Crowntide by Alex Aster - 6

Isla and Lark had been dragged through the desert for a full day.

A half dozen people in gray tunics with scarves wrapped around their noses and mouths had easily overpowered them. Isla had tried to fight, had tried to summon any shred of power, but just like the ash beneath her feet, it slipped right through her fingers. She didn’t even have the strength to lift Cronan’s sword.

They bound Isla’s hands and took everything on her, including the sword, the orb containing all the storms she had used to defeat Lark, and the god-bone in her pocket. They even took her armor.

They tied her bindings to the back of a cart, with Lark strung up next to her, and then her and her ancestor were being launched forward. They both fell face-first into the ash. Isla’s mouth was filled with it. Her chin was being dragged. It took every ounce of her little remaining energy to stand, and then, there was no choice but to walk.

In Isla’s world, Lark had been unbeatable. She wielded ancient power, as the original founder. Here, she had been captured just as easily as Isla had. Her chest was still partially open. She was panting now, like it was almost impossible for her to breathe.

This world had brought even Lark to her knees. And that made dread spill down Isla’s spine.

As they trudged on, Isla’s head bent forward, away from the sun that seared even through the strokes of color. She studied the strange, glimmering ash for hours. It was similar to the desert on Sun Isle that she had trekked through with Oro. But this was not sand at all.

This was a place reduced to ruins .

The dunes shifted in color, from silver and black to faded stripes of green and blue that almost created a map. It seemed as if entire forests and streams and fields had been turned to dust and ash in mere moments. As if this desert use to be a vibrant world that was flattened and extinguished.

The power she had come here for . . . the one that was supposed to undo all her endless wrongs . . . was gone. She felt just the whisper of it, like scattered flecks of rubble.

Something happened here. Someone happened to this place.

And she had a feeling that she was about to see who that was.

Good . That would lead her straight to Cronan, without having to use the blood in his sword to track him down. But then she took in her situation. Tied to a cart. Powerless. Weaponless.

If she was going to have any chance at surviving this, she needed to make a plan. She studied her captors. They never spoke to each other. They hardly even looked at their captives. One sat on the horse that pulled the cart—its contents covered with a thick fabric.

The rest of them were fanned out . . . almost like guards.

Guarding from what? If Cronan ruled this world, and they were being taken to him, who would dare come between them?

And if Cronan’s power was portaling . . . could he not simply portal them to him?

At least their captors clearly wanted to keep Isla and Lark alive. They would’ve killed them ages ago if not. Instead, they were forcing them to walk, trying to tire them out.

Fine. Isla would give them what they wanted.

She took one more step, before stumbling forward and falling to the ground.

Her shoulders screamed as her body was dragged through the ash by her wrists. The ropes dug into her flesh. She waited for several minutes, wondering whether she had made an error in strategy.

Then, the cart stopped.

Whispers erupted around her. She couldn’t make out the words, but it was clearly some sort of argument. If she could only hear what they were saying . . .

It wasn’t long before the sand shifted with approaching footsteps, and hands were hauling her up.

Then Isla was roughly thrown into the cart. She was immediately hit with a stench that made her almost retch. After a moment, the cart began to move again.

And Isla palmed the handle of the dagger she had just stolen from her captor. She got to work on her bindings and barely avoided cutting herself as she was jostled forward, her legs crashing against something solid beneath that tarp. A corner of it lifted.

An unseeing eye looked back at her.

She fought the urge to scream. She lifted up more of the tarp to reveal a face, twisted, bloodied, and mangled. Behind it was a mess of limbs in a clumsy pile. As if these people had been caught between portals and ripped apart.

These weren’t Cronan’s men, Isla realized. They were scavengers. Picking up anything that had fallen into this world. She swallowed down bile at the rot that permeated through the raised corner. It seemed her and Lark might be some of the only beings they had discovered who were still intact. That’s why their captors hadn’t injured them yet—they were more valuable alive. But to who? For what? The wooden cart itself was likely of extraordinary value, given the fact that Isla hadn’t yet seen anything resembling a forest on this planet.

She didn’t even want to think about what they planned to do with them. Isla slowly resumed slicing the rope around her wrists after glancing at the scavengers. They were hardly paying attention to her, still fixated on whatever awaited them up ahead.

Their constant surveillance, the way they kept their blades strapped to their fronts, how their arms were slightly raised as if ready to wield these sands at any moment . . . it made Isla wonder what, exactly, they were so afraid of.

The last thread of her rope snapped. She let out a choked whimper as the material fell away from her wrists. The skin was rubbed raw. Her bracelet with her mother’s charm, the one that contained a piece of her flair, was cool against her stinging skin. It was a reminder of everything she had left behind in her world. All of her plans. All of her hopes.

She wouldn’t let these scavengers come between her and everything she had fought for.

Isla turned to Lark and saw that her ancestor was in far worse condition. Her chest was still leaking blood. She may have had access to some power, more so than Isla . . . but clearly not enough. She wasn’t healing.

Isla would like nothing more than to leave her here, but she needed to find a way to end Lark so she could absorb her power and bring back all the people she had killed.

So, with the bulge of the contents of the cart covering her from view, she began to work on her ancestor’s rope.

The moment her dagger pressed against the cord, Lark’s head snapped up. Her eyes met Isla’s.

Green. Just like hers. It might have been nice to have a family member that was still alive, if this one hadn’t tried to kill her on countless occasions. Not to mention nearly destroying her entire world. And turning people Isla cared about into monsters.

Isla looked upon her with nothing short of hatred. Lark simply smirked. She shook her head, almost amused.

Idiot , she had called Isla. Only Lark knew exactly what Isla would face with Cronan. Only she had known him, and what he was capable of.

And if he had been the one to flatten this world, to turn it to dust . . . she had already vastly underestimated his power.

