Page 85 of Kissed By the Gods
I’m not great with maps, and my knowledge of Selencia is as limited as anything else. But I force my eyes to struggle over each letter and word for where he’s pointing, inside the Weeping Forest. The Cradle Below.
It’s not a name I recognize. My brow furrows, and my eyes wander around the other names on the map. Swyre—that’s my village—is on the other side of the Weeping Forest.
Realization dawns. “That must be the ruins.” I point to the Cradle Below.
I don’t remember hearing that name before. Not from my mother, or my grandmother, though they told ancient stories aplenty. Not from the old men around the fire during winter, when stories passed for currency. Not from the soldiers, who boasted of their knowledge for all to hear.
But I do remember the ruins.
The part of the forest no one talked about, where the trees grew too close and too tall, and the wind never sounded quite right. Where Levvi and Alden once dared each other to get close—and then both of them came back quiet and pale, refusing to talk about what they’d seen.
The Elder gestures to a chair that’s tucked back in the corner of the room.
“Bring over that chair, daughter of Selencia. You’ll answer my questions this night, until we both have more questions to ask.”
“A god is not feared because it is strong. It is strong because it is feared.”
The Illusion of Strength, The Treatise on Tactical Collapse
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I sit cross-leggedon the cliffs, facing the sea. The sun is warm on my face, even if the autumn air has the kind of chill in it that whispers of winter coming. Salt clings to the breeze, and the ocean rolls and breaks far below. I try to match my breath to that roll and break—inhaling as the water draws back, exhaling as it crashes forward. The wind is gentle, unusual for this spot on the cliffs, where it normally howls. Today, as if Zepharion, god of the skies, is trying to help me meditate, it only hums.
It should be easy to find stillness, to find peace in this. But the stillness only makes the unrest inside even louder. While nothing but a cloudless sky stretches beyond my closed eyelids, a storm rages under my skin. My fingers tap, restless, against my knees. My eyes twitch behind my eyelids. The days are slipping by too hard and too fast, each grinding me down a little more than the one before. The training is a beating, but even that, I know, is only preparing me for the battles that will come. I’m not ready.
Like the others, I’m just lucky the Kher’zenn haven’t attacked again. It’s been eerily quiet even on the islands, though we stillhave a few weeks before winter will settle across the ragged cliffs of Faraengard.
And the nights … The nights bring no rest, not with my thoughts circling like carrion birds, hungry and restless—Broken shards. The Cradle Below. Daughter of Selencia.Every night I’m with the Elder in the Reckoning Hall, pouring over maps and scrolls, but every supposed answer we find brings more questions.
And when I finally cave to exhaustion and sleep follows me, my dreams are even worse. The darkness drags me under. It doesn’t soothe; it drowns. A silent voice calls to me—Strider, it says from somewhere in that suffocating darkness, but I can never reach it before something—a creature?—chases me away. And that’s the easiest dream.
The hard ones are worse than faceless monsters and shadows. They’re my father’s and mother’s eyes, wide and empty. They’re hundreds of other eyes, lifeless and glassy, surrounding theirs. Faces I don’t know, but I’m somehow responsible for. Sometimes it’s Irielle, screaming herself raw, even after the flames subside to ashes. Sometimes it’s Alden, crumpling dead to the ground. My dreams are caught in a loop I can’t break.
No matter what I do, I’m always too late—to my mother and father, to the voice that needs me, to Irielle, to Alden. I wake up gasping, sweat cold on my skin, heart pounding.
“You’re not trying hard enough,” Ryot says. His voice is calm, but I can still sense the judgment in it. We’ve been at this for hours.
I scrunch my nose and squeeze my fists, as if force alone could make the thoughts stop. My fingers tremble, so I dig them into my palms. My breath hitches.
I am trying. Gods, I’malwaystrying.
But trying isn’t good enough.
“Actually…” Ryot mutters, his voice lower now, almost tired, “…maybe you’re trying too hard.”
I crack one eye open and glance at him. He’s standing a few paces behind me, arms crossed over his chest. Einarr shifts, flicking one massive wing with quiet irritation. Why Einarr is here today, I can’t say, but he’s been finding Ryot and me no matter where we’re training. There’s an urgency in him, too. Like we’re running out of time.
I unclench my hands to find my palms bleeding from my nails.
Trying too hard. Not trying enough. Trying the wrong way.
I let out a breath through my nose and straighten my spine, to reset. Trying. Again.
It lasts all of ten seconds.
