AFTER NOON
That one did not listen well.
His mind less guarded than hers, he heard but did not listen, not even to himself. He had left his mate, leaving her vulnerable.
Power had shifted, like the seam itself. Like the focus of the island, reaching there and here. Perhaps the shift was meant to be, since she was the one who had caused it.
Indeed, she was the one.
The island saw it so clearly. The end was written; the future spilled like the light of a thousand suns, bursting with brilliance and flaring into the now.
Now, it would be up to her: his mate, the one called Skye. The one with the power to listen, and to hear, and above all, to survive.
In the meantime, the island must choose wisely, both here and there, with what little power it had left. Here, the island had developed an affinity for the one called Hafthor, a male who was potentially worthy of the Sight. Usually the island gifted the Sight to females, but there had been exceptions. It was too soon to judge.
For now, the island would see through Hafthor’s eyes. Occasionally, human sight had proven useful, even insightful, and the island would utilize every advantage it could.
Through Hafthor’s eyes, the island watched.
* * *
From behind the largest thicket of palms, Hafthor studied the girl. Long black braid, sharp cheekbones. She would be beautiful, he thought, except for her smile. It hinted at cruelty.
And she was a thief.
As he’d watched, she’d strolled into the empty village, past the wooden wall packed with names—some of which looked recently added—and strode into a small thatched-roof hut as if it were hers. And yet, he knew that it wasn’t, just as he knew that the rope she’d walked out with wasn’t hers, or the cloth bag bulging with gourds.
The hidden people would not approve.
He’d met no one else here, but he knew they existed: he saw their fingerprints on the empty beds carefully made; he heard their voices in the wind and their whispers in the trees; he felt their dead lying still in the field of flowers.
He felt the hidden people everywhere, and they demanded respect.
Perhaps this girl felt them too, because she didn’t linger in the village. After poking her head out and glancing around, she walked straight toward his hiding place, a look of satisfaction on her face. He shrank back, blending into the palms. She passed him without a glance, too intent on looking over her shoulder, her satisfaction shifting to caution, as if she sensed she was being followed.
Hafthor silently observed as she headed south.
Seconds passed, weighted and thick.
Then he followed, taking care to stay concealed, which was not an easy feat given his size. She, on the other hand, was lithe and nimble, and exceptionally stealthy. Hafthor lost her trail within minutes.
Now he stood alone on the black sand beach, south of the City, in the place he’d first begun. Full circle, he thought, taking in his surroundings, a message to begin again. To go a different way.
He pressed his fingers to the tattoo on his shoulder, then crossed his arms. Closing his eyes, he listened.
South, the sea whispered. Go south.
Without hesitation, Hafthor went south.