Lark’s rope snapped and she stopped walking. Her smirking face slowly got farther and farther away. Isla looked around, to see if anyone had noticed.

They hadn’t.

She waited a few more seconds before reaching into the tarp, frowning as her hand brushed rotting skin. Her fingers searched until they finally locked around something smooth and solid. Cronan’s sword. She set the dagger down and took this instead. She found the god-bone tucked against the well-worn wood. The orb of storms was next. Her armor was all that remained. It was in pieces, and she slowly rolled each one off the cart, into the ash. They landed soundlessly.

Then, with one last look at the captors, she lurched into the dust. She braced herself, sword in hand, ready to fight.

But the cart kept going. The scavengers walked on.

Only when she couldn’t hear the wheels anymore did she slowly stand. She began following the path of her armor, collecting the pieces, cresting lazy dunes of faded color that finally led to Lark. Her wretched ancestor was simply waiting. Looking right at her.

Isla’s body felt boneless, but she hobbled forward. Her ancestor’s ribs were gaping open. Isla could almost see her heart beating, unprotected.

Maybe the god-bone would be enough to end her life. She gripped it in her hands, willing strength into her body. And then she lunged forward, the tip trained on Lark’s heart.

Her ancestor didn’t even move. She just kept smirking.

And before Isla could reach her, she was dragged back with breathtaking force, as if the ash-desert had turned into a hand that wrapped around her body. She slid through the dunes, until she reached her captors, who stood above her.

They clearly had power in this world, when Isla and Lark didn’t. Did that mean they were loyal to Cronan? Were they somehow immune to this vise she felt over her like a poison? She had carved a skyre into her skin from the metal of his coffin. It had allowed her to use power in the maze. Why wasn’t it working now?

The sword, bone, pieces of armor, and orb of storms were wrenched from Isla’s grip, and she was too weak to stop them. A sharp kick struck her side, and she gasped with pain.

And then she was hauled to her feet and tied to the cart.

Her side ached as she hobbled along. Her eyes began to close. She stumbled as she tried to keep walking, wishing she had just stayed in the damned cart longer, stench or not. Rest would have done her some good.

Isla blinked, eyes dry and crusted in sand—and before her, the endless expanse of desert and ash became a glorious mountain range, with flower-speckled glades and rivers spilling down its center.

She jolted and blinked again—but it was gone. Only faded blue and green and brown ash remained. Isla frowned. She remembered the desert she had been in with Oro. Skyshade was supposed to be the bigger version of Lightlark, and Isla had seen visions in that desert too. The sand had been laced with enchantment that had plunged her into memories, that had made her see things that weren’t real.

Was that what this was too? A mirage?

There was a rough pull of the cart as the horse sped up, and she saw it again—an endless forest full of colors so bright and vivid she could practically taste the flowers. Redbuds, violets, magnolias, orchids, so many that they spilled over themselves.

In the next moment, only their ashes remained.

Isla frowned. No. This wasn’t just an illusion. Somehow, she was seeing what this world once had been. As she walked, she could feel tremors of power, there, then gone, as if entire cities had been buried. Entire histories. Wars and creatures and relics and people turned to nothing but dust beneath her boots.

She couldn’t help but imagine this happening to her own world.

No. She wouldn’t let that happen. She was here to fight for everything and everyone she loved. Including her husband. He had given his life for her, he had started a war for her, he had been ready to turn their world to ash, just to save her.

The image vanished. And as Isla looked around this ruined place with nothing but dust for miles, dread crept through her stomach.

If Cronan had ruined this world . . . had he done it out of love? Or hate? Did the reason even matter, if this was the outcome?

Her life was nearly gone now. She needed to find a way to keep herself alive without needing to be tied to Grim’s soul, so that he wouldn’t have to continue with his destruction in her name. Because she knew he would do anything to permanently save her.

And she was afraid of what that might mean.

She shook her head, shifting her thoughts.

Oro . Instead of star-swept skies, his love felt like a beach, like summertime. They started as enemies, constantly bickering, and somehow, that hatred became trust. Then friendship. Then . . . love.

A part of her ached as she remembered when he first said that word to her. How he had held her through her nightmares. How he had been patient, and kind. How he had taught her control.

And then watched her lose it.

Still, even after all she had done, after she had left him for Grim to end the war, after she had remained there afterward, he still loved her. She could feel the faint string of that love now. Grim’s too.

The prophecy said she would have to choose one of them. She would kill one of them.

She refused. She refused to be a pawn in a grand destiny written centuries ago. She would forge her own fate.

And it all started here.

She wasn’t sure how she was going to get out of her situation, but she would keep going, keep walking, until she did.

The sand began to tremble. The cart stopped. Her captors whispered rapidly to each other, lifting their hands to wield. The guard closest to her took a step—then let out a gargled scream as her feet were dragged into the ground—

And her body was drained of all its water and blood.

It happened in half a second. One moment, she was there. The next, her body was falling forward, and all that remained was folded, shrunken skin. The scarf had fallen off her face. Her eyes were popped, as if even that liquid had been taken. Her skin was thin as paper, nothing but flaked tissue. Her teeth were parted in a lasting scream.

The creature was beneath Isla now. She could feel it, stirring the sand. She looked over at the cart, wondering if she should leap into it, or if her movement would make her more of a target.

Before she could decide, the scavenger closest to her dropped his dagger. The sand shifted as the creature raced toward him.

His body collapsed in a pile of folded skin a moment later—and, before the creature could claim another victim, another scavenger parted the ash with his power and stabbed his sword straight down.

There was a high-pitched wail. The ground stilled again.

Isla looked over at her ancestor. Lark’s expression remained neutral, like even this didn’t surprise her. It made her wonder what else awaited them in this world.

The bodies were left behind. And they kept going.