Page 21 of Crowned

“To Aerwyna,” Bhodi echoes, his voice steadier but no less heartfelt.

I lift my chin and look at them both. “And to Vance and Malia,” I add, their names slipping through my lips like a prayer. “They would have wanted us to keep fighting.”

I feel the weight of the past settle on my shoulders, but also something else – a spark, small and flickering, but there. It’s hope, fragile and desperate, but still alive.

“We’ll find her,” I say, more to myself than to them. “And if we can’t, we’ll make sure her memory lives on.”

Bhodi nods, a fire igniting in his eyes that mirrors my own. “For Aerwyna. For our queen.”

Cove clasps my shoulder, his grip strong and reassuring. “For all of us. Let’s get some rest.”

I nod, but make no move to retire as the others say goodnight.

The ruins of the city around us are a stark reminder of what we have lost, but as I turn from the window, I can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, there’s something still worth fighting for. We have each other, and as long as we do, Aerwyna still has a chance. We’ll rebuild for Yemaya, the queen who vanished but never truly left us.

I understand the ocean’s siren song better than most. It’s unusual for a human to feel its pull so acutely, but then again, Malia has demonstrated time and time again that she is not a regular human.

I’m starting to wonder if she’s human at all.

After that ritual, she should have died. But for some reason, she didn’t. Meaning that the universe, gods, goddess, fates…whatever is out there…wants or needs Malia alive for some reason.

And that reason is intrinsically tied to the ocean.

I just need to figure out why.

She’s so much happier when we’re in the water. We’ve visited the beach every day this week now, and we’ve stayed until sunset, only leaving to eat.

Malia’s mood has stabilised once more, and she’s not been lured back to the cliff’s edge since.

It feels like a breakthrough, but at the same time, I’m waiting for…something. It feels too good to be true. The calm before the storm.

The silence is eerie, startling me awake. I don’t even have to reach for Malia to know she’s gone. I feel her absence like a living, breathing, tangible thing.

Sitting up sharply, I scan the grove we’ve made home, looking for her. I breathe a sigh of relief when I spy her under a tree, staring out at the ocean. Slowly, I get to my feet and make my way over to where she’s sitting so as not to startle her, but when my shadow front he early morning sun falls over her, she glances up at me and smiles.

“Morning.”

“Good morning, have you been up long?”

She shakes her head. “Only twenty minutes or so.” She shrugs her delicate shoulders softly and I understand what she means. It’s almost impossible to mark the passage of time here. The tide, the sun and the moon are the only giveaways of how each day is progressing, and those increments of time are measured in large chunks.

“How are you feeling today, Malia?” I smile warmly at her.

“Good.” Her answering smile is warmer than the early morning sun which is already beating down on us, and I soak up her happiness like a big cat basking in the sun.

“I’m pleased to hear it. Shall I gather some fruit for breakfast?”

“I can do that,” she offers. “It’ll give you a chance to wake up properly.”

“Stay put, my love. I’ve got this.”

She huffs, but her eyes twinkle with amusement. I like waiting on her. It makes me less helpless, trapped here. If I’m taking care of Malia, I have a purpose. It keeps me busy, occupied, so that my brain quiets and I don’t go crazy.

I leave Malia in the safety of the grove and go off in search of her favourite breakfast, fresh figs. The island we’re on is abundant with fresh fruits, nuts and olives, but I do find myself longing for a real meal.

It doesn’t take long to gather supplies for breakfast and some extra for lunch. No doubt Malia will want to spend the day on the beach again and if I grab some food now, we won’t have to leave the warm golden sands later.

Upon returning to the grove, that sense of uneasiness I had when I first awoke returns.

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