“Lucien, no.” I stagger back. “That’s not how—that’s not what I want.”

“I’m not going to let my sister use you anymore,” the prince barks. “I won’t let anyone use you. Not her, not the Bone Tree. You’re not a tool, you don’t have to live like one—”

“Stop.”

My voice goes hard, and Lucien’s fades. The quiet is overwhelming, my words spilling out in neat, too-perfect rows. Rows that have had time to organize themselves. Nothing but time.

“These things you’re saying.” I look him dead in the eyes. “I know them now. All of them. But it wasn’t easy. I had to meet you to really get it. And you—” I look to Fione, Malachite. “And you. The road I had to walk to get here, to who I am now—it was long. But it’s not over. Not in the godsdamn slightest.”

Lucien straightens, his gaze sparking. I reach out and rest my palm against the bag, against his hand, against my heart, feeling the organ contract softly. All my memories of my human life. All my burning desires to be whole again.

I push the bag away.

“No matter what, from now on, every choice I make is mine. I choose to fight Varia. I choose to continue. I choose whether or not I’m Heartless.”

I put my hand on my unheart and look up at him. At all of them.

“I choose.”

15

15

THE OCEAN

My words make Fione smile and Malachite shake his head and exhale wearily. They make Lucien watch me intently until, finally, he nods.

“I understand.”

Just those two words. Simple, but far from easy, and said with steel pride. In me, in my convictions. He believes in me, and I hear it in every inch of his voice.

Malachite’s the first to start walking, and we trail behind him. We leave the valkerax corpse behind and come across more. Dozens of them. I glance up every so often, the floating landmass waning away behind and above our heads, and then one more glance, and it’s gone. No sign of the smoke, or the blackened edges, or the roots hanging from the bottom. All of it. Gone. I close my eyes and mutter one last prayer to Y’shennria.

“They’ve reinstated the cloaking magic,” Lucien says, glancing behind him.

“So fast,” Fione marvels.

“It’s impressive,” he agrees. “Considering how big the island is. But having met them, I know it’s more or less child’s play to the High Witches. All seven of them, incredibly strong and working together. There isn’t much they can’t do.”

“Except get out of those glass prisons, apparently,” Malachite grumbles.