Page 32 of Across an Endless Sea

I’m even wearing clothes. A plain black shirt at least two times too big for me has been forced over my head. It’s hardly fashionable, but it smells nice—like bitter almonds and liquorice—and someone has cut two holes in the back for my wings. There’s a pair of leggings laid out beside my makeshift bed as well.

Was this Prae’s doing? She was put in charge of me, after all.

But it’s a male’s shirt. I might’ve thought it was Caed’s, except I’ve never seen him—or most other male Fomorians—wear one. So perhaps itisPrae’s…

I grimace at the thought of the tall, confident Fomorian washing and dressing me, but then dismiss it in the same breath. Firstly, I’ve never seen her wear something so conservative, and secondly, Prae would never lower herself to wash me. She probably ordered someone else to do it.

Not that a stranger is much better.

Despite the lingering soreness, I can’t bear the thought of staying in my makeshift bed. I push myself up and start the process of cataloguing my injuries as I pull on the leggings. My wings are tattered, but they’re healing. The holes in the membranes are almost gone. Part of me longs to do my exercises—and maybe hasten my own escape in the process—but I don’t want to risk reopening the wounds and setting myself back.

Tomorrow, I promise myself. Today, I’ll focus on survival, but tomorrow, I’ll start work on my escape.

The burns from Caed’s armbands are also mostly gone, with only pink, peeling lines to show they were ever there. Someone has taken off my foot wraps, and a careful look at my bare feet reveals they’re the same.

This… isn’t normal. I’m grateful, but there’s no way I should’ve healed so fast around all of this iron. I check my wrist, and find the bangle is still there. When I wore iron in the mortal realm, I healed like a human. Surely the same—or worse—should be true here?

The only explanation is that someone took my manacle off me while I slept, then replaced it before I woke.

A hidden ally? Perhaps whoever Prae tasked with washing me?

I move my hand to it, only for my fingers to skim the air above the bracelet. It’s the strangest sensation, like my hand and the bracelet are repelling one another.

I shouldn’t have made that bargain.

Setting the matter aside, I look around the room a second time, and my eyes catch on the part-open door again. I can’t stay here. If I do, the reality of my situation will hit me, and I don’t think I can deal with that here, alone. Someone has wrapped the iron door handle in a piece of leather, and I take that as confirmation that I’m meant to be able to leave if I want to.

My bare feet pad softly across the stone floor, and I press my eye to the crack, trying to gather clues about who or what is waiting for me on the other side. The light from beyond is a warm flickering yellow, and the dry heat is more noticeable now that I’m this close. I can taste the smoke in the air, and the familiar echoing noise of metal striking metal convinces me I know what’s on the other side.

A forge.

A wave of nostalgia hits me, and I push open the door before I can talk myself out of it.

But instead of my human father working over the anvil, it’s Prae. She strikes what looks like a circular blade repeatedly, sending sparks flying each time.

The Fomorian is wearing as little as usual—two strips of fabric which onlyjustcover her essentials. The lack of clothing contrasts strangely with the thick gloves on her hands, her leather apron, and the enormous tinted goggles over her face.

The forge is quite small, and seems smaller because every spare inch of space is rammed full of stone workbenches, shelves, and piles of clay tablets. A few of the glowing mushrooms light the ceiling, but the main illumination comes from the white hot forge behind Prae.

It’s a thing of beauty, easily twice the size of my father’s back in the mortal realm, and hotter too. Even covered in soot, I can make out letters carved into the brickwork around it—letters written in Fae, which makes no sense, given that the Fomorians clearly have their own language.

Habit keeps me from moving too fast, or distracting her. When my father or brother were at work, I was taught to be keenly aware that distracting them could lead to accidents.

In the end, all the caution and good intentions in the world meant nothing. A single kick to the head from a nervous plough horse laid my father out better than any distraction could’ve.

Prae quenches the blade she’s working on, then leans back, cracks her spine, and tugs off her gear.

“You can stop hiding now,” she grunts.

I grimace as I take another step into the room. “You’re a smith?”

“Inventor,” Prae corrects, scoffing. “Smithing is so easy, I could do it in my sleep.” She sighs and points at a mat in the corner. “Sit there. Don’t touch anything.”

I can’t resist the urge to roll my eyes as I do as she asks. “Yes, because I’msoeager to touch all of this iron…”

The Fomorian snorts, carrying her project towards the bench opposite. “Well, it didn’t seem like you had much sense when you dived in front of my sword.”

“You were going to kill mybrother,” I hiss, hands fisting in my lap as my anger returns full force.

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