Get up, I tell myself.Get up.
Legs shaking, I rise to my feet.
My knees nearly buckle as the bridge swings again. Salt burns my nostrils and throat; water sprays through the gaps in the planks, waves somehow reaching this high.
I slip and barely catch myself, palms raw from the rope.
I’m not supposed to, but I whirl around to face my mother. She’s already walking back toward the Mainland, her golden hair whipping wildly behind her. Her ornate dress drags across the light green grass.
Just when I think it’s easy for her to leave me, that I’ve already been forgotten, her fingers curl into a fist, as if she knew I would turn around. As if she knew I would watch her for a sign.
Just like that, the wild bridge doesn’t seem so dangerous anymore. My heart steadies me. I turn, facing Sun Isle once more.
The first time I tried to summon a flame, my mother curled my fingers into a fist and shook her head. She said, “Your fire isn’t found in the palm of your hand.” She poked at my heart. “It’s found here.”
Find your fire.
I can do this. I can make Mother proud. I can convince my father to look at me with something other than disappointment. I can survive this. I grip my mother’s rose in my palm. Make a fist around it.
I take another step. Then another.
And, just as with all hard things, this one is conquered in continuous, small steps.
When I reach the other side of the bridge I fall forward, hurling myself onto steady ground before a gust of wind can sweep me off the side of the cliff.
I did it. I made it across. I smile into the grass.
I hear a heavy sigh above me and look up to see a tall redhead casually leaning against one of the bridge’s pillars, as if the four-hundred-foot drop behind us doesn’t scare her in the slightest.
Of course not. I’ve never seen her remotely afraid of anything.
Her brow is raised. “Really? You had to turn back?”
“Shut up, Enya.”
Her laughter sounds like a song. “That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me, Oro!” Then she offers her hand and helps haul me to my feet.
Before she can be accused of being too soft-hearted, she musses my hair in the way she knows I hate. Enya had a growth spurt a few months ago. Now we’re the same height, and she can’t go a few hours without reminding me of it. “Good. I’m glad Sunling is corrupting you from the very first day. You could use a little corruption, don’t you think? You’re too kind. Too honest.”
Of course I am. And she’s the only one who knows why. It’s my flair, rare for a second child.
I know when people are lying.
Lies taste bitter and rough, like sand on my tongue.
Truths are sweet like honey.
Lies hurt. It’s hard not to be honest when I can feel, constantly, the poison of all the lies around me. I decided years ago to try and always be honest.
If my father knew, he might value me. I almost told him once. But that same day, I watched him burn a man right where he stood, down to a pile of ash.
In that moment, I decided I wouldn’t ever tell him. I was too afraid of what he might use it for.
And I also understood why my mother asked me all those years ago to keep the strength of my abilities a secret.
The gilded man flashes through my memories again. I wince. Enya squeezes my shoulder, as if she can feel my guilt.
Enya is my best friend—and the daughter of a high-ranking noble, who happens to also be my mother’s closest friend from childhood. She would never tell a soul my secrets. We have a private code. When someone is lying, I raise my chin slightly. I bow it in an almost imperceptible nod when someone is telling the truth.
