Written in Starlight (Woven in Moonlight #2) - Isabel Ibanez

Dedication

THIS ONE IS FOR YOU, PAPA.

I never tire of hearing your stories of growing up in the jungle.

CAPÍTULO

Uno

Legend says if the jungle wants you, it will have you.

The tree line looms ahead, smothering and terrifying in the dying light. Long tentacles of fog snake around thick trunks, as if readying to choke the life from anyone foolish enough to enter. The sharp trill of birds and buzzing locusts are the only sounds coming from the jungle fringes, but even I know there are monsters lurking beneath the vivid green canopy.

Anacondas. Jaguars. Black caimánes with teeth the length of my palms. And that’s only the bigger creatures. I’ve read books about toads capable of bringing a grown man to the brink of insanity. Piranhas that ravage flesh straight to the bone in seconds. Then there are the rumors of terrible dark magic—magic that comes from the earth, hungry and wanting to devour. Only the Illari know how to survive it, becoming monsters themselves in order to reign over the forest.

I’ve been sentenced to die here.

My final resting place, cut off from the life I’ve always known back in La Ciudad Blanca. There’s nothing I could have done to prepare for my journey. No books to read. No conversations to be had. No amount of training to defend myself. A sharp screech echoes beyond the trees. My stomach swoops as if I’ve launched myself off the Illustrian tower, screaming the whole way down.

Don’t be a coward, Catalina. You’re the condesa, born to rule Inkasisa. You will survive this.

Or you’ll die with dignity, damn it.

I force out a long exhale and shove all thoughts of the jungle’s creatures far from my mind. But the pressure in my chest curls, tight like a clenched fist. What do you know about being brave? The voice is close and intimate, utterly resistant to silencing. It’s been one week since my fate was decided, and I’m still coming to terms with my exile and how badly I messed up my life and my people’s future.

I study the six guards crowding me. They are my enemies, armed with swords and pikes and knives, traveling close at my elbows and high up on their horses, while I clutch the reins of my poor sweaty mule. Not one of them has offered me anything to drink or eat in hours. As for taking a minute to rest, forget it. We’ve been riding nonstop since dawn. At least my ride is cute. The sweetest animal I’ve ever seen, with big brown eyes and soft tufts of hair. I lean forward and curl my fingers in her thick mane, wishing I could take her far away from this place.

Maybe the guards will leave her behind with me. At least I’d have a friend.

“Adelante,” one of the guards says. I dig my heels and attempt to move us forward. Diosa, I hate being told what to do. The creature whines but obeys the sharp whistle that comes from the captor on my right. I shoot the Llacsan a disgruntled look while attempting to hold on as the mule propels us forward.

My heart thuds painfully in my chest as we approach the tree line. The tall grass slowly transitions to the dappled jungle floor under the mule’s hooves. Thick fog descends, casting the ropy vines as villainous snakes. Panic curls deep in my belly, like the mist clutching the tree trunks. My dark hair sticks to the back of my neck, a knotty mess. I want to take the time to properly braid it, to coil it high on the crown of my head, but no one spares a minute for grooming or bathing. All I need is twenty minutes to look presentable.

Maybe then I’d feel more like myself.

I shift my attention from the chokes of leafy bushes and the serpentine vines clogging the path to stare at Rumi—the boy responsible for the mess I’m in, and a last-minute addition to my entourage. He’s dressed in typical Llacsan gear: darker-hued pants and a long-sleeved tunic with a striped vest bursting in vibrant colors and a broad hat hiding an abundance of brown hair. Tied around his waist are a wooden slingshot with leather straps and a long sword.

Dirt and sweat stain my once startling white tunic and trousers. No one thought to pack me a change of clothes. My palms are filthy, and there’s grime caked under my nails. Dirty half-moons. I shove at my tangled mess of hair, again, sighing heavily. Rumi feels my