Just a little bit further until everything falls away. Only the rhythm exists when we reach the point where all becomes one. Sawyer watched Gele fall deeper into the dance, soothed by the trance. She weightlessly sat in the brittle branches of a burned-out tree. Below her, Gele rehearsed cartwheels and kicks. Swaying like the wind, several hours had passed since he first raised his leg into the air and captured that momentum and rhythm. The man had not stopped or slowed since. Sawyer had tried to follow Gele, reading his mind and movements, then copying them as best she could. But a spectator, even one privy to the experience of a master, could not keep up. Her eyes followed the blue scarf, bold upon the gray ashfield. Like a sailcloth, it caught the wind and carried him on and on until he reached the end.
Sawyer tried to join in two more times, far from Gele so as not to distract him, but in almost perfect mimicry of his dance. She tried, focused only on the rhythm. Even with agile footing and nimble steps, she never reached the point where she was truly dancing. Disgruntled, the pirate kicked the dirt and went on to her own practices. She reached for her empty scabbard. Every waking moment she wished she died with her blade. Pretending to swing a sword felt like childish folly compared to real drills and real sparring. Each time she swung her arm, it flew through whatever was in its way. It was more like flailing, nothing but a futile practice that only made her feel like a silly little girl. A shit game, she growled to herself. The spirits in the Second Sea would be laughing—if they could. It must be fun to them, watching the chimera flap her arms like some putrid bird. I am a putrid bird. She glanced at Gele, who continued his dance with a grace unmatched by anything she had seen in her life, and all she had was solemn envy. Nothing, I have nothing. A thief so poor she cannot even gamble with her own blood.
A hushed sigh of relief came from Sawyer when Mysk came striding across the ashfield. Did he have another question about Galu? Thankfully, Gele could hold his tongue. Not once did he mention her. Talk of the ghost pirate would have raised questions, maybe danger. Anything of the sort could risk their escape. The spirits would be awake tonight, lighting up the sky. With the absence of shadows, Sawyer had her target. Coan was the only threat. She had already left the House and now could be anywhere on this island. The warlord would cut down Gele in a second, and there was nothing the Admiral could do. An Admiral, in Allecrea, that title meant power. And now? Prestige and experience only haunted the ghost.
Sawyer clenched her jaw as she remembered it, watching over her ships. Admiral, how long has she really felt like one? One frigate, with well over a hundred cannons. Enough to make your dent in the world and then some. Anyone who commanded a ship like the Harpy, oh, they were the master of a sea dragon, truly. And she had four ships! No warlord with a bone sword would measure to that. Coan would be erased if I had my way. Sawyer shook her head, knowing how much Gele would hate such thoughts. She had none of it because this harpy had won wings, gills, and the Anima’s kiss. And Allecros, that city of wizards, still boasted over the bay. What was it all wasted on? Sawyer looked at her hands and how empty they really were. Everything that once made her an Admiral, not just her ships and her pirates, but her skill, and her strength, did it all waste away while she waited for obliteration? How much did the Anima really take?
Luck granted no time to take inventory of whatever she lost, and Sawyer only had eight fingers to count with. Meanwhile, Mysk called Gele back to the House. “It’s about to begin,” he cheered. The healer pointed at the House. After a few days and nights under their roof, Sawyer saw it as a bastion that withstood the tests of war for good reason. The walls were covered in sharpened stone shards, and the hill it sat atop was steep and rugged. But everything around it was still regrowing. Patches of life were nothing compared to the crops that may have lived there before. Vall, a jungle of open wounds. If the war came again, Sawyer assessed, the House would fall to any siege. Though, she had never seen such camaraderie among a people. Everyone slept in the House, close together. They sang strange songs and laughed as one, a single giant conversation. The paint made them invisible as a group. They helped each other with the clay, matching the colors and blending in with the wild frenzy that adorned the walls and buildings. The sense of togetherness, she could see it as she watched from afar, all alone. Her only companion in such observation was Coan, who slipped away the first night Gele was there. Sawyer had not seen her since. Would she come back tonight? They had already eaten the catfish. Maybe she would bring a dead crocodile this time?
