Fynn shrugged at her in dismissal. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just something to remember me by in Nedros.”
He did not see it coming, the solid weight that plowed into his chest and rocked him back onto his heels. Sol wrapped her arms around his torso, squeezing until he could not breathe—did not want to breathe. Breathing might make this end, might shove him over the edge and send him hurtling into unrequited chaos. Sol was only thanking him for the bracelet, after all.
“You idiot,” she said, burying her face into his shoulder. “I could never forget you, Fynn. Never. Not after everything we’ve gone through.”
The Captain sighed into her hair. “I could never forget you, either,” he admitted, closing his arms around Sol. “Not even if I tried.”
And try he would when this was over, when Sol eventually left him.
But Nedra had left him too, had destroyed every part of him in the process, and not once had he forgotten her. Sol had simply burrowed into the hole she’d left behind, and he did not know if he could bear it, that kind of undoing that would break him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SOL
Tensions on the Refuge could be severed with a knife, sharp like the one Sol had stuffed into her boot that morning. The jewel-encrusted hilt dug painfully into her ankle as she walked, as she tried and failed to keep up with Amael as he paced across the deck of the ship.
She had never seen him so disgruntled, not even when he’d been angry with her. Amael had risen at dawn, his dark eyes fixated on the approaching shore of his homeland. Sol and Fynn had still been together on the quarterdeck, Fynn teaching her how to sail the ship until Amael had gotten up to begin his morning duties.
His fear was palpable, leaking into Sol’s bones and nestling deep into her core. Her Magic was restless in the wake of Amael’s distress, a tidal wave building beneath her skin. She had tried to release it by sending plumes of water shooting skyward, but Amael had snapped at her to stop. She would give away their arrival before they reached the island, and give Nero time to prepare. She had not done it since, and now her Magic was raging, begging her to be let loose.
“Amael, please,” Sol said, grabbing Amael’s arm as he passed by. “Remember what you told me a few days ago? Pacing never helped anyone. You’ll make yourself sick.”
He tore himself free from her grasp, flinging Sol’s fingers away as if she’d branded him. “This is different,” he said. “It’s not the same as what happened in the market. You can evade bounty hunters in a port, but you can’t evade Nero in his own territory.”
“I understand that,” Sol said calmly. “But you’re safe here, Amael. Nero can’t get to you—”
“It’s not me that I’m worried about.” Amael threw himself against the starboard rail, grasping at the battered mahogany until his knuckles were white. “Fynn is a godsdamned fool. Nero won’t spare him just because I have sense enough to stay on the ship this time.”
A fool, indeed.
She and the Captain had spent a great deal of time bickering about his journey to the island. The sun had just begun to rise when she’d finally pushed herself to the brink of tears, pleading with him to not go alone. Sol had offered to accompany him, had insisted that Riel could keep her mouth shut long enough to not get them killed.
But he’d refused. He would not put them at risk, would not let them die for something that may not exist. That was his sacrifice should it be necessary, Fynn’s life for the information he sought. Sol had nearly slapped him by the end of it, by the time the sun had inched above the horizon and Amael had begun to stir beneath the quarterdeck.
“What about Fynn’s Magic?” Sol inquired. “Won’t that protect him?”
Amael scoffed. “Nero is a Wielder, too. A powerful one.”
“What’s his Element?”
“Fire,” Amael told her, glancing pointedly at the Princess’ scarred wrist. “A nasty Magic, if you ask me. He uses it on the dragons that refuse to break and bow to him.”
Sol shuddered. Silas had burned her on accident, and she could not fathom what it must be like for someone to Wield fire so maliciously. “But Fynn’s Element is wind,” she pointed out. “He could choke the flames, and if he’d only let me go with him—”
“If you go, Sol, and if your father were to find out that Nero attacked the Princess of Sonamire, there’d be war.” Amael spat into the sea. “I might be exiled, and I might hate what they do to the dragons, but my family is still on that island. My mother and sister, they’re good people.”
“I’m sorry,” Sol murmured. “I didn’t realize.”
