There are none within my reach, so I shout the call, not caring if it gives away my location. Still, it feels wrong branding the wind so boldly.
A tranquil breeze sweeps in from the west and I coil it around the others, struggling to decide which command to use. Combining drafts is a game of words—coaxing them to cooperate or daring them to rebel. I’ve practiced with the other winds for most of my life, but the Westerly tongue is new. A secret power I stole from Vane with our kiss. One I’ve barely begun to master.
“Come on,” I whisper, sending the plea to the sky. “Tell me what to do.”
All I hear is the pulse in my veins.
Tears streak down my cheeks and Vane’s face fills my mind. I can picture every curve, every line. The perfect blue of his eyes and the dark brown of his warm, earthy hair.
But it’s a thin shadow of the reality.
I can’t let this memory be all I have left.
“Please,” I whisper, feeling the word sweep off my lips in the Westerly language. “Please help me.”
The words are a breathy sigh mixed with a soft hiss, and the harder I concentrate on them, the more a cool rush builds in my mind, twisting and spinning until it shapes into a word.
“Unite,” I whisper, and all winds tangle into a bubble around me. “Soar.”
The stars blur to streaks as I rush forward, and I tell myself that the power of four will help me reach him in time. But his trace is still so far away.
Why did I run so far away?
I’m not sure where I am, but I know I’ve been flying north for week. Even with my frenzied speed, it’ll be hours before I reach him.
All I can do is hope and fly.
But after a few minutes the pain in my heart drains, leaving me cold and empty. The shock breaks my concentration and the winds carrying me unravel.
Vane’s not . . .
I can’t even think the word.
The searing pull of our bond returns, jolting my heart back to a rhythm and helping me regain enough control to grab an Easterly. But I’ve fallen too far and there isn’t enough time to stop myself from crashing into cold, churning water.
Dark waves swell around me, nearly splattering me against four columns of rock that jut from the ocean near the shore. I barely steer myself away, struggling to keep my head above the water as the next wave washes me to the rocky sand. My body shivers as I gasp for breath, but I can’t feel the cold.
I’m numb.
Empty.
But my mind echoes with the only thought that matters. He’s alive.
Is he safe, though?
I can’t tell.
His trace feels steady but weak.
I try to get up, but my insides writhe and I roll to my knees, choking and gagging up the water I swallowed in the ocean. Sour bile coats my tongue and I spit it into the retreating waves until there’s nothing left. Still, I continue to heave, like my body is trying to purge all the dark, sickening truths I’ve been trying to deny.
I swore an oath to protect Vane.
Swore to train him and fight with him and ready him to be our king.
Bonding myself to him should’ve made me more willing to uphold that promise.
And yet, here I am, alone on a cold, empty beach, far away from him when he needed me most.
I’m shaking so hard I barely manage to crawl out of the waves before my knees give out, leaving me face-first in the smooth, round rocks covering the beach.
The sharp ocean breezes nip at my tear-stained cheeks and I open my mind to their songs.
One is an Easterly—the winds of my heritage—singing the melody I used to search for, beg for, cling to with everything I had. A gentle song about carrying on despite the turbulence all around.
For years I’ve wondered if the draft is some small part of my father. A hint of his presence that stayed behind to guide me, keep me fighting his battles for him. But since I learned my mother’s secrets, I’ve been hoping he’s really gone.
He loved my mother more than life. More than air. If he knew the truth—knew she sold our lives and the Westons’ for a wasted chance at freedom—it would destroy him.
“Go,” I whisper as the breeze dries my tears. “Don’t waste your time on me.”
The wind tangles tighter, lifting my head and forcing me to open my eyes and see that I’m not alone.
A white dove watches me from her roost on a piece of driftwood, her black eyes glittering in the moonlight. She coos as I sit up, begging me to reach for her. And for the first time in weeks, I do.
She hops onto my finger and nuzzles her beak against my thumb and I realize that I know this dove. She’s one of my mother’s messengers—the loyal birds who perched on her roof, waiting to carry her updates to the Gales.
She’s been following me since I left, and as I stroke her silky feathers, I feel her need—her craving for shelter now that my mother left her alone. It’s one of my gifts. Part of what I’ve been fighting, trying to resist the talent my mother and I shared.
But as I stare at this fragile creature, I realize how precious that connection is. How much I’ve missed it.