Page 78 of Lore of the Tides

Lore wished she could take the hurt from him, but she knew Finndryl, and she knew that his discomfort must also be sweet. Because even now, she could feel his magic blooming inside him. This magic would be different, unlike how Lore had been bombarded with magic from the outside—it was a part of him that had been cloaked, shadowed, locked away so he couldn’t reach it. Something that should have been a most beautiful part of him had been taken from him, and now it had returned.

And it was as much a part of him as his soul. Only it had been missing from him his whole life. Dampened, rotting away.

What that must have felt like, Lore did not know. All she knewwas what a gift magic felt like when shared with her fromDeeping Lune.

The pain of it being taken from her.

The joy of wielding it.

She imagined he must feel at peace. Whole, maybe.

Shehopedthat was what he was feeling.

“You broke the curse,” Syrelle choked out from beside Lore. Lore glanced at him. He massaged his hand, the one that had held Lore’s. It was red, raw. Syrelle’s expression was one of awe.

Suddenly, Finndryl doubled over, clutching his chest, then swayed and collapsed onto the ground, despite the volcano’s molten heat. His body was racked with tremors as he struggled to contain the immense power coursing through him. Gritting his teeth, he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hands to his face, a low groan escaping his lips. Every few seconds, his shoulders jerked as if lingering ripples of pain shot through his body.

Lore knelt beside him and reached for his arms, fear coating her words. “Finndryl, stand up, you’re going to be burned.”

She gripped his arms, planning to pull him up to where it was a tad cooler, but promptly dropped them with a shout.

He was burning up; he felt as hot as the molten earth beneath them.

It was a wonder his clothes hadn’t melted to his skin.

With wild eyes, Lore implored Syrelle. “Syrelle, he’s scorching hot.”

Without hesitation, Syrelle knelt beside Finndryl and gingerly reached out toward him. Finndryl’s eyes were still closed, his jaw clenched tight against the pain, against whatever was happening inside him. At Syrelle’s touch, his eyes flickered open for a moment.

They were glazed, shimmering with fever, before they rolled into the back of his head.

“Oh gods, what if his body doesn’t recognize the magic andrejects it or something? What if I’ve endangered him?” Lore shouted, terror coursing through her.

Syrelle’s voice was even and gentle. “Lore, he will be fine. He just needs time to control his power. Most of us with significant power don’t have it unleashed on us all at once. It awakens in us gradually. And when we are old enough, we study under alchemists who teach us how to control it and, when we are ready, to wield it.”

Finndryl groaned in pain and reached out instinctively until he gripped Lore’s arm. His hands felt like a searing, fiery poker straight from the fire, but Lore’s own magic flowed to where his hands gripped her, acting as a shield, protecting her skin from blistering and soothing most of the sensation.

Most, but not all. His griphurt. But what was a little pain, when he was clearly in agony?

“I’ve got you, Finndryl, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” Lore murmured, smoothing his locs back from his face. His full mouth was pinched tight with pain, his expression twisted into a grimace. He gave another groan before losing consciousness.

Lore pulled him to her. Ignoring her pain, she wrapped her arms around him, pressing his face to her chest. She raised her eyes to the heavens. “Oh gods, I should’ve never done this to him! I fucked up.”

She murmured, as she stroked his cheek, her eyes stinging at the unbearable temperature, “Wake up, love, please.”

Lore caught Syrelle’s gaze, begging him with her eyes to help, to do something, to fix this.

Syrelle nodded, determined. “This will pass, and I promise, when he wakes up and has the chance to wield thisgiftyou have given him, he will thank you.” Syrelle cloaked himself in darkness, infusing his own, innate power as protection, and with a heave, extracted him from Lore’s arms, lifting Finndryl onto his back. “Let’s get him back to the palace, quickly.”

Chapter 27

Lore was sitting in a chair next to a sleeping Finndryl in a massive room just off the queen’s quarters.

It was obviously reserved for royalty and had, until a few bells ago, been used as temporary lodging for a noble family that had had to flee their home when the shields began to fail.

By the time the team had returned to the castle—Syrelle carrying Finndryl—the palace had been emptied out; all refugees had packed up and returned to their homes. The palace servants had been buzzing around putting the palace and extensive grounds to rights, and the queen had made sure that each of them had a room prepared upon their return. Lore was relieved, because Finndryl still hadn’t woken yet, and she was delirious with exhaustion.

Though when they returned, Finndryl was still so hot that they’d had to push the rugs aside and lay him on the sandy floor at first because he would’ve melted the netting of the seagrass-filled mattress.

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