Vesper bowed her silver head in thanks. The last of her tears fell, and Tor watched her expression transform. She held her head high. Her shoulders rolled back. Her eyes narrowed. “I told you that I came here because I had seen you before. And I knew you could help me. Thank you for proving me right.” She closed his hand with her own, trapping the charms inside. “Thank you…for being a friend.”
With a final nod, the silver-haired waterbreather disappeared into the sea.
Lune
One of Estrelle’s original charms was a moon. She gave it to a girl named Lune, who became her closest friend.
With her moon emblem, Lune found she could control water with just her movements. She could curve it in the air in wide streaks, like a whip. She could make whirlpools, with half a thought. She could tame a storm or make it rain.
One day, far out into the sea, she created a wave as tall as a mountain, just to test her abilities, just to see how big she could make it.
Little did she know, a ship sailed not far. It tore the vessel in half, and all were dead before Lune realized what she had done.
For years, she refused her gifts, believing them a curse. She moved far into Emblem Island, and lived in isolation, tormented by the guilt of the lives lost because of her carelessness.
Then war came. And she was forced out of solitude.
Estrelle needed her.
So Lune made a promise: she would work to master her gift, to wield it with such precision that she would never make a mistake again.
Lune learned to control every inch and stitch of her abilities, practicing each day from dawn to dusk, perfecting her movements and technique. She became one of Estrelle’s greatest warriors and saved thousands of innocents.
For the rest of her life, she lived on a ship, where water was always nearby.
But, ultimately, it was in the water where she died.
23
Purple Flames
Tor gripped the teleport’s coin, falling forward as he landed. The wind howled in his ears as he gritted his teeth against the throbbing between his bones and stood.
Before him sat the Night Witch’s castle. He took a step toward it, and all of its lights flickered on. Expecting him.
The door opened as he neared. A fire lit when he entered, warming him from the cliff’s chill. He had the pearl in his pocket.
They had agreed that this place, guarded by the darkness of the Shadows and the Night Witch’s enchantments, would be the only location where they could keep the Pirate’s Pearl from ending up in the spectral’s hands. Its power was too great to keep anywhere else; they had seen its potential firsthand, thanks to Vesper.
He climbed the staircase, and a light pattering of rain began to thrum against the castle’s glass ceiling. Just like before, a thread of power led him forward, down an empty hall, past dozens of shut doors and through an arch that led to another staircase, one that curved. He followed it until he reached the library, full of miniature enchantments.
It had felt like an eternity since the last time he had stood here with Vesper, who had been a complete stranger. A stranger who had ended up being their savior.
It was here that he had told Vesper about his powers and how much he resented them.
He still did, but things were different now. Whether or not Tor wanted the Night Witch’s powers made no difference. He wished more than anything the Night Witch had chosen someone else, but his fate had been sealed, and, just like the blood queen had told him, there was no escaping it.
Tor placed the anchor, attached to the miniature Cloudcaster, on the shelf. He was surprised at the pang of sadness he felt, leaving it behind. The pearl went next to it.
His task completed, he left the library and turned down the corridor, ready to teleport back home.
But something made him stop.
He followed the tug down the corridor, and soon, he was in a hall with storytelling tapestries, the characters glancing at him briefly before returning to their enactments. He traveled deeper and deeper into the castle, the walls thicker than they were near its entrance, the stone older, as if the Night Witch’s castle had been built over time, over and around itself, new layers added over the centuries.
It was enormous, so big that Tor thought to himself he could live in its walls for a hundred years without discovering every room. As the floor dipped, he wondered if the castle was built into the other side of the cliff or even below the rock.
He reached a door. Tall and sturdy, made from a single slab of stone. When he opened it, a fireplace in its corner lit in blue flame.
It flickered wildly, crackling and hissing. Tor knelt before it, and, without waiting to wonder if it would hurt, reached a hand inside.
His fingers grasped something solid, buried within the ashes. He pulled it from the blue flames in a flash. It was a journal.
He opened it and then nearly dropped it.
It was her journal. The Night Witch’s.
Tor flipped through the pages, wondering why she would want him to have it, until he saw something that made him stop dead.
A drawing of purple flames, just like the ones he now wore on his wrist. With a warning.
Dread pooled in his stomach. And Tor realized there was much more to learn about the Night Witch’s powers—and his.
Acknowledgments
Writing the Emblem Island books is an adventure—and I’m on it, just like you, reader. Unlike any other stories I’ve told, these seem to unfold themselves, without much prodding from me. Soon, I’m left with characters that have minds of their own and places I desperately want to visit. But it doesn’t end there. My first draft only turns into what you have read because of my incredible editor, Annie Berger, who has believed in this world
