Page 21 of From the Myths of Kings

Saoirse turned back toward Aurelia, finding her friend cocking an eyebrow up to her hairline. “He’s pretty to look at.”

“Shut up,” Saoirse hissed, her face flushing with heat.

“What?” Aurelia feigned innocence. “All I’m saying is that you might need a distraction. After Rook so foolishly broke your heart, I wouldn’t blame you for moving on to someone new. Especially someone like that.”

Saoirse couldn’t help but smile. The last thing on her mind was falling for someone again, and if she were being honest, she wasn’t sure if she would ever get over Rook. Even so, Aurelia’s clear attempt at cheering her up warmed her heart.

“Something tells me Rymir flirts with everyone he meets. However, if he does express real interest, I’ll consider it,” Saoirse lied. If it made the little wrinkle of concern melt away from between Aurelia’s eyes, she’d pretend to consider a new paramour.

“Be safe,” Aurelia said somberly. “I love you. I’ll see you soon.”

With one last fleeting glance toward her oldest friend, Saoirse strode down the dock and up the gangplank. The salty sea air gusted across the ship and tugged playfully at Saoirse’s clothes. She couldn’t stop the grin that touched her lips as she felt the ship gently bob on the waves. She’d been on solid land for so long that the sensation almost felt foreign. Bustling volunteers darted across the ship in a chaotic but methodical dance. She dodged a thick rope that suddenly swung down from one of the masts and stepped out of the way as someone rolled a barrel down the deck.

Thinking it better to make herself scarce, Saoirse slipped past the busy shiphands and stood at the railing. She drank in the sight of Aurelia standing alone on the dock, her blonde hair gleaming in the sunrise like a torch. Saoirse dedicated every sensation to memory: the brackish air and gentle sway of the ship, the forlorn expression twisted across Aurelia’s face, the pounding of her heartbeat against her ribcage. Her eyes roved beyond Caltine Harbor, catching on the distant city of Bezhad that sprawled as far as the eye could see, a patchwork mosaic of various shades of terracotta studded with towering palm trees. Veins of green spilled down from the palace and trickled into the lower tiers of the city: the hanging gardens. Saoirse vaguely wondered when she would see the Clay City again. She hadn’t thought about what would happen after they defeated Selussa. She couldn’t permit herself to think of the after.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Hasana came to stand beside Saoirse at the railing. Instead of her usual flowing gowns, the princess wore an efficient tunic and loose linen breeches tucked into boots that strapped all the way up her thighs. The dusty blue fabric of her tunic looked like the cloudless sky of the Shujaa Desert while her billowing sleeves tapered into gold cuffs at the wrists. She wore a leather belt hitched with several pouches across her hips, likely filled with various medicinal herbs and other healing treatments. Her dark, waist-length hair was twisted into an impressive braid twined with bronze beads and threaded with smaller plaits.

“Indeed,” Saoirse answered, shifting her gaze back to the harbor. “My time in Bezhad was a much-needed reprieve. Thank you for allowing my people to find refuge here. Your generosity will be remembered for centuries to come. This is a new beginning for both our kingdoms.”

“Of course. We’ve designated an entire quarter of the city to the Mer refugees, should they choose to make the journey to Bezhad. We cannot be sure how many will voluntarily relocate, but we are prepared for any number.”

“My people are stubborn,” Saoirse replied, a slight smile in her voice. “Even with sea monsters snapping at their heels and a Witch wreaking havoc in their cities, they will be hesitant to trust a former enemy kingdom. But with Aurelia and Sune to guide them, I’m sure some can be swayed.”

“Hoist the mainsail!”

“Ready the riggings!”

The deck was awash with activity as various ropes were lashed and sails unfurled. Apprehension swirled like a vortex in Saoirse’s stomach. Once they pushed out of the harbor, there was no turning back.

