The wind hits me like a slap, cold and sharp, whipping my hair across my face as I grip the wooden railing and lean out over nothing.
Below me, the ground is so far down it looks like a painting. Rolling green hills dotted with tiny trees, a river snaking through the valley like a silver thread, and way in the distance, the castle. The one where Brooke is right now. The one where my entire life went up in flames.
I should be marveling at this thing. This flying boat. This absolute death trap of engineering that some lunatic decided was a good idea. Three massive propellers mounted on these tall, spindly poles, one at the front, one in the middle, one at the back, all spinning in a hypnotic rhythm that keeps this whole wooden monstrosity afloat. The deck creaks under my feet. The wind howls through the rigging. It’s the most impractical thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
But I’m not marveling. I’m just... staring. Staring at that castle getting smaller and smaller, and feeling something inside me get smaller with it. Like a piece of me got left behind on those stone floors, in that blood-soaked bed, in Brooke’s eyes when she looked at me like I was a nothing.
I’m angry. I’m so goddamn angry I can feel it in my teeth. In my jaw. In the white-knuckle grip I have on this railing. I’m angry at Luna. I’m angry at the goddesses who burned a letter into my skin without a trial. I’m angry at Matilda for spitting on me. I’m angry at Nessa for wanting me dead. I’m angry at Brooke for not believing me.
I’m angry at myself for getting drunk.
“You’re not thinking of jumping, are you?”
Morgana’s voice comes from right behind me, soft and careful, like she’s approaching a wounded animal. I feel her hand land on my back, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt, her fingers pressing gently between my shoulder blades.
I look down. The ground is a long way away. Fields and forests and rivers all blurring together into a smear of green and brown. The wind tugs at my shirt, at my hair, whispering in my ear like it’s trying to convince me.
For a second, I let myself imagine it. The fall. The rush. The silence at the end.
But no. I’m too angry to die.
“Hey, let’s get you away from the railing,” Morgana says, her voice suddenly tight as she grabs my arm and pulls me back from the railing. Her fingers dig into my bicep.
“I wasn’t going to jump.”
Morgana laughs, but it sounds nervous, forced. “I know, I know. Just... let’s be safe.” Her eyes dart to my chest, to where my thin shirt is open, revealing the black A below my collarbone. Her expression shifts, something like panic flashing across her face.
“Let’s just cover that up,” she says quickly, her fingers moving to the buttons of my shirt. She works fast, her purple eyes focused intently on the task, buttoning me up from the bottom to the top until the mark is completely hidden.
“Isn’t it illegal to hide it?” I ask, watching her face carefully. “You said that, didn’t you? That hiding the mark is against the law.”
Morgana’s hands pause at the top button, her eyes meeting mine. There’s a strange tension in her shoulders, a tightness around her mouth that wasn’t there before.
“Yes, but...” She glances around, making sure no one on the deck is watching us. “Well, the Queen told me she wasn’t going to publicize the event...” She lowers her voice, leaning closer. “Which isn’t to say people won’t find out, but it gives us a while to... figure things out.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Morgana, I hate this world.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, her purple eyes steady.
“I’m not going to be a hero,” I say, and the words feel like pulling teeth. “I can’t. Fuck this whole place. So just... drop me off wherever. Some town. Some village. I’ll figure it out. I’ll be a farmer or something. I’ll be a bartender. I don’t care. I just don’t want to fuck up your life too.”
Morgana’s hand finds mine on the railing. Her fingers are warm and sure, wrapping around my knuckles with a grip that feels like an anchor.
“Not being a hero is fine, Christopher,” she says, and her voice is so calm, so matter-of-fact, that it catches me off guard. “That’s your choice, and I’ll respect it. But I’m not dropping you off anywhere.”
“Morgana…“
“I’m staying with you. I need to keep you safe. That’s not up for debate.”
I turn to face her. The wind whips her black hair across her face, and she tucks it behind her ear with her free hand, never letting go of mine.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
Morgana laughs hard. Like I’ve said something genuinely funny, and her purple eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Christopher,” she says, and she’s still smiling. “I summoned you here. Against your will. I ripped you out of your world and dropped you in this one without so much as a ‘hey, by the way.’” She squeezes my hand. “And also? You’re my friend, okay? So even if I didn’t owe you anything, which I absolutely do, I’d still be helping you. That’s what friends do.”
I blink. Hard. Because my eyes are stinging again, and I’m so goddamn tired of crying.
“Thank you,” I manage, the words coming out thick and heavy.
Morgana smiles wide. “So if you’re not going to be the hero, what are you going to devote yourself to? Revenge?”
I shake my head. “No,” I say, and then lower my voice to a whisper. “I’m mad, and... fuck the church and the goddesses. But what’s the point? If this world falls apart, it won’t be my fault. And I’m not helping it either.” I run my fingers along the rough wood of the railing. “I just want to go live somewhere in peace and quiet.”
Morgana nods, her expression softening. “That sounds beautiful,” she says, but there’s something in her eyes, a knowing look that makes me pause.
“What is it?” I ask, studying her face.
“My teacher... she was in the party of three separate heroes over the course of fifteen hundred years.” Morgana’s voice takes on a distant quality. “And she told me one thing... trouble always finds the hero. It’s a constant thing. Anything from a missing cat to something world-ending.”
I snort, shaking my head. “I don’t care. This world can figure out its own problems.”
Morgana nods again, a small smile playing at her lips. “Fair enough,” she says. “Peace and quiet it is.”