TWO DAYS HAVE PASSED.
Two days without her.
In her absence, the ocean air hangs heavy.
Every breath whispers her name.
Staring over the railing of the warship, I see Zélie in everything. A mirror I can’t escape. Her smile shines through the moon, her spirit blows with the ocean wind. Without her, the world is a living memory.
A ledger of all the things I’ll never enjoy again.
I close my eyes, reliving the sensation of Zélie against the reeds of the dreamscape. I didn’t know it was possible to fit so perfectly inside someone else’s arms.
In that moment—that one, perfect moment—she was beautiful. Magic was beautiful. Not a curse, but a gift.
With Zélie, it always is.
I wrap my hand around the bronze piece she gave me, holding it tight as if it’s the last piece of her heart. Something inside tempts me to throw it into the ocean, but I can’t bear to let the last part of her go.
If I could’ve stayed in that dreamscape forever, I would have. Given everything up. Never looked back.
But I woke up.
When my eyes opened, I knew it’d never be the same again.
“Scouting?”
I jump. Father appears beside me. His eyes look as black as the night.
They feel as cold.
I turn away, as if that could hide the longings buried deep in my heart. Father may not be a Connector, but his retaliation will be swift if he senses anything less than steadfast resolve.
“I thought you were asleep,” I manage.
“Never.” Father shakes his head. “I don’t sleep before battle. Neither should you.”
Of course. Every second is a chance. An opportunity, a strategized counterattack. All things that would be so easy to concern myself with if I was positive I was doing the right thing.
I squeeze the bronze piece tighter, allowing its ridges to dig into my skin. I’ve already let Zélie down once before. I don’t know if I have the stomach to betray her again.
I look up to the sky, wishing I could see Orí peering through the clouds. Even in the darkest times the gods are always there. Zélie’s voice runs through my mind. They always have a plan.
Is this your plan? I ache to shout, desperate for a sign. Our promises, our Orïsha—however distant, there’s a world in which our dream still lies in our grasp. Am I making a huge mistake? Is there still a chance for me to turn back?
“You waver,” Father says.
A statement, not a question. He can probably smell the weakness leaking through the sweat on my skin.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, and brace for his fist. But instead he pats my back and turns out to sea.
“I wavered, once. Back before I became king. When I was just a simple prince and got to follow my own naïveté.”
I remain still, worried that any movement will interrupt this rare peek at Father’s past. A glimpse of the man he might have been.
“There was a referendum going through the monarchy, a proposal that would integrate leaders of the ten maji clans into the nobility of our royal courts. It was my father’s dream to unify the kosidán and the maji, build an Orïsha like history had never seen.”
Unable to stop myself, I look up at Father, eyes wide at the thought. An act like that would be monumental. It would shift our kingdom’s foundation forever.
“Was it met with favor?”
“Skies, no.” Father chuckles. “Everyone but your grandfather was against it. But as king, he didn’t need their permission. He could make the final decree.”
“Why did you waver?”
Father’s lips press into a tight line. “My first wife,” he finally answers. “Alika. She was too softhearted for her own good. She wanted me to be someone who could create change.”
Alika …
I picture the face that might’ve accompanied that name. From the way Father talks about her, she must have been a kind woman, one with an even kinder face.
“For her, I supported my father. I chose love over duty. I knew the maji were dangerous, yet I convinced myself that with the right show of faith, we could work together. I thought the maji wanted to unify, but all they’ve ever craved is a desire to conquer us.”
Though he speaks no more, I hear the end of the story within his silence. The king who perished trying to help the maji. The wife Father would never hold again.
The realization brings back the horrible images of the Gombe fortress: metal melted to guards’ skeletons; bodies yellowed and ravished by horrible disease. It was a wasteland. An abomination. And all by magic’s hand.
After Zélie escaped, there was a carpet of corpses piled on top of one another. We couldn’t see the floor.
“You waver now because that is what it means to be king,” Father says. “You have your duty and your heart. To choose one means the other must suffer.”
Father removes his black majacite blade from its sheath and points to an inscription on the tip that I have never seen:
Duty Before Self.
Kingdom Before King.
“When Alika died, I had this blade forged, inscribed so that I would always remember my mistake. Because I chose my heart, I will never be with my one true love again.”
Father extends his sword to me and my stomach clenches, unable to believe the gesture. All my life, I’ve never seen my father without this blade strapped to his side.
“To sacrifice your heart for your kingdom is noble, son. It is everything. It’s what it means to be king.”
I stare at the blade; the inscription gleams in the moonlight. Its words simplify my mission, creating space for my pain. A soldier. A great king. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.
Duty over self.
Orïsha over Zélie.
I wrap my hand around the hilt of the majacite sword, ignoring the way it blisters my skin.
“Father, I know how we can get the scroll back.”