“The burning?” Gele asked. It was a term he heard the people say, but he was never granted an explanation.
“We must pay a toll, an offering to the monsters in the Second Sea,” Mysk said. “It is only right since they send us gifts all the time.”
The Siren. The memory rumbled inside Sawyer’s head like a vicious migraine. If that beast—even comparing it to an animal was strange, abomination, more like—fell upon the House, it would feed on souls with no resistance. Coan was strong, but she could not defeat such a thing. And she was the last soldier Vall had. Soldiers could not be born without the name or mask, and the mask-makers could not make an army without people to take up the title. And even with that, no warlord would lead young infants into battle. How many farmers, fishermen, and healers were needed first? It was all a process she did not understand, but she was so far from home that barely anything made sense to her now. Sawyer Jean was an abomination too. She traced the spot on her coat where the gills rested. No home for me now.
But even with that, Sawyer followed Gele and Mysk to the House. The sunset poured a bright orange-yellow into the Second Sea, and the swarm of shadows circled the island, erratic. Were they writhing or fleeing? Never, even on the advent of the full moon, had Sawyer seen something like this. The fish and whales, and whatever else there was, lived in harmony with the spirits. But here they quivered as if something greater was coming. The sensation hit her, crackling and unfurling. As if something was about to climb out of her seawater skin.
For all the magicians who ever existed, the devout and the monstrous, have any felt this before? As a girl, her parents warned her not to venture out at night, or Gideon the Gobbler would eat her soul, free from the dungeons of Allecros. Or the nameless hag who spread strange spores across the nation, birthing the greatest plague ever known. And the most powerful, the Alchemist King, who founded Allecrea with fire that never stopped burning and elixirs that made him invincible. The last mage Sawyer thought of was Deneve the Barbarian Queen. She and her seven sworn sisters set out to conquer the world. The harpies and angels were culled or captured, their monarch’s wings sewn to Deneve’s spine. Sawyer had seen the sutures and how the bones fused. Sawyer had taken Chorllow, where Deneve helmed her empire. Sawyer captured her castle and plundered her tomb, using her corpse for her own magic. One chimera breeds another. Her stunted wings held none of the grandeur as the harpies had. Even now, Sawyer yearned for real wings, please, I know it’s possible. It was more intoxicating than any drug or drink. The feeling that seized her chest was not magic at all, something beyond the mystery of wild power. Even with bent wings, she was on the threshold of a feeling never experienced by mankind before.
And then it was gone, and the creatures above her were swimming peacefully and preying on each other. As if nature only twitched, then returned back to its somber state. Gele had felt it, grabbing his chest and panting. Mysk helped him inside and took him even farther away from Sawyer. The spirit broke into the run as if something was chasing her. Something is here, she wanted to scream, but the only one who could hear her was well aware of that.
The people of the House turned to glance at Gele as Mysk walked with him through the gate. The ones who manned the door could not have been older than twelve. Twins maybe, a boy and girl, their masks were half-red and half-blue. They struggled with the heavy wood, but even then, they were well-used to the burden of Vall’s defense. Sharp bone spears rested in their hands. They never abandoned the door, at least one always standing guard. “Coan was the warlord, but these two, Zassamurr and Massamurr, are simply a part of the walls,” Mysk had explained once.
