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“They aren’t fae,” I whispered.

Tait tightened his brow, then nodded. It meant nothing. I knew enough mortals to understand they were as fierce with blades as fae folk could be with their abilities.

From the back of the invading ship, another man approached. He wore his hair in a knot atop his head and had inked runes that ran through his brows, down his cheeks, and across his throat.

“Peace givings. Call me Osatt,” he said, and dipped his chin. His accent was similar to Aeika’s but not nearly as thick. “Our clan settles nearby. We go fish.”

Tait cracked one knuckle against my hip, and for the first time, his arm lowered with the blade. “We seek the Ever Kingdom.”

“Lost, yes?” Osatt asked, a look of sympathy on his features.

“To what clan or kingdom do you belong?” said Tait.

When Osatt tilted his head in a touch of confusion, Tait repeated the question with more care.

“Ah. Eilifur. Our land, our clan. Eilifur.”

“I’ve never heard of this land,” Tait said. “There is no isle nearby.”

“You do not see Eilifur, but we do.” Osatt chuckled. “And we hear of Ever from lost sea fae only. You are to rest in Eilifur. You have food, yes?”

Tait shifted on his feet and lied. “Some.”

“Hmm.” Osatt clicked his tongue. “We give you more, sea fae. You rest, get food.”

My pulse slowed. “They…they want to help us.”

“So they say,” Tait said in a sort of growl.

“You felt their desires. They wish to save us from the sea.”

With a touch of reluctance, Tait returned his attention to the strangers. “You say you know of the Ever?”

Osatt nodded. “Borders, two, uh, two.” He pointed at the darkened sky.

“Nights?” I offered.

“This.” Osatt beamed. “Two nights to Ever.”

Tait nodded. “About what I thought.”

“Rest in Eilifur,” Osatt went on. “Food for lady fae.”

Tait cast a glance my way, worry written on his brow and concern deep in his eyes. None of it for him, all of it for me.

“Either way, Hearttalker,” I assured him, “we continue on alone. Or we trust them. I will go either way.”

“We are out of food.”

“And I will survive two days if you wish to go at it alone.”

“Two days if the sea is peaceful,” he insisted. “Anything else and it could take longer. Then we will be out of water.”

True enough. Our water was limited, our bodies exhausted. If storms never rose, if our small raft remained intact, we might sail into the Ever, battered, hungry, and exhausted. Or we might trust the hands of strangers and return with full bellies and rested limbs.

“I don’t feel malice,” Tait admitted, but each word was spoken with remorse, like he did not wish to trust them.

No mistake, if the man were alone, he would refuse. Every reeling thought in his mind, I could see, was for my benefit.