AFTER NOON
This one was strong.
He came from a land of ice, but his spirit was made of fire. He fought valiantly to stay conscious as he traveled between worlds, clinging to awareness up to the very limit of fracture, much like another human who had come before: that one a female, a descendant of a visitor from an earlier time. Only where she had truly been familiar—her flesh, her blood—this one was new. Nothing about this human felt familiar except his innate strength; it touched every part of him, a current running so powerfully through his being that the island had sensed it through the fibers of space, of time … making him the right choice. The necessary choice. It had nearly exhausted all of the island’s fading strength to reach him, to call him, but he had answered.
He would do well.
He would need to.
The island watched as he rolled out of the gate and spilled onto the black sand. The island waited as he stirred and blinked, as he raised one hand to block the bright sun. Fear lanced through his heart with the fierce light. For an instant, he stopped breathing.
And then he sat up.
Slowly, his muscles on high alert like his senses, all fog cleared from his consciousness with one deep inhale. He breathed, steady and calming, lowering his heart rate by will, an impressive show of strength as he gazed around.
His body turned slightly north, he stood, looking toward the place where others once gathered. His thoughts were clear, organized. Most centered on people he had left behind, on statements he wished he had made, but a few thoughts lodged here, concerning his own safety and well-being.
He was not afraid.
His swift and selfless reaction pleased the island. The island needed this one, like it had needed the one before. But then, it had failed.
It would not fail again.
The price was too great.
* * *
Hafthor stood in a semi-crouch, unaware anyone—or anything—was watching him. To his left, the ocean stretched without end into a cerulean sky; he found no hint of Icelandic gray among the rich blue. Over the water, the sun shone brightly, free of clouds, its rays warming his bare shoulders, the salty breeze brushing his skin without bite. He wiggled his toes. Beneath his feet, the coarse black sand churned cool under the top layer of warmth. To his right, lush palm trees stretched tall, surrounded by spindly trees he’d never before seen. Clumps of shrubs huddled against the sand line, forming the island’s first line of defense.
He peered more closely at the foliage. A kangaroo regarded him with curiosity, arms high and still. Like the animal, Hafthor didn’t move; instead he stared at a spot just past the kangaroo. A few meters inside the tree line, something linear stood out: a makeshift shelter, a triangular shape too symmetrical to be natural. He moved toward the trees, still on the sand but close enough to startle the kangaroo. The animal hopped away, retreating into the tangle of green.
Upon inspection, the shelter appeared old. Abandoned.
Unwelcoming.
No, he thought.
He would not hide, not here. Not until he understood where he was and why he was here. He would seek help, and this shelter offered none. He had nothing—and no one—but himself, but it was enough. As long as you know who you are, you can never be lost, his father would say. He touched the tattoo on his shoulder, summoning courage.
I am Hafþór, he thought. He had no one to rely on but himself—and so he would.
Dropping his hand, he backed away from the shelter and carefully looked around.
In the distance, a black cliff rose toward the sky. It matched the cliff at his back, the pair bracketing the beach where he stood.
He scrutinized the cliff to the north, arms crossed but relaxed.
Then, like the barest brush of a silken feather, Hafthor felt a gentle push at his back, the island breeze urging him forward. He didn’t know he was being guided, or that it drained the island’s precious reserves to do so.
North, he thought. I will go north.
And so he did.
* * *
Farther north, at the edge of Nil City, Paulo stood before the Wall, feeling very much alone. There was no one else in the City, just ghosts. He stared at the names belonging to people who had once cared for him, who had kept him alive and safe when he couldn’t care for himself. Names like Skye, and Rives, and Dex. He stared at Skye’s name, grateful for her friendship, saddened that he’d let her down, even though he still didn’t understand why. Slowly, he raised his knife and methodically carved a check. One for Skye, then one for Rives. Then another check, and another. Jillian. Brittney. Zane. One mark at a time, he completed the story of the people who had been here before him, of people he’d outlasted, people with seasons served fully and people with seasons cut short. He saved Dex’s cross for last. That mark would not be forgotten, or forgiven.
On his life, he vowed it would not happen again.
He would not let the island take another.
He stepped back, satisfied. Before him, a few spaces glared back, still empty, spaces he’d chosen not to fill because they belonged to people he’d never met, with fates he didn’t know. A few names seemed conspicuously absent: names like Rika, and Maaka. If their names were here, Paulo would have given them a check, for he knew their fate. He knew they’d survived. But they’d chosen to make their way alone, to not join the City, and Paulo would honor their choice.
His choice would be different.
He walked over to the last name, Brittney, no longer seeing her name or her check; he was intent on the empty space below. A blank slate, a new chapter. Lifting his knife to the Wall, Paulo carefully carved five letters: P-A-U-L-O.
The time to survive alone was over.
The ghost of a smile crossed his lips because right now, he was alone. He was a City of one—and possibly an island of one as well. Oddly enough, in the weeks since Skye had left, Paulo hadn’t seen another living person; he’d only seen animals. Wild animals falling out of equally wild gates, docile animals falling prey to the deadly. He had the strangest sense the island was waiting … for something, perhaps even someone. Or perhaps Skye’s theory had been correct: that without people, the island’s strength was compromised. Weakened.
But he was here.
So life continued. The island continued, and with its existence came the cold truth: Paulo would not be alone for long. It was only a matter of time. For all he knew, he already had company.
Turning away from the Wall, Paulo faced the City, then looked back at Mount Nil.
I am here, he thought, standing still, and straight. I am no longer afraid. When the time comes, I will meet those you send and we will fight.
That is my choice.
And then he got to work.