Still, the war had been over four hundred years ago and they couldn't keep lingering on the past. “This is a different age,” she said softly. “We don't know Caprion's intentions, and he doesn't know ours. Yet he's willing to trust us.”
“Of course. He has the advantage,” Crash said dryly.
Sora sighed. She was fast growing tired of arguing. She didn't have the strength for this. “He's done his part, and I will do mine. You can't make me break my word, Crash. Let's just get off this island. I'm ready to go home.”
The assassin lifted his dagger out of the sand and sheathed it. Then he knelt by her side again, reaching out to touch her wounded shoulder, swiftly inspecting the bandage. As he unfastened the cloth, he said softly, “We're not going home yet. We need to find the third weapon.”
Sora winced as he unwrapped the bandage, then put on a fresh strip of linen. His hands were warm and dry, steadying her as he worked. She felt a strange warmth move through her at his touch.
“I know,” she said, trying not to grow distracted by his closeness. “That's what I meant.” No, I really want to go home. Couldn't they rest for a while? She had the strong urge to lean against him, bury her face in his shoulder and sleep. She wanted to disappear, awaken in the wilderness somewhere far away from humans and Harpies and magic. Her mind felt like it was tied up in knots, ready to snap apart from the strain.
The assassin finished wrapping her fresh bandage and sat against the wall next to her, their legs almost touching. “How do you feel?” he asked softly.
She glanced at him. Changing the subject? She took that as a sign that he was relenting. She let out a slow breath and flexed her left hand. It was sore and stiff and felt burned, and there was a deep pain centered on her palm, but she couldn't see it very clearly in the darkness. “I'm fine,” she said. “Just tired.”
He nodded. A strange tension filled the air. She wanted to touch him somehow, to share his warmth—but it seemed like that familiarity was gone.
Because of the kiss. She bit her lip, thinking about it—the heat of his mouth, his firm arms. Why had he done such a thing if he wouldn't acknowledge it now? Why did he let it hang between them, tangible and heavy, like a third person nudging them apart?
“About last night,” she started to say, then paused. Crash glanced at her, then away. Not very comforting. “I don't want anything to change between us.”
He shifted slightly. “What's changed?”
She blinked. Uh, everything. “I don't know,” she said lamely.
He hesitated, then reached over and clasped her hand, still not looking at her. Sora was surprised by his touch. She looked down at their interlocked hands, frowning, unsure of what it meant.
“Nothing's changed, Sora,” he said quietly.
She wondered at his words. Nothing's changed. Meaning, they would go back to the way things were? Remaining distant, him pulling back whenever she got too close? Or did he think about the kiss as much as she did? Nothing's changed—their embrace under the tree meant something, and he still thought of it. They were headed in the same direction—but where, exactly?
She was trying to formulate a question out of all that, but was distracted by a vague sound from the Cat's Eye. A small chime. A slight vibration passed over her skin, and she heard the sand moving outside the cave, being kicked up into the air.
Caprion landed a moment later. His eyes searched the darkness. She wasn't sure if he could see the two of them or not; he seemed uncertain. “Are you ready?” he called.
Crash stood up and lifted Sora to her feet, supporting her with one shoulder. She wavered and he tightened his arm, correcting her balance. Together, they walked out of the cave toward the Harpy.
“We're ready,” Sora said.
Caprion nodded. He made another series of hand signals. The white light emerged from the ground, slipping over their feet, up their legs, their chest, their shoulders. With a flick of his wrist, they shot into the air, flying faster than Sora had before. The night flowed around them like black velvet, soft and cool, deceptively peaceful. The ground sped by, and then the ocean waves. In the distance, she could see a vague flickering light—a ship. At first it was small on the horizon, like a toy boat, but it grew larger and larger as they neared. It was a schooner, three-masted, anchored off the eastern shore of the Isles, listing slightly in the tide.
Crash kept her hand in his the entire time, his grip tight. She wondered if he enjoyed the experience—or if he was waiting for the Harpy to drop them into the ocean.
