Nym’ellia and Ghor’li are gripping the ship’s railing, along with Nym’ellia’s blanket-wrapped mother, Emberlyyn, and her little sister, Tibryl, their eyes stark with fear as they watch the incoming Shadow tide.

Cold panic ices Mora’s spine. “Where’s Olilly?”

Thumping footsteps sound, and relief flashes through Mora as Olilly and the teen from across the street, Kir Lyyo, race around the ship’s stern, hand in hand. A wreath of glowing purple flowers adorns Olilly’s lilac tresses, a few petals scattered in Kir Lyyo’s short black hair.

“Nym’ellia,” Mora says with measured calm as she meets the black-haired teen’s stunned gaze, noticing that the metal points Bleddyn gave to Olilly are now on Nym’ellia’s ears instead. “We’re evacuating to the sublands. Go untie the ship from our moorings.” Nym’ellia nods and runs off as Mora looks to the teen’s mother. “Emberlyyn, please bring Ghor’li and Tibryl inside and keep them there.”

Emberllyn nods and gently ushers the two whimpering children away.

“Olilly,” Fyon says to the obviously fear-struck teen, Ollily’s amethyst eyes wide as Xishlon moons, “I need you to bring all the copper and aluminum kitchenware to the ship’s stern. And I’ll need two of Mora’s large ceramic pots and a mixing spoon.”

“We’ll get them to you,” Mora affirms as Fyon briefly meets her gaze then makes for the ship’s stern, crossbow in hand.

A chorus of terrible shrieks rend the air. Everyone’s heads snap toward the mountains as Mora takes in the broken dragon horde that’s launched itself from the faraway crevasse, her throat momentarily clogging with fear. She shakes it off, setting her gaze back on Olilly. “You need to be strong, Olilly. Can you do that for me?”

Olilly jerkily nods her assent.

“Then go,” Mora urges.

Olilly and Kir Lyyo exchange an urgent look before Olilly bolts toward the kitchens.

“My father...” Kir Lyyo manages in a ragged voice as a battle breaks out over the Wyvernguard, explosions flashing.

“Go get him and as many other people as you can on my ship,” Mora orders. “Right. Now.”

Kir Lyyo shakes his head. “My father won’t get on a Smaragdalfar ship...and he’s against the sublands...”

“Then he’s going to die.” Mora bites out as a deeper gray washes over the world, the moon darkening to the color of slate.

Kir Lyyo’s expression hardens to flint. “I’ll get him,” he says. “Even if I have to drag him on board.”

“Do it,” Mora urges, and Kir Lyyo breaks into a sprint toward his family’s restaurant while Mora makes for the ladder leading to her ship’s glass-walled control room. She scrambles up it, glancing through the glass toward Nym’ellia, who is swiftly untying their rope moorings.