Page 74 of Broken Star

I tighten my grip on Riven’s hand, and he pulls me closer, as if he can shield me from the celestial forces that have already chosen our fate.

The last thing I see before the rift swallows us whole is the sky breaking apart and the silvery water rushing into the sunken abyss, until there’s no telling where the stars end, and the ocean begins.

Sapphire

The water doesn’t touchus. It just swirls around us as the ship sinks into the Tides, like we’re floating in the winds of a cosmic, slowed-down tornado.

Then, the walls shift, images shimmering into existence like projections cast upon the veil of reality itself.

I freeze as I recognize the first.

Central Park at night, illuminated by the glow of nearby skyscrapers.

Queen Lysandra is beneath a tree, crouched beside a woman sleeping under a tattered blanket. She’s holding a finely wrapped bundle in her arms—a baby with wisps of silvery blonde hair barely visible beneath the folds of fabric.

Me.

She’s stroking my head with a tenderness I never would have expected. Then, with visible reluctance, she pulls aside the woman’s blanket, revealing another infant. This one has clumps of dull brown hair, her tiny fists curled close to her chest.

My throat tightens at the conflict written across Lysandra’s face. Because the normally poised, unshakable queen looks tormented, her hands trembling as she forces herself to complete the swap.

Something inside me breaks a little at the realization that she wasn’t completely heartless.

She wastorn.

I turn to face Riven, searching his face for answers.

“Is this real?” I ask him, although his gaze remains locked on the vision, his eyes shadowed.

“I don’t know,” he admits, turning slightly to look at me. “But don’t let go of me. No matter what. Okay?”

His fingers tighten around mine, grounding me against the rising storm of emotion in my chest—especially after everything he said to me before we were swallowed by the Tides.

“Okay,” I say, and the vision dissolves into silver ripples, washing away like ink bleeding into water.

For a moment, nothing.

Then, another memory materializes.

A grand hall of glistening frost, draped in black cloth. Snowflakes swirl in ghostly patterns through the air, melting before they touch the ground, and at the center, a boy stands motionless before an ornate casket carved entirely of ice.

I inhale sharply.

The boy is young—no older than seven or eight. His midnight hair is tousled, his silver eyes unreadable as he stares at the frozen figure encased in the ice.

Riven. A young Riven. And after everything he told me during our time together in the Wandering Wilds, the casket belongs to his mother.

I glance at the Riven beside me. His jaw is tight, his body unnervingly still as he watches the scene before us.

The boy in the vision doesn’t move. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t waver. He simply stands there, cold and distant, like nothing can touch him.

Just like my Riven.

But then, young Riven’s composure falters. Frost crawls in intricate patterns up his arms, and his eyes shimmer, pain rising like a tide he doesn’t know how to hold back.

I recognize that look.

I saw it when I spoke my harsh vows at our wedding ceremony, and I saw it both times Riven and I surfaced from the water, after whatever happened to us in its grasp.

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