They continued toward the ship, leaving the Lost Isles behind.
* * *
As they approached the deck, Sora could see a large group of people standing toward the aft of the boat, watching the sky eagerly. Countless fingers were pointing at them, and then there was an uproar of shouts and excited cries, though the voices were shredded by the wind.
She kept a close eye on the approaching deck. At the speed they were going, she didn't want to slam face-first into the wood. Yet Caprion brought them up short, hovering just above the railing of the boat, then gently set them down toward the very rear of the deck. The Harpy staggered when his feet touched the deck, and he leaned up against the railing, sweat drenching his brow. Transporting so many people so far had taken a lot of strength.
The first person Sora saw was Burn. He had collapsed on a wooden bench, his shoulders sagging in exhaustion. She took a step toward him, but before she could go any further, a blond arrow shot across the deck.
“Sora!” she heard. “Oh, my daughter!”
In shock, Sora found herself gripped tightly in her mother’s embrace. “W-what are you doing here?” she stammered.
Her mother didn't answer, only held her closer. Sora couldn't quite believe it. What's going on?
The crowd rushed up behind Lori, eagerly calling Sora's name. Finally, her mother released her from the tight hug, but kept one arm around her shoulders, unable to let go of her daughter.
Sora looked on in surprise. She recognized the Dracians that they had left on the island, and she summoned up a relieved smile. Joan reached out and touched Sora's hand, then Tristan approached, taking both of their hands in his.
“Where is Laina?” Tristan asked, his eyes filling with doubt. “Is she...?”
“She's alive,” Sora answered wearily. “She decided to stay with the Harpies.”
Tristan frowned in disappointment, then he nodded. He didn't ask what Laina's reasoning was. Sora could only assume that the Dracian knew of the girl's heritage.
He ruffled Sora's hair and then turned away, joining Burn on the bench. Joan followed after him, heading quickly to the Wolfy.
Sora's eyes scanned the mingling crowd. There was a mix of humans and Dracians on-board, and many of the sailors were unfamiliar: tall, broad men with piercings and tattoos, corded with muscle, decidedly cutthroat. They hung at the back of the group, watching with wary interest. Jacques' crow circled above them, though she had yet to see the man. She noticed that Caprion had momentarily disappeared. Was he still on the boat? She glanced skyward, but didn't see any evidence of the Harpy.
Crash slipped from behind her and traveled around the fringe of the crowd to where Burn sat. She caught his eye, wishing she could follow, but he shook his head. Then he gave her an ironic half-smile. She returned it. For the moment, she was the center of attention. She couldn't fathom why.
Finally, her mother stepped away from her side, removing her arm. She glanced over her daughter's body. “You're wounded,” she said briefly. It was almost an accusation.
“We fought Volcrian,” Sora said. Her voice felt dry in her throat.
“And?”
“We won.”
It felt empty. The memory of Volcrian's demise left her strangely uncomfortable. Her head throbbed: a sudden, short burst of pain. She grimaced. Was it a remnant of the broken bond? She couldn't be sure.
Her mother searched her face, then smiled—a genuine look that was full of strength. “Of co
urse,” she said. “I can see it on you. You look tired...but strong. I was a fool to worry.”
“Oh?” a new voice spoke from behind her. “A fool to worry? Is that so?”
Sora looked up, surprised. In Tristan's place stood another man, one she had never met before. She stared. He was tall and lanky; his body held an easy, athletic grace, like that of a long-distance runner. He was dressed in a brown greatcoat with a stained tunic underneath, and tall leather boots. By his face, she could tell that he was older, perhaps in his late thirties, with chestnut brown hair and quick gray eyes. There was a roguish, weathered charm about him. She could see that he had been handsome in his youth, but age was slowly creeping into the lines on his brow, the scuffed tan of his skin.
“Sora,” her mother said, stepping back and turning to the new man. “This is Ferran. He's an old friend of your father's.”
Sora stared at the man, taken aback. Ferran. She had never heard that name before. “You knew my father?” she asked softly.