And she hadn’t.
She was certain that a war between Sonamire and Dyn was imminent since she’d run from her duties, since her father had not delivered on his promises. Sol would not be at the center of another feud, least of all between her people and Amael’s.
Her friend heaved a breath of defeat. “On the island,” he began quietly, as if he could not bear to speak the words. “If Fynn doesn’t return to the ship within two hours, we’re to leave without him.”
Her heart stopped. It did not stall nor sputter, simply stopped beating in her chest. “What?”
“We’re supposed to assume he’s dead. And if anyone from the island comes too close to the ship, we’re to leave.”
Water gathered in her palms, her puka shell bracelet shining with salt around her wrist. “I’m going to kill him.”
“Good luck,” Amael muttered. “He informed me of my orders while you were below deck practicing Magic with Luca yesterday. I wanted to kill him, too.”
Sol’s temper flared, erupting with the force of Arrowbrook’s ancient volcano.
Why had Fynn kept this from her, that he’d instructed his friends—her friends—to leave without him should things go south with Nero? He’d had all night to tell her, to disregard her concerns had she expressed them. And she would have, would have gotten on her hands and knees and begged him to reconsider such a foolish plan if he’d told her.
“I’ll be right back,” Sol said darkly. “Watch Draven.”
Amael’s laugh was edged with frustration as he patted Draven on the head. “He’s in his cabin, probably primping.”
Sol found him on the edge of his bed, his roguish face buried into the palms of his hands. Fynn’s shoulders were caved in around him, his elbows digging into the tops of his knees like they were all that held him together.
Sol slammed the cabin door shut. “Sit up.”
Fynn bolted upright as a burst of icy wind escaped him. The loose papers on his desk and bookshelf scattered across the cabin in a storm of fluttering parchment. His crystals and geodes rattled, some of the larger pieces toppling over. “What are you doing here?” he asked warily, as if he felt the anger seeping out of her. “You know, it’s rude to just barge in—”
“Don’t you start with me,” Sol spat at him. Fynn shrank back at her tone. “When were you planning on telling me that our orders were to leave you behind if you didn’t return within two godsdamned hours? That’s not an awful lot of time to negotiate with Nero.”
The Captain’s cheeks were ashen. “I wasn’t going to tell you,” he admitted. “Because I knew that if I did, it would lead to this exact conversation. Forgive me, Sol, for wanting to avoid another argument.”
“I let this go last night,” she reminded him.
Fynn scoffed, rubbing at his jaw to loosen the tension building there. “No, you didn’t. You gave me peace for an hour, then brought it back up when you thought I’d be easier to reason with.”
“There is no reasoning with you,” Sol countered. “Just waiting until you get your head out of your ass—”
The Captain started to his feet. “Don’t,” he said, pointing a trembling finger at her. “Don’t you dare pick a fight with me right now. You said last night that you didn’t want our last conversation to be an argument, so don’t make it one.”
The bronze, dented pitcher sitting on Fynn’s desk tipped over
, the water inside spearing into Sol’s open palms. She stalked for the Captain, forcing him to yield back a single step until his knees hit the edge of his bed. “You will not resign yourself to death,” she snarled softly. “You will not step foot on that island with the intent of not coming home.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You don’t give me orders.”
Water splashed to the planks at her feet, abandoned by the Magic that Sol willed from her veins. She did not need it now, did not want it now. As angry as she might have been with him, Fynn was and never would be a threat to her.
Sol grabbed the collar of his tunic and yanked him close, close until her breath mingled with the Captain’s. He gripped her waist, holding her as if wielding his wind, as if she’d slip away if he let go. Sol stared at him, her fingers curling around the tanned column of his throat. She felt the pulse that raced there, the frantic beat of his heart beneath her fingertips.
She swallowed. “I should slap some sense into you. This is reckless.”
Fynn’s laugh was a whisper of air against her mouth. “I know.”
Her Magic went silent as she rose onto her toes and kissed him, as she closed her eyes and lost herself to the feeling of his lips against her own. Fynn stepped into her, pulling Sol against him and burying his hands into her hair, her curls tangling around his fingers.