Sawyer did not go anywhere near them. In the days they spent in the House, she was wildly cautious to hide at the top of the House or by the back of the walls. Emned could see me, and maybe someone here could too. The risk was too great, and Gele did not seem to mind the distance anyways. Even now, he sat by the fire. Clutching his chest, Gele was next to Mysk while Kiqat, the old stone carver, fed him water. He was skinny and brittle, his back hunched but his hands strong. Mapsokas the woodcutter came too, a tall woman who never left her axe. And soon, a crowd formed, all people Gele now called friends, and Sawyer could not see him anymore. Will he leave tomorrow? Sawyer knew he had kept his word. He stayed an observer the best he could. Trading stories for more stories, and he tried not to take too much food. But here, they did not fuss about warriors or treasure, and none of them had gills or wings. I can’t be jealous, she thought to herself, dwelling on it. It had been so long since she dined with her crew. To eat and laugh with long-dead friends. She missed it. She missed it more than anything. Even if I am, I can’t blame anyone but me. Nobody would want to dine with Gideon the Gobbler. No one would want to bathe in the same pool as Deneve the Barbarian Queen or Sonia the Mermaid Chimera, and I am both of them in one. Clenching her jaw, she distracted herself with the shadows above, scared to see if they would begin flailing again.
When the sun finally sank over the horizon, dusk came and the fires for the Burning were lit. Tall log towers entrapped a thick bushel of kindling at the center. Six pits in all, but Mysk said only one was large enough to host the Burning’s true ritual. Why start another fire when the House lays on a bed of soot and char? The great bonfires did not startle the children or bring sorrow to the elderly. Instead, they used the flames to roast grasshoppers and cook fish. Then they filled the meat in bowls of berries and yams, slathered with a thick honeyed sauce. Kiqat ate white eggplant stew and Mysk drank fermented goat milk. Gele tried a little bit of everything, and Sawyer tasted it vicariously. But to her, all of it, even the sweetest and warm foods, felt bland on her tongue. Then, the people of the House began the Burning. Seventeen wood effigies were offered to the flames. They were the same design as the stone statues, mimicking monsters from the Second Sea, but coated in resin and painted a vicious red and gold. The pyres devoured them, heat drinking the sap and spewing smoke. The monsters died quickly but their bodies lingered, slowly reduced to blackened ash. Sawyer remembered the markings on the dead tree and in Coan’s Cave. The Siren, she cursed the abomination again, do not come here. I know your tricks.
Songs and chants roared as the monsters were offered to the waters above. By the time the full moon rose up into the night, three beasts had been swallowed by fire. The people of Vall danced and told stories of old names. Of Coan the Conqueror who went to the west to fight against the beastmen’s empire to vanquish the chimera horde. And Urushmur the flutist, with a pipe offered to her by mermaids, still lives under the sea with them to this day, as a name that will never belong to another. A few couples snuck away for time with each other, and many went back to work. But all stopped to see the Second Sea glow. It wiped across the sky, a blend of vibrancy the earth could never match. Every color clashed in a swirling blend that spilled blinding light into the water. The full moon stood above it all, glistening a blank white. A lantern to guide the souls to the depths. The moon, the sun, the stars, Sawyer clenched her fists. What were they? Once, she was willing to pour all the souls of Mehmaton, Allecrea’s biggest city, for the answer. Though no one would ever have the chance to make such a trade. They mocked her, whatever they were. Especially on nights like this.
Though the Second Sea was the most beautiful thing in the world, doubly so when the spirits opened their eyes. Not eyes anymore, they sleep and watch always, here they do something else, something unknown to us below. A life cycle locked away from flesh and blood, and me who's stuck in between. It was something one could never get used to, as it took a new form each time. Sawyer once swore that a single man could see six new colors on these nights. And she had yet to be proven wrong. And with that, she found it wise to fear the Second Sea above all else. Krakens could eat ships alive, and fellow men were closer, but up there, there was a mystery she felt mankind could not understand at all.
Gele looked for her when the sky was flooded with ghosts. He went to the corner where only she was, far from the festivities and the fun. “Are you ready to leave when the sun rises?” It was a solemn question. He had made his choice, but the friendships he just forged made him turn back to look at them. Sawyer looked at herself through his eyes. Missing an ear and two fingers, scars dotting her face like a vicious pox, and of course, there was everything else. Now’s not the time, she tried to silence the thoughts and intrusions on such a colorful night. Maybe if I think only of sea monsters, I can hide it. “Let’s head out to the waves, for the Sea of Shrouds may have a leviathan waiting for us,” she replied.
