaming and awake, glittering with a tapestry of foreign stars that seem too close, winking and tumbling like living things. From where I stand, the flowering meadow slopes down, toward streams of water that glimmer with blue lights that seem to dance atop the shimmering surface. Ahead, the path winds up a plush hill, through a grove of weeping willows. Everything here glows, as if radiating light from within, pulsing with celestial colors I can’t even begin to describe.

“Well?” the young woman says, her wings fluttering. She smiles at me, and the effect it has reminds me of when Liv presses her forehead to mine and I can’t help but feel joyful. “Are you coming?”

I tighten my grip around the hilt of the Sword as I follow the woman up the path. If this is a trap, I won’t let myself be lulled into a false sense of security. Not now. Not when I’m so close to finding a way to stop Morana—to save Elsie from whatever took her from me.

We reach the crest of the hill, and my grip on the hilt of the Sword goes slack.

Nestled in the valley below, the kingdom appears as if it were ripped from the pages of one of the fairy tales Father used to read. A quaint ivory castle rises out of the center of the town, its stained glass windows reflecting a rainbow of colors on the streets, filled with Myths I’ve never seen—beings I hardly comprehend. Children with wings like butterflies. People with skin like gemstones.

Elysia.

“This way,” the woman says, leading me down a path that skirts around the village, taking us farther from the castle and the people there, toward a thatched cottage that sits amid a thick garden of flowers that smell like sugar, and fruit-bearing plants that seem to hum a merry tune as we pass.

She raises her fist to knock on the door, but—

“Oh my!” comes a man’s voice from somewhere close by. “There you are!”

He peers out from behind a bush, an old tin watering can in his grasp. His smile crinkles his brown eyes, as rich as the upturned soil of a nearby flower bed. He pushes strands of wavy dark hair from his kind face, his olive-brown skin glittering with gold dust as he extends his hand to me.

“Aster Oberon,” he says, his voice like a sunrise and the lull of the waves and the gentle fall of rain all wrapped up in the softest, purest silk. “I’ve been waiting a very long time to meet you.”

My hand falls from the Sword at my hip. “Me?”