Chapter 7, Sarah

  I told myself I had no expectations when I climbed the crater. Maybe I even believed it. I was more than ready to let go. I was exhausted, from running, fighting, waiting. But when I stood there, looking over the edge, something shifted. The reality of it set in.

  My palms started sweating. My heart pounded against my ribs. My breath came too fast, my eyes darting over the jagged rocks below. And then the egg burned. Not just glowing, searing. Alive.

  I remember the heat, the way it scorched my palms without pain. The first sign of life I’d ever seen from it. Twelve years of waiting, and suddenly, it responded. And if I’m really, painfully honest… that’s when expectations crept in.

  I never had a clear picture of what would happen. I wasn’t alive during the last age of dragons, and I didn’t grow up around people who knew the stories. But that didn’t stop me from making things up.

  Maybe I wouldn’t fall at all. Maybe I’d just stop midair, hovering, weightless, untouched. Maybe the egg would burst open before I even hit the water, and a dragon would rise from it, ancient and enormous, ready to take its place in the world. Maybe the dragon would swoop beneath me, catch me on its back, and we’d climb into the clouds together. And then I’d finally know what all of this was for.

  I thought I was meant for something bigger, for greatness. I was a damn good soldier. Good enough that they offered me command. Good enough that warriors twice my size took orders from me without question. But it wasn’t enough.

  Why waste time leading a few hundred soldiers into pointless battles when I was meant to bring an end to it all. The Prophets Guild. The oppression. The segregation. The exploitation. The unrest.

  I had the egg. I had the purpose. The prophecy. The destiny. And now? Now, I have nothing.

  Maybe I thought too highly of myself. Maybe I wasn’t meant for anything but what I already had, fighting other people’s wars, working odd jobs, spending what little I earned on Trish, hoping her arms could hold me together long enough to sleep.

  It could have been enough, but I wanted more. For myself and for the Shapers who accepted me, a runaway child of their enemy as their own. I dig my nails into my palms, jaw tight, stomach twisting. I was wrong. And I don’t know what to do with that. Because the truth is worse than anything I ever imagined. I didn’t float. I didn’t fly. I just fell. And when I woke up, no dragon. Just a pirate who’s playing some kind of game with me.

  Where the fuck is she, anyway?

  I sit with my back against the railing, knees pulled up, watching the crew move around me like I’m a piece of discarded cargo.

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  They don’t speak to me. They barely look at me. The ones who do glance my way do it quickly, like they’re just making sure I haven’t done something inconvenient. Like dying.

  I shift, adjusting against the railing, and the ship moves beneath me. Not in a way I can predict. Not like anything I’ve felt before. It doesn’t roll like a horse. Doesn’t sway like a tree in the wind.

  It’s weightless and restless at the same time. Maybe this is what flying would have felt like. If things had gone the way they were supposed to.

  What now? What the fuck now?

  The last forty-eight hours play on a loop, rattling through my skull like loose stones in a cup. Trish, her fingers combing through my hair, warmth pressed to my back.

  “You should go see Melinda,” she whispered. “Maybe she can at least do something for your nightmares.”

  Melinda, her lips weathered and thin. “You want an answer? Prove you can give up control. Jump.”

  Andreya, her blood warm between my fingers.

  I flinch at the memory. It’s there, right beneath my skin, pressing against the inside of my ribs. She’s gone. But I can’t think about it. Not now. If I do, if I let myself feel it, really feel it, I don’t know what will happen.

  So I don’t. I shove it back. Force it down. Bury it under everything else.

  Later. I’ll fall apart later.

  I dig my fingers into my scalp, pressing against the ache blooming there. I can’t sit here, waiting, unraveling. I push off the railing, shoulders tight with restless energy, and start walking.

  I make a slow loop around the deck. A useless, aimless orbit. The ship is bigger than expected, but not as big as I need it to be. The second lap feels smaller. The third, suffocating.

  The dampness in my boots starts to rub against my big toe. The kind of feeling that isn’t a blister yet, but promises to be if I keep walking.

  I slow, glancing around. A few pairs of pants, the odd shirt, hang over barrels and ropes, drying in the sun that’s begun to warm the deck.

  Most of the crew is barefoot. Some shirtless. It seems acceptable, expected even, to shed a few layers. I pull off my shirt, leaving the wrap around my chest. It feels exposed, but then, how much more raw can I feel at this point?

  I tug off my boots, peel away my socks, and find a place to set them out to dry. The deck is warm, almost hot under my bare feet. Sun-baked and smooth. I shift my weight, flexing my toes against the worn wood. It feels oddly pleasant.

  Roberts is nowhere to be seen. Of course she isn’t. She pulled me out of the water, lured me onto her ship like I was something worth salvaging, and then nothing. Not a word. Not a glance.

  I don’t even know why I’m here. I should be dead. Or destined. But instead, I’m neither.

  I stop pacing. My pulse hammers against my ribs, frustration winding tight beneath my skin. If Roberts won’t come to me, I’ll go to her.

  I spot the next sailor that passes by, a coil of rope slung over their shoulder. "Excuse me, where is the captain? I need to—"

  They don’t stop. Don’t even acknowledge me. I bite back a curse and try again. Another crew member, this one checking knots along the railing.

  I step closer, sharper this time. "Excuse me, can you—"

  They turn. And walk away. A hot flash of irritation spikes through me. Gods, this is infuriating. What am I, invisible?