“I think we should go to Rem next to see the rumors of thundersticks and potions.” Gele declared, cold fear stewing as he imagined such machinations arriving on Galu too. “We need to know if they truly came from Allecrea. But, if I was to be captured again, the people of Rem may not be as merciful as Coan.”
“I will help you. I know guns and magic more than I know this place.” Sawyer smiled, “there are no mages as ferocious as the Salt Wench, and few tricks can escape her eyes.”
“Rem destroyed Vall sixteen years ago. If we are their enemies too, what could you or I do?”
“Both anything or nothing, we place our bets or we do not go at all,” Sawyer said, unsure. “The adventurer’s folly: always present when one strikes out for the unknown.”
“How many adventurers, explorers, and more lost their gambles?” Gele asked.
Me, she almost said. Gele must have known, but each had their own latent thoughts, instincts, a little grotto for themselves amongst their shared minds. No, he could hear everything. Begging for anything else is dancing around lies. “Only the Second Sea knows.”
Gele shuddered, “then I’m going to rest for now. I’ll need to wake up in time for our escape.” He took one last look at the Second Sea. The silhouettes of shapes so strange they seemed formless dwelled in that infinite lake of light. Again, Sawyer dreaded the appearance of the Siren, though she did not expect it to appear. Then why do I feel so vexed?
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
A wave of pity went over her when she heard drumming from the fires. Sticks pounded against stretched boar skin. Sawyer expected Gele may never get the sleep he needed. Maybe a night without a dream would be better than weariness. Sawyer had to choose between the two before; nightmares, never able to run away from those. The Anima made her bathe in them, soaked in filth she sowed for herself. Jaws so close to crushing her, teeth scraping together. She could hear it again, the rhythm of the drum. Doooom. Doooom. Doooom. Yes, Gele would not be able to sleep at all here. The sound was too similar to that dark room in the pyramid.
Floating on air, the ghost rose to the top of the barricade, looking out over the ashfield. Along the rolling plains of gray, graced with color from above, Sawyer tried to find somewhere for them to run to, to be alone from all the noise. Would he come with me? She wondered how the forest would treat them, or the river, or the dead tree with the shifting bark. Leaping over the side, Sawyer landed outside the House, an empty field before her.
A graveyard, a battlefield, was there any difference? How long until it was a jungle again? Sawyer walked through it, feet always an inch off the ground, as if not to disturb any hidden bones.
It was like being a girl again. The full moon summoned parades to the streets of Wilkin’s Port. Floats commemorated the old heroes: Deneve the Barbarian Queen, the Alchemist King, Elliot the Shepherd, and his kraken-charming horn. Then there was the God and Goddess, the idols crowned by a priest from Mehmaton, dressed in crimson silk. Though, whatever prayers he shouted went to deaf ears, as the songs washed away anything anyone was saying, as the city basked in a celebration of shared history. A land as old as wind, and time, they would say, and a people that would outlast it all. But Sawyer never went to the crowded streets, nor to the food or the people. Instead, she went to watch the gravestones.
The cemetery nestled itself on the outskirts of the city, on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Rows and rows of tombstones stuck out from the ground. Inscribed were the names of the dead, those who passed on to the Second Sea and now had their mortal husks buried in the soil. Some, however, were so old that moss had erased their names, or they had sunken into the earth. It was good to leave them to disappear, that little girl used to think, for then it would make space for another. The ground was just a place to hold the casket and the body until both rotted away. Those who were remembered got to be parade floats, and those who were nothing got to become the dirt and feed the worms. But, as Sawyer saw, it was more common for Wilkin’s Port to give their dead to the water below the cliff, buried by salt. The ground was only for those who had people who wanted to visit them. Dirt, water, or unrivaled veneration, that was all you had in the end, it seemed to her. And in life, what would she be? The little girl looked upon the dead—mothers, wives, seamstresses, cooks, and a thousand other things. What would she choose to be? Dirt, water, or throwing away an empty, peaceful life to be a parade float?