Sol tasted salt on her tongue, and it was not the salt of the sea. No, she’d quieted that part of her, banished it from her blood to let the Captain kiss her in peace.
But Fynn must have tasted it, too, because he promptly pulled away and looked at her. His dark eyes searched her face, and he frowned at whatever he found there. “Sol,” he whispered, brushing his thumbs beneath her eyes to rid her cheeks of tears.
“I don’t want you to go.”
He pressed his head to her brow. “I don’t want to, either. But if Nero has the Dragon’s Heart, Sol, then I have to try.”
She gripped him harder, her fingernails cutting gently into the curve of his neck. “I don’t care about the godsdamned Dragon’s Heart, Fynn. I don’t care about Nero, or Magic, or the King getting his hands on the scale. I care about you.”
A broken laugh rasped out of him. “Now you tell me.”
Sol lightly slapped his chest. “I’ve made it very clear how much I care about you, you moronic, no-good pirate.”
Fynn gripped her wrist before she could pull it away. Sol flattened her hand against the center of the Captain’s chest, over the scar she knew was hidden beneath his tunic. A reminder of what this island may cost him. Cost her.
“I’ll come back,” Fynn vowed. He tucked a curl behind Sol’s ear. “I promise.”
She reveled in the beat of his heart against her palm, strong and steady. “You’d better,” she warned. “Or else I’ll come looking for you.”
Fynn chuckled. “I’ve given Riel strict orders to lock you in this cabin if you try.”
She narrowed her eyes in a half-hearted glare. “You knew I cared enough to come after you?”
He ducked his head and breathed, “I’d hoped.”
Sol rose onto her toes again, the Captain meeting her half way. He kissed her with such soft, heartbreaking gentleness. She felt him tug at her hair, his fingers sliding through her curls with a sort of familiarity that came only from having considered this moment.
This ship was not Arrowbrook, this cabin not the alleyway in the market. It was not like when adrenaline had fueled them both, Fynn kissing her with a blind curiosity of what she might do to shut him up, to make him stop apologizing for having kissed her in the first place.
It was tentative, perhaps desperate, like he would never again have this chance. He traced his thumb across her cheek, and Sol’s skin burned at the contact. Fynn meant it, whatever this was, this strange, growing fondness between them.
Sol could die from it, she realized. From the bliss and reverie that coursed right through her when she was with him.
Fynn tugged at the back of her neck, pulling her down, down until—
“Cap, we have a—Thymis’ wrath, are you two serious right now?”
Sol leapt back, Amael’s voice thrusting her back into her body, into reality, into her muddled, kiss-crazed senses. Likewise, Fynn had flung himself to the opposite end of the cabin, panting as if Sol had sucked the breath from his lungs.
“Shit, Amael, there’s such a thing called knocking.” Fynn dragged a hand through his hair, the dark strands damp with sweat from the sweltering heat of the cabin. Or so Sol assumed. “You’re just as bad as Riel.”
“If I’d known you two were in here doing that, I would have.”
Sol’s cheeks were ablaze with a blush. Her Magic crashed back into her, ripping at her insides for having cast it aside so carelessly. “What’s wrong?” Sol asked, her voice scraping against her throat. She felt parched, like her water had drained her dry as punishment. “You came barreling in here with a purpose, so something must have happened.”
She’d do anything for Amael to stop staring at them, to wipe the smugness from his face despite the fear still guttering in his eyes.
Fynn cleared his throat as he fixed the collar of his tunic. “You heard her,” he said tightly. “What happened?” Sol did not miss the grateful nod he threw her way. “Were we spotted?”
The boatswain pinched the bridge of his nose. “No,” he said. “And that’s the problem.”
“Sounds like a blessing to me,” Fynn noted.
Sol combed her fingers through her hair, smoothing out the strands that Fynn had set in disarray. “Are we there yet?”
