31
Lianna
Maxon and I stand on the same stretch of Australian beach where I first summoned the Water Palace to confront Fisk, one month and a million years ago. An impossibly blue sky arches over us. Palm trees sway in a gentle breeze that Maxon summoned. I’m still getting used to the idea that wind means good stuff—like Maxon approaching—versus imminent death.
A good problem to have, I think.
Behind us, a hundred Air Valta line the beach. Their gray bodies shimmer in the morning sunshine. When Maxon’s looking at them, they wear faces that are placid and supportive. But when he turns away? They scowl for all they’re worth, mostly at me.
Maxon leans in to whisper in my ear. “Don’t think I don’t notice.”
“Notice what?” I ask with mock innocence. “That the Air Valta loathe the idea of c