“I did,” he said, with a slight nod. There was a definite warmth in his eyes. He looked at her for a long moment. “Though I must say, you take after your mother.”
Sora grinned, at an unexpected loss for words. His presence was puzzling. She knew that her real father had died before she was born. Lori had told her as much. But her instincts still recognized another man—the cold noble who had kept her under his roof for seventeen years. It always left her feeling conflicted. She had known for over a year now that she wasn't related to the Fallcrest family, and yet it was the only family she had ever really known.
She glanced from Ferran to Lori, almost frowning. “But why are you two here?” she finally asked. Not to sound ungrateful....
“Your mother asked me to accompany her,” Ferran started.
“He's a treasure hunter,” Lorianne cut in. “Or at least, he was. We were looking for a certain book that tells us how to destroy the sacred weapons. We found it, but then it was stolen....” She paused, and Sora could see the words moving behind the woman's eyes. Her mother's face was always intelligent and expressive—when Lori was thinking, it felt like the entire room thought with her.
Ferran cut in. “It's a long story, and it can wait for now. You look exhausted. Have you eaten?”
Sora shook her head. Now that the excitement had waned, her body felt heavy and tired. All she wanted to do was sit on the bench next to Burn.
Her mother took her hand and pulled her toward a series of cabins at the center of the ship. “Let's get you a plate of hot stew, and I'll look at that wound on your shoulder.”
“Crash tended to it,” she mumbled, allowing her mother to drag her across the deck.
Lori pushed her way forcefully through the crowd of sailors and Dracians. “And I'll make sure he did it right,” she replied.
Sora knew better than to argue. Her mother was just as stubborn as she was—perhaps more so. She glanced over her shoulder to where Crash and Burn still sat on the bench. Several more Dracians surrounded them, and she recognized Jacques' crow hovering above the crowd. She felt overwhelmed by so many people. For the past month, she had been isolated with her friends—and had grown far closer to Crash and Burn than she could explain. She felt a strange yearning. She didn't want to be separated from them, even if they were on the same ship.
But then her mother opened a door and led her into a long, narrow hallway. Ferran walked casually behind them, his hands thrust into the pockets of his brown coat.
A whistle sounded as they went below deck. She could hear the clunk and screech of the anchor being raised. The ship tossed and rocked, free upon the waves, and several more whistles sounded as various sails were released. Her stomach sank, and a familiar, swimmy sensation filled her gut. Seasickness. She wanted to groan.
Her mother led her into the sickroom and closed the door behind them.
* * *
Close to dawn, Sora stood at the fore of the ship, watching the waves break across the bow. A pale blue light the color of a robin's egg was flowing across the eastern sky. Soon a new day would begin.
Her mother had given her a special calming tonic to ease her stomach. Still, Sora found herself needing a taste of fresh air. She was trying to keep down the three plates of stew that she had eaten—and simultaneously organize her thoughts.
The night had been a long one, with no time to sleep. Jacques and their new captain, Silas, met with all of them in the main cabin. She had listened to her mother's story, forcing herself to focus, despite the cobwebs of sleep that clouded her thoughts.
She remembered Caprion's attendance. The Harpy sat quietly in the corner, his light permeating the room. He hadn't said much—just listened. The Dracian crew tried to engage him in banter, but the Harpy merely stared at them, hooded and aloof. Eventually, the Dracians gave up and moved away, allowing him a wide berth.
Meanwhile, Sora had grown dizzy from her mother's story, hardly able to believe it: The Book of the Named, the Shade, and now a voyage to the City of Crowns. She looked back and forth between Lori and Ferran, noticing how closely they sat together, the way their eyes often met. Just friends? Why hadn't her mother mentioned him before?
Sora picked at the wooden railing of the boat. She felt unexpectedly shy around Ferran, unsure of what to think of him. He didn't look like the kind of company her mother would keep. His appearance had a definite hard edge, just like Crash. He was used to rough places, the alleyways and backstreets, perhaps even a criminal himself.