She first went to see the graves when she was five, sneaking out to see if the rumors of ghosts were true. There were no spirits among the dead. All of them already migrated to the Second Sea. But instead, she found a sanctuary. Every month she would go there to read the names, look out over the cliff, and stare up until her eyes became strained from all the dancing colors. Soon, it became a second home, a place to hide stolen trinkets and books. She would read them under the cover of starlight and small campfires. An old crone would pay her in leather-bound journals if she scrubbed the floor. And among the dead, Sawyer Jean learned of potions and elixirs, of mermaid rituals, Deneve and her wings, and how potent a human soul really was. After that, she did not feel alone as she slept on a bed of leaves and moss. She wondered if the land was really haunted by the spirits who could not move on. I cannot see them, but I know they’re here. A fluttering would take over, invisible fingers of cold frost holding her heart.
The ashfield gave her the same sensation, the same melancholic fear that transformed into a twinge of comfort once it soaked into your soul. How different would it have been if I ran away to a witch’s coven rather than a ship? Maybe, there was a different way to fly. Sawyer clutched her chest. It had grown so cold. Dirt, water, or this, she remembered. The sensation rattled through her, nearly sending her to her knees. Sparks of pain, vicious agony that sizzled and popped spread from her gills and into her back. A feeling mankind has never felt before, Sawyer clenched her teeth. On the ground, she called out for Gele, screaming his name. She felt so cold. Her eyes stared up, glaring at the Second Sea. All the shadows had fled, the monsters in total fear of the moon. It loomed over her, a white egg or an all-consuming fireball. It could have been anything. She watched it, crying misty tears as she clutched her gills. Something grabbed her wrist. Sawyer panicked. A bright-orange hand emerged from the earth, fingers thin and slender. It tugged at her, trying to pull her under the dirt. No. She reached for her sword—it was never there. I will not be a grave. Another hand rose from the ground and took her other arm. Sawyer flailed but could not rip herself free. A dozen more hands came for her, then a hundred. She blinked and saw a thousand. The ashfield was flooded with an ocean of orange fingers, all reaching for her. The arms dragged her down, pulling her below. It was like fighting suffocation rather than a legion of worms. Sawyer gasped and screamed again. The light of her seafoam skin began to dwindle as the island swallowed her, taking her to its heart. The last thing she saw was the moon. A tiny fragment broke from it, like a teardrop cascading down its cheek.
Even if their masks were gone, the ashfield was still haunted, of course. The thought slammed Sawyer as she awoke. No, she was not awake. She had no eyes to open, no ears to hear. But she could still feel. There were others near her, next to her, above, below. Fizzles flew through her, little sparks that fed her sensations she did not know. It was kindness, a first kiss, a warcry, the embrace of a million arms. The souls were all around her. With no arms, they melted into one ocean of essence, not holding on to each other but constantly falling and sinking into their neighbors, spilling themselves into a pool that always moved. Back and forth, people swayed and spun. Were they even people anymore? Souls, all around, strung together into a single web that was so large but still painfully small. I can’t be here. I am a chimera, but no other soul listened, and it did not seem to matter. She was joined with a horde of others, fused together as a network that reached out to everything around it. Their hearts beat as one, with the same fervor as the birds and the alligators. The hairless cats ran atop her, paws stomping on the soul. We are the island, she realized.
The waves caressed the sand, washing seawater onto her. In the surf, she could see little creatures. So small, they had their own world. Some were little polyps, bundled together as one great colony, one animal, just like her, and all these others. Us. Regret and happiness ran over her, a hundred images of masks and the feelings behind them. Flashes of lifetimes spread, little joys, immense angers, all of them cobbled together in a single never-ending experience. Somewhere, an alligator's jaws snapped closed on a fat frog. A tree lost a leaf. The wind swirled around, disrupted by an owl’s silent wings. Roots sucked up water from the ground, and the dirt became just a little drier. Senses. A billion senses connected to Sawyer. One ecosystem rebuilt and attacked itself in a perfect pattern of equal tension. She could feel Gele laying above her, and the drums were playing. Doooom. Doooom. Doooom.
