Page 164 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
“Styx and Emrys must learn to do the same . . . without us interfering.”
“And you believe this is the right time to test such loyalties?”
“Believe me, Bodin.” His gaze turns grim on the watergate. “Now is the best time.”
Flickering images appear above the central rock as water drains, sluicing off the central, large resonance stone. The restless crowd cheers as the spectacle continues. Shimmering pictures of exhibitors manifest in the air, broadcasts from the Subterranean.
“I’m with Styx,” I mutter darkly to Legion, searching for a sign of silver hair. “I’m done taking orders.”
I feel his eyes on me, hard and penetrating. But then he sighs, no doubt realizing I don’t refer to him. I trust him. It’s this situation we’ve been trapped in for eternity. Whether it was Titania, other queens, Oberon, or the Morrigan herself. We’ve always taken orders. Willow is our first glimpse of freedom—something bright, chaotic, and uniquely ours.
I know Styx feels the same. Emrys too. He’s just too stubborn to admit it. But we’re a hive. We are one soul in six bodies. And now that we’ve found our queen, reuniting is inevitable. It matters not if Styx is down there being the one to protect Willow. Where there is one, there are six.
“Hold on, Calamity,” I whisper into the void. “We’re coming for you.”
Chapter 67
Willow
One moment, I’m wrenching my sword from the Graftspawn’s grotesque body. The next, it explodes into a crimson mist, splattering my face with warm, iron-tinged droplets. Before I can wipe the gore from my eyes, the ground beneath me lurches.
Fissures spider across the arena floor, water gushing forth in violent geysers. My gaze locks with Geraldine’s, terror mirrored in her wide eyes. Max clutches the Youngies close, their faces pale with fear.
Then we plummet.
Water engulfs me, a roaring, arctic embrace that steals my breath. My body instinctively seizes, lungs burning as they fight the urge to inhale. The current drags me down, down, down, my silver hair billowing around me like specters in the murky depths.
For a heartbeat, an eerie calm washes over me. The icy water numbs the throbbing gash in my side, almost soothing. Then gravity shifts.
I’m caught in a maelstrom, tumbling end over end. Electricity crackles across my skin, setting every nerve alight. Bile rises in my throat as nausea rolls. My fingers clenchdesperately around my sword’s grip, the only anchor in this watery hell.
Just as my vision starts to darken, I breach the surface. Air floods my starved lungs as I gasp and sputter, blinking furiously. Shadowy walls loom around me, their surfaces pulsing with otherworldly purple bioluminescence. Most of the light, however, emanates from beneath the water’s surface—crisp and bright, like liquid starlight.
My limbs flail as I fight to stay afloat, panic clawing at my chest. Then my boots scrape against something solid. Sand. A ledge. Hope surges as I drag myself through the shallows, fingernails digging into gritty sand.
I twist around, still half-submerged, and freeze. Above me—or is it below?—I glimpse the shimmering image of the fort, its trees and columns impossibly inverted. My mind reels. This isn’t some underground cavern system. It’s as if reality itself has been turned inside out.
Splashing draws my eye. Others are coming through.
“Over here!” I call out, my voice echoing strangely off the cavern walls. Relief floods me as familiar faces break the water’s surface. Geraldine’s dark hair plasters her skin as she swims toward me, Max close behind. He helps pull out Colin and his friends. Those gloves give him abnormal strength. It’s so good to see him embracing them. The Youngies cling to each other, their frightened whimpers carrying across the water. Becky emerges, coughing violently, supported by Heath.
As I help drag them to shore, movement catches my eye. Looking more feral than I’ve ever seen, Alfie scrambles to his feet and bolts down a shadowy tunnel without a backward glance.
“Coward,” I mutter, the word tasting bitter on my tongue.
I turn my attention back to the group and conduct a frantic headcount. Several exhibitors, clearly deciding they’re better offalone, dash off in various directions—notably, different from the one Alfie chose. Their departures leave us with about forty remaining.
“You’re bleeding,” Geraldine says, her voice tight with concern. She gestures to my side, where the Graftspawn’s claws had raked me earlier.
I glance down, surprised to see the wound knitting itself closed before my eyes. “That’s . . . strange,” I murmur, running my fingers over the newly healed skin. “In Elphyne, water is a rich source of magic. It has healing properties, but . . .”
“Our wounds aren’t healing,” Max points out, wincing as he examines a nasty gash on his arm.
A chill runs down my spine. Is this another sign that I’m not entirely cut off from the Well? But why would my mother let me believe I was mortal? Unless . . . she foretold this moment years ago. She knows I’ll be allowed in this exhibition if everyone thinks I’m mortal. Her psychic abilities showed her my arrival in Avorlorna. She even knew I would be at Shadowfall Keep.
I push the thoughts aside as the other exhibitors gather around me, their faces a mix of fear and expectation. “What’s next?” Becky asks, wringing out her sopping hair.
Their gazes settle on me, heavy with unspoken trust. We’re supposed to be competitors, yet here they are, looking to me for guidance. The realization sends a flutter of both pride and terror through my chest.