“We’re in the port,” Amael answered dryly. “Docked while you two were busy, apparently. I thought you came in here to yell at him?”
At this, the Captain frowned. “Docked,” he said slowly, disregarding Sol’s initial intent entirely. “And no one’s come to greet us?”
Amael shook his head. “Docked,” he said. “And no one’s come to kill us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SOL
Sunlight danced off the sparkling shore like diamonds lit aflame. Pale sand shifted beneath Sol’s boots as she clambered up the Dryuan beach, her ankles twisting against the grain. Sweat gathered at her brow, her hairline, and already she was desperate for a break, a reprieve from the stifling heat that Amael had tried to warn her about. He’d certainly meant it when he’d told her the sun could burn the flesh from her bones here.
Between the Princess and Amael, Fynn stomped through the sand and cursed them all to the Gods. They had not let him come alone, had disobeyed his every order and followed him from the ship onto the dock. So had their brazen Quartermaster, traipsing over the shore behind Sol and grumbling about the heat.
Fynn’s jaw was set as they reached the outcropping of trees that hugged the coastline. He kept his hand on the pommel of his sword, his other within reach of Sol should he need to pull her from harm’s way. She pretended not to notice the frequent glances he spared her, he himself pretending to still be angry. Inconvenienced, perhaps, but the sigh of relief when Sol and the others had followed him onto the island had been audible.
He’d never wanted to come here alone, not truly.
Turning to Amael, Fynn scowled and said, “Lead the way, asshole.”
The boatswain shoved through the underbrush, hacking at vines and limbs with a curved blade that was half the length of Sol’s arm span. “My village is at the heart of the island,” he explained. “The forest offers protection from the elements, especially during monsoon season. But there are usually scouts in the trees.”
Riel snorted. “Maybe they’re at lunch.”
Fynn slapped the back of her head. “Shut up,” he said. “I only let you come on the condition you kept quiet. If Nero is hiding in these woods, I’ll be damned if we all die because you couldn’t control your mouth.”
Crossing her arms, Riel hissed out a breath. The forest floor trembled beneath their feet, and Riel flashed Sol a wicked smile as she yelped and grabbed
Fynn’s arm. “You also let me come because my Magic is stronger here than yours. You just don’t want to admit it.”
“I sometimes forget you’re a Wielder,” Sol commented. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her sleeve. “I’ve never seen you use your Magic.”
“An Earth-Wielder, through and through,” Riel reminded her. There was a sense of pride in her tone. “I can manipulate rock and soil and plant life to my liking. Haven’t you ever wondered why the ship’s garden flourishes in the middle of the sea?”
The Princess swatted away a fly. “I’ve never really noticed.”
“That’s because you’ve been too busy kissing my brother.”
Fynn hit her again, this time in the shoulder and hard enough to leave a bruise. “Don’t start your shit.”
Amael began to saw through the trunk of an old tree that had fallen into the middle of their path. “Hey, Mrs. Earth-Wielder,” he grunted. “If you wouldn’t mind, I could use the help. I’d prefer the foliage stay intact rather than hacking it to bits.”
Tossing her braids over her shoulder, Riel raised her chin and held her hand towards the tree. The bark splintered, bending out neatly from the center and folding back until the rotted-out trunk was split in two.
Sol blinked in wonder at Riel’s Magic. She reached for the tree to investigate, but Fynn took her elbow and pulled her back. “Don’t,” he warned gently. “She’ll snap the bark at you if you get too close.”
The Quartermaster grinned as Sol looked at her. “He’s not wrong.”
Amael pointed onward with his sword. “This way,” he said quietly. He stepped over stones intentionally laid into the ground, marking out a path that was covered with dirt and leaves. Amael swept it all away with his foot.
Shaking Fynn loose, Sol slipped ahead to walk alongside Amael. “Are you all right?” she asked, lightly touching his arm. “I know you didn’t want to come back here.”
“I did want to come back,” he answered. “Eventually. Just not like this. There should be scouts tracking us from the trees and shooting arrows at us for trespassing. I’ve never heard this forest so quiet.”
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