Page 169 of Dare

Jeryn frowned, then his features smoothed out in understanding. “Sand art.”

I nodded. “What you felt just now … from seeing this … that’s the key.”

His mention of time had made me think of the calendar I had drawn in our suite, and that had made me think of my sand art, and that had made me think of the piece I’d been planning to sketch for our anniversary. I had meant for it to be a present, but now it became more, because the sand art had also made me think of emotions, memories, and stories.

Tales. Verse. Lyrics.

The places where experiences and lives were chronicled and interpreted. Like the ancient Summer song with its secret map—buried treasure waiting to be discovered. Like the epic story that described the Seasons’ history, which Poet and Briar had translated to one another during a public reading for Reaper’s Fest, a recollection that Jeryn had shared with me. And like every tale that existed in The Dark Seasons, from the ones passed down to the ones newly created.

I thought of each way Jeryn and I had broken through barriers of communication. Words. Sentences.

Then I thought of Aire’s words in the ruins, when he’d sensed past events within its walls.

There was a quarrel in this room between family members.

Another time, a forbidden tryst between lovers.

I thought of Jeryn’s reaction when I first confided in him, when he asked what I believed my mission would be, and when he questioned why I relied on the rainforest more than myself to dictate my purpose.

Lastly, I thought of what he said about my art after we made love beside the waterfalls.

Whatever you made them feel, they would not forget it.

They wouldn’t forget it because people didn’t forget the things that changed them. In all its glorious and diverse forms, art stirred the soul and reinvented kingdoms. My sand drawings were the key. The rainforest had summoned me not to find the answer among its ruins. It brought me here to find the key within myself.

I’d been relying on this realm to designate my worth and steer my destiny, instead of looking inside. But Jeryn had been right. My fate wasn’t about what this world had planned for me. No, it was about how I could contribute to this world on my own.

If I took the stories from this place—from my time with a prince, a year in which we’d learned differently about each other, in which we felt something wholly new toward one another—I could bring them back to Summer through my art. Just as truth lived in books and paintings and music and poetry, I could depict our tale, and the tales of those who’d once dwelled here, who lay in the catacombs but whose essences still filled the ruins’ halls. I could draw the scenes that Aire had sensed. I could show how an ancient society—which had included born souls—had thrived. And I could do that without revealing the ruins’ existence. Even more, I could share how enemies might overcome their hatred long enough to find love.

The legend of this place had existed within a song. Whoever left this rainforest ages ago had hinted its existence through lyrics.

Seek not, find not, this Phantom Wild.

I would bring more of this realm back through images in the sand, across all shores in Summer, for everyone who came to view them. If I did this, maybe the art could inspire my homeland. Maybe people would think differently about born souls.

I had a voice. This was my key.

I told this to Jeryn. Though from his expression, he’d known where I was going with this.

We stared at each other. Hope and amazement clashed with sorrow and longing as our gazes clung. If I’d found my key, that meant it would soon be time to leave. But it wouldn’t be forever. We had made that vow to each other.

So although my heart throbbed painfully, I crawled across the sand. Growling, he tugged me onto his lap, and our mouths locked, the kiss steady like the ocean.

The deep flex of his tongue poured heat down my skin. Pulling back, a wistful grin slanted across my face, and Jeryn’s eyes darkened with a promise. After making love all morning, he’d said we still had time. And we did. We had today, tonight, and tomorrow. And maybe a little longer, enough to squeeze out a few more droplets of happiness.

We stayed like this, clasping until Jeryn combed back my hair. “Let’s build a fire at home. I’ll strip you down in front of it and make you come again.”

Home. He’d said home.

I nodded, my throat swelling. Every time we left the ruins, we carried our weapons—his knife and my machete, which I’d taken to using more than Poet’s dagger. Not only did the blade remind me of my parents, but it was easier to hack through vegetation. After venturing back to the ruins and retrieving two oversized slings that I’d woven, we returned to the cove and set about collecting kindling, since we were running low and the trees here shed their trunks more than anywhere else. Plus, the timbers were drier.

We packed our wood into the slings and set them on the ground, then took a walk by the water, my fingers entwining with Jeryn’s. At one point, his arms snaked possessively around me from behind, and he buried his face in the side of my neck, making me chuckle. Like this, it was difficult for us to walk, our limbs stumbling through the tide.

“You’re a villain,” I teased.

“Correction,” he replied into my throat. “I’m your villain.”

I opened my mouth to answer when two things happened. The sky rumbled, signaling thunder rain. It wasn’t unusual, yet for some reason, foreboding crawled like a spider down my flesh. Next, a red flash darted from the forest’s border.