Page 90 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“As patrons of the isle?”

He nodded. “When we get closer you’ll be able to see the one with the helm is Arenothos, the one with the bow Aevollon. There’s plenty of art and statues of them through the entire isle. In the main city, but also random sanctuaries and bon fires throughout the jungle.”

Alvan was known to pay homage to the Fate of Wrath and Redemption and the Fate of Artistry and Trickery, their namesakes forming the foundation for many of the practices that thrived along its shores, such as weapon making, metal working, sculpting, painting, and all studies relating to the two, as well as military structures.

“It’s beautiful,” Myrella commented, a note of melancholy in her voice. Whether it be longing for her own home or to do with Nico, Emmeline wasn’t sure. Though she had promised Roremar she’d try to read about that issue later.

Myrella was correct, though. From the sea, the rolling land along the isle of Alvan overflowed with rich, verdant jungle surrounding the homes and shops built into the hills, like on Lyra, but here groves of what looked like blood oranges lined a stretch to the west, and bright red, white, and yellow flowers speckled the treetops and brush.

To the east, set far back from the ocean, a parade of waterfalls bubbled and the trees surrounding them were coated in bright-pink flora.

“It is beautiful,” Desmond echoed dully.

Emmeline looked him over; there was an unusual sullenness to his tone. “How do you know so much about it?”

Desmond’s brow furrowed. “Because I’m originally from here.” He flexed his hand, scarred and inked knuckles spelling out ALVAN.

Emmeline’s heart stuttered, her throat constricting. Having only noticed the tattoo that first day in the Accords, she’d forgotten about it. “You’re from here.”

Desmond—her primary suspect—was originally from the same place as the victims. Fate didn’t deal out coincidences like that.

“Roremar didn’t mention it?” Desmond asked.

“Didn’t mention what?” the Reckless’s voice asked behind them, and they all whirled. He watched Emmeline and Desmond with an expression bordering on suspicion, but her mind was buzzing too quickly to process.

In their stunted silence, Myrella answered, “That Desmond is from Alvan.”

If possible, Roremar’s eyed narrowed further, his lips pursing as his gaze flicked between Emmeline and his best friend. “I didn’t think it mattered,” he finally commented, leveling Desmond with a lingering stare.

The tattoo artist only snorted a laugh and shrugged. “Doesn’t really. I left this place behind a while ago.”

Roremar shook his head. “We have to row to shore from here.”

“Why?” Emmeline asked, ignoring his stiff demeanor.

“The captain is docking at the western port, but we want to enter through the central gates in Forge’s Cove.” They wanted to end up on one of the beaches that framed the main city—falling into the crowds as covertly and seamlessly as possible. “It’ll save time. They have a couple row boats we can use.”

Roremar nodded to the side. Peering around him, Emmeline saw Nico in the distance, talking with one of the crew members as they prepared for them to disembark. Desmond went off to help, and huffing, Myrella followed.

Emmeline took a step after them, her shoulder brushing Roremar’s bicep, but he stopped her with a hand on her wrist. His grip was light enough that she could pull away, but she didn’t.

“Yes?” she asked.

His steel gaze returned to its usual intensity. “Everything okay, Huntress?”

The name had something below her stomach curling, reigniting the heat she’d felt on the balcony last night. She swallowed down that traitorous sensation she wouldn’t name. “What do you mean?”

“With Des,” Roremar said. “You seemed…”

He paused, and Emmeline lifted her brows. He was so Fatesdamned observant, her guard lifted.

“How did I seem, Roremar?”

At his name, he groaned, but he released her wrist. “Nothing, Emmeline. Go on.”

Her chest rioted as he let her go, and Emmeline wasn’t sure what to make of the interaction. She crossed the deck to where the others were now waiting, watching them curiously.

“Desmond and I will take that one,” Myrella chirped a bit too sunnily when Emmeline stopped at her side. She pointed at the smaller of the two boats—though neither truly looked large enough for three warriors.