The golden sunrise spilled across the deck as the wind caught in the sails and the ship turned east. As the ship nosed through the waves and drifted from the cradle of the harbor, Aurelia became smaller and smaller on the dock until she was nothing more than a speck. Emotion lodged in her throat as the distance between them grew with every passing second. Curls of foam rippled in their wake, and she tried to hold back the tears that burned in her eyes.

“Aurelia will hold her own,” Hasana promised, still standing by her side. “We’ll all be reunited before you know it.”

Saoirse nodded soundlessly and dug her nails into the wood taffrail. For all their sakes, she prayed Hasana was right.

She tore her gaze from the distant harbor, facing Hasana. “I forgot to ask you about the Crown of Revelore. I know you want to destroy it. Did you bring it with us?”

Hasana shook her head. “No. I didn’t think it would be wise to take it on our journey. And with the Relics and Selussa’s impending war, destroying the Crown isn’t our most pressing priority. It is safe for now, waiting for our return. When we do destroy it, I want all of Revelore to watch.”

“You’re waiting for the right time.”

Hasana nodded. “When we break the Crown, it will be a symbolic death, a public execution. The Crown’s destruction will usher us into a new age. It will shatter the web of hostilities our kingdoms have clung to all these years. We’ve fought over that piece of metal for far too long. I want all kingdoms to partake in our triumph.”

It was a moving sentiment, but Saoirse privately wondered if the Crown’s legacy would be so quickly abandoned. Even if it was destroyed and its symbolism crushed under the rebellion’s promise of freedom, how would the kingdoms of Revelore adapt? The deep hatred and rivalries of their kingdoms ran deep, generations of pain and bloodshed that wouldn’t be overcome easily. She didn’t know if breaking the Crown would be enough to unite Revelore.

Saoirse’s eyes drifted back to the sea. How had the Four Kinsmen done it all those centuries ago? Despite the impossible odds, they’d rallied together and combined forces to defeat the Titans. At the end of the world, it hadn’t mattered if they were different. It hadn’t mattered if they hailed from sky, sea, sand, or earth. Under scales and wings, they shared the same flesh and blood. Their mortality had united them.

Maybe breaking the Crown of Revelore wouldn’t be enough to unite Revelore, but perhaps the resurrection of the Titans would. Now, thousands of years later, Revelorian mortals were faced with the same storm that the Four Kinsmen had conquered. In the grand scheme of things, petty rivalries and warmongering had never seemed so futile and foolish. They’d wasted a century away with feuds and Tournaments, embroiled in a cycle bloodshed that didn’t matter in the end. They should’ve been preparing for the Titans’ return and strengthening their alliances. Instead, every kingdom had been locked in a dance of wills that claimed countless innocent lives.

Saoirse’s ancient ancestors had come together once before, overcoming the odds and uniting their diverse peoples. She had to believe that they could do it again.

10

ROOK

The drip of distant water cuts through the numbing silence. The temperature is chilled at these earthen depths, utterly devoid of any touch from the sun. Puddles of tepid water are pooled in the crevices of the cave, silty with unknown minerals. Very few know of this ancient tunnel that drills deep into the earth like a scar in the land. Ages ago, a Wyrm crawled through the loam and rock, leaving burrow walls in its wake. This winding trail was deemed suitable enough to become a secret passageway sometime in the last century by unknown architects. The passageway is not marked on any map, and those who know of it are forbidden to speak of its existence.

A torch flickers to life. The blazing light catches on rusted iron bars embedded into the rock walls and sparkles on tapering mounds of stalagmite that rise from the floor. Teeth-like stalactites drip from the low ceiling like glimmering icicles. The torchbearer steps further into the cave and ducks his head, avoiding the warped ridges of the ceiling. He carries a bucket of rancid food with his free hand, a cloudy bottle of sour wine tucked under the other arm. The iron bars at the far side of the cave loom closer, but the shadows lurking beyond the cell wall remain stubbornly opaque.

---