Memories fed into her, little peeks into the past. She saw a dead creature fall and crash upon the land. A sword plunged into the gut of some half-elk half-man chimera. Lovers laid in each other's arms, and mothers held their newborn children. Vicious arguments and songs around the fire clashed with the sorrows of a starving people. And then she saw the dead tree and how so many generations saw it before her. Once it was tall enough to touch the clouds, flowers bloomed with petals graced with every color. And once it burned, the trunk broke, and a crackling ball of fire struck the ground and flooded the jungle in one all-encompassing inferno. But never did she get a glimpse inside. Something always pulled her away before Sawyer could see. She could hear crying in there, faint whimpers, and prayers echoing.
Shit, dread came over her, a wave far larger and stronger than anything splashing onto the beach. They can see me too. They could see her memories, her emotions, her actions. The little girl, the navy boy, the pirate, the Admiral, the Salt Wench, the chimera, the spirit, and every dream she had and every fantasy she visited. The melted souls were Sawyer Jean as much as she was a melted soul. They must have seen her vision of Hell, with Duncan and Wess and all the other souls she sent to the void of nothingness. Did they know Gele too, and everything he carried with him? If they know everything about me, do they pass judgment? She could not know, but they—whoever they were—saw nonetheless. So many witnesses, in the Second Sea and at her side, now she was drowning in them, all eyes prodding at her and her shame. One day everyone who ever lived will see me and what I’ve done. But, even as she basked in the realm of the dead, surrounded by the world of life, she still had a chance to act. Sawyer Jean was still able to do something. Even if her fists flew through everything she touched and her scabbard was empty, she was alive.
What are they thinking up there? Sawyer gazed up at the tumultuous world, the one she could never reach. Even among this pool of ghosts, the Second Sea was far away, disconnected, and lost. There was no way to reach it, even here. She could barely even see it like she was looking at it from the bottom of the ocean. Then, it became clear, all the blurriness vanquished. She could see the moon, the sea monsters, and the spirits. She was looking down on it, all of it below her. So far away, even now. Like peering into a world of insects, little worms, and caterpillars. No, we are insects. We become spirits. A shock of pain, a sinister question. Spirits, are they the caterpillar, cocoon, or butterfly? And what are humans? What am I, caught in between?
She never received an answer from the void nor from the souls coupled to her. All she did was watch the sky. The Second Sea, what does it make us, really? A sharp chill struck her. She was so small. Even with wings, would it even be possible to fly up to the moon? She had gills. She could swim through the Second Sea, but all the way to where the stars ruled? She got her answer swiftly, as a brass arrow sliced through the water, diving in and swimming like a dolphin. Where did it come from? Sawyer searched for the archer as all the sea monsters fled from the arrow. Nothing stopped it, piercing whales and leviathans on its path towards the moon. When they collided, all color flushed out from the Second Sea. Everything faded to dismal grays and horrifying darkness. Sawyer screamed. . .
Everything began to shake. She no longer felt a connection to the other souls. She was nowhere now, only a witness to the calamity unfolding. The arrow, did it kill, merge, or impregnate the moon? It shattered like glass, pieces fluttering like little moths of starlights. Others, however, stretched and quivered. White fingers reached for her, twitching and thrashing through the Second Sea. They were true leviathans, bloating out everything Sawyer could see as they got closer and closer. Everything still shook, the world breaking as Sawyer lost her senses. Swept away, she was no longer her, a soul, nor a thing. Waves as tall as mountains took her away, displacing her among saltwater and blood. The fingers then broke through the water and grabbed the world below.
