~Isla~
The wind changed as we left the cottage. It had the taste of iron and brine, like it already knew where we were going. The haunted shore lay past the dead hills, beyond the crooked fence and the drowned orchard, and I swear, even the trees leaned away from that direction. But we had no choice.
The salt drawn from that place was the last piece. Without it, the ritual to kill the Marrow-born would remain unfinished, and Raul and I would be nothing more than two more names carved into Mrs. Hawthorne’s cold grave.
We packed light — only what we could carry. Raul strapped a small spade and an old iron-bladed knife to his side, and I tucked Mrs. Hawthorne’s journal into the folds of my coat. Her scrawled notes on the ritual crackled like brittle leaves when I moved.
“I still don’t lik