And now they would all have to travel together to the City of Crowns.
She couldn't deny it. She didn't want to go there. On her last run-in with the King's guard, she was almost arrested. She wondered if she still had a price on her head—if they still thought she had been the one to kill Lord Fallcrest. And there was always the slim chance of running into someone who recognized her. The First Tier wouldn't know her and the Second Tier only visited the City of Crowns once a year. But, gazing at the night sky, she couldn't resist the sense of dread creeping over her.
In fact, none of the people in the meeting seemed very eager to go. Her mother looked troubled, and she had gazed intently at the wall, her thoughts circling tangibly. Ferran sat next to Lori, rolling a cinnamon stick in his mouth, similarly preoccupied. His eyes had drifted to Crash numerous times, especially while discussing the Shade. It seemed as if very few people trusted the assassin. No one spoke to him directly, and he hadn't interjected his opinion—he simply met their eyes, look for look.
She sighed, fingering her Cat's Eye, feeling the salty sea-mist on her face. A new day—a new destination. All she wanted to do was crawl under a rock.
Jacques' crow cawed overhead, swooping past her. Startled, she glanced over her shoulder, then paused again. Someone was standing behind her on the deck. She immediately recognized Crash's silhouette against the flickering lanterns of the ship. Her stomach tightened at the sight, and she clutched the railing nervously. How long had he been standing there? Had he followed her from the meeting? What does he want?
She nodded to him, unsure of what to say.
The assassin walked to her side wordlessly and leaned against the railing, gazing at the sea. The wind tousled his black hair, blowing it across his forehead in unkempt waves.
Sora swallowed. Her fingers itched to touch his hair, but she restrained herself. When he stood this close, she felt completely off-balance. Her mind summoned the memory of their night beneath the tree—her first kiss. They had yet to speak about it in depth. Now that they were barreling across the ocean toward the City of Crowns, she wondered if it even mattered. She should be worried about the Dark God and the journey ahead.
And yet....
“Your mother told you to rest,” Crash murmured. He glanced sideways at her. “Your body is still recovering from the broken bond.”
She shook her head, a wry smile on her face. “I'm an adult too, you know,” she muttered. “I'm fine.”
“You're tired,” he replied, studyi
ng her face.
“I'll survive,” she grumbled.
They stood in silence for another moment, looking out at the waves. He leaned toward her until their shoulders were touching, sheltering her from the wind. She looked up at him, searching his face. She felt nervous, like she was slowly melting into the deck of the ship. What has he done to me? she thought. This is Crash. An assassin. He's untouchable.
And yet, he was also her friend.
The thought made her bolder. After a slight hesitation, she leaned into him as well. She slid her fingers over the back of his hand and entwined them, dangling their hands over the railing. He glanced down at her small palm over his large one.
“Sora...” he began softly.
“What?” she said, resisting the urge to pull back. She felt somehow guilty. Had she done something wrong?
His eyes flickered over the waves. “We can't.”
Her heart shuddered at those words. Here it was—the rejection she had been anticipating. She had braced herself for it, but she still felt as though she couldn't breathe. “What do you mean?”
A strange smile twisted his mouth: wry, self-deprecating. “You know what I mean. Your mother, Ferran and the others...they won't accept it.” He still didn't look at her.
“Won't accept what?” she asked bluntly, and gave him a pointed look. “That our hands are touching?”
Crash snorted. “Don't act so naïve. It doesn't suit you.”
“Naïve?” she replied, almost offended. “You give me half-answers. Why can't you just speak your mind?” I thought we were supposed to be past this. Hadn't he agreed to be more open with her?
“I am of the Sixth Race,” Crash said harshly. “They understand that more than you do. They won't accept it. We can't be close like this.”
Sora looked at him in surprise. Of all reasons....“Just because of their opinions?” she asked, stunned. “Since when do you care about that?”
“Since I started caring about you.”
Her lips parted.
He seemed to realize his words after saying them, and shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “I'm not good at this, Sora. In our world...we don't engage with others...we don't....” He paused.