In this moment, annihilation struck the earth. The arms held the Second Sea and the Sea of Shrouds, strangling them both. Then, they pulled. Oceans lifted, swallowing the islands and drowning the world. The Second Sea came plummeting down. Like a torn cloth, the oceans were connected and sewn back together with fingers of ice and the corpses of men and monsters. Sawyer floated there, witness to it all. And then, all the souls of mankind lit up again, as if they were always dead.
A primal fear shook her awake, thrusting Sawyer to reach for her sword. Tears streamed down her face as trails of fog and she was so close to retching. She clutched her knees, rocking on the ground as she looked up at the spirits and the moon. It did not happen, the words were clanging in her head, but it was no dream. She could feel Gele, just barely, but he was still at the House. Sawyer rose to her feet, stumbling as her legs shook. The wings on her back, her gills, and all her other blemishes ached with a sullen pain. Sawyer fell to her knees again, her mind trying to make sense as panic took over.
The other souls from the ashfield were gone now, returned to whence they came. The waves across the beach, the animals in the underbrush, the trees, she could not sense any of it anymore. As if she had only tasted the sensation, and now she had sobered. The aftermath of her sacrifices was the same, one tiny glimpse into a strange world, only to be thrust back home. Misty tears falling from her face, Sawyer looked up at the Second Sea and all it held, and never had she been so afraid.
With shaking hands, she tried to stand herself up. Reaching for a branch, her fingers phased through. Stupid, she cursed herself, you’re a fucking ghost, don’t forget that. But, her hand did hold something, a thin thread that wriggled in her grasp. Holding it, she joined a web whose network stretched the entirety of the island and out into the sea. Not the spirits, something simpler. Still, even with such senses, they were faint and wild, like listening to an animal’s growls rather than words. And holding it was like having a sword back in her hand. The wind, she realized, the wind is mine. She whipped her arm to the side, sliding a soft gust through the air, ruffling the leaves and branches of the nearby trees. Her eyes wandered until she saw the temple standing before her, the dead bark engulfed in grand oranges and golds. The spirits, is this a gift, a curse, or a deal?
She made the air dance, making gusts swim through the forest as if they were flying fish. They swirled, brushing the earth and the canopy in brisk dives and updrafts. It was mimicry, really, Sawyer noticed. A watered-down elixir when compared to the feeling of connectedness she just escaped from. The last remaining aspect of that experience channeled itself in how she made the wind bend and play. Caterpillar, cocoon, or butterfly, what am I? Sawyer spun the air around her fingers. This power had to have some use. It could not be some toy, beautiful yet as simple as an invisible ribbon. Butterfly, she gulped. Taking off her coat and shirt, she let the crooked wings stretch out. Whenever they first crawled from their cocoons, butterflies needed to wait for their wings to settle. Sawyer had waited far too long. She was not graceful, more akin to an ugly roach and a hundred other uglier things. But still, could she fly?
First, she floated off the ground, just a few feet or so, all she could manage. Being a spirit had its blessings. And the wind circled her, flowing through and wrapping itself around her. It pushed up under her wings—the malformed growths that plagued her back. For a second, she did not hate them, as she let them pathetically flail and fly. The wind did its work and carried her up as if she merged with the leaping updraft. The trees became the floor, and the Second Sea grew closer as she went higher and higher, reaching her peak far before the clouds. Everything has a limit, but why? Sawyer looked out towards the Sea of Shrouds as the spirits illuminated the world. Why did they give me this? All things had a price. On the edge of the world, where the sea and sky merged into one horizon, she saw it. The wind was a hag, howling as it paraded around her. It had brought something just for her. Blue sails perverted her gift and used it for themselves. Even from so far in the sky, she knew what it was. Square rigging, one mast, anywhere from ten to forty men aboard. Her eyes locked on to the coal-black flag atop the ship, with the insignia of a jellyfish strangling a skull. Her world had come back to get her. Pirates had arrived on Vall.