Duty, fate, desire, and destiny collide in this intricately wrought tale, perfect for fans of Sarah J. Maas. Although she was born to save the kingdom by sacrificing herself to the rising sea, Khosa's marriage to King Vincent has redeemed her. As the Queen of Stille, she's untouchable. But being Queen hasn't stopped her heart from longing for the King's stepbrother, Donil. And it hasn't stopped her body from longing for the sea itself, which still calls for her.   While Khosa is made to choose between loyalty and love, Dara is on a mission for vengeance. Years ago, the Pietra slaughtered the entire Indiri race, leaving only Dara and her twin, Donil, alive. Now, spurned by King Vincent, Dara has embarked on a mission to spill the blood of Pietra's leader, Witt, and will stop at nothing to show his people the wrath of the last Indiri.  As the waves crash ever closer to Stille, secrets are revealed, hearts are won and lost, and allegiances change like the shifting sand. ★ "The ending of this lyrically written sequel is even more shocking, well-executed, and, refreshingly, not entirely happy . . . . The distinct perspectives shine, and the harsh-yet-hopeful conclusion ensures this duology doesn’t succumb to the tired trope of happily-ever-after, making this a worthwhile read." — Kirkus Reviews "Give this to fans of Sarah Maas’s  Throne of Glass  series." — VOYA "McGinnis crafts an exceptional story from multiple points of view, providing fully fleshed out characters fans can’t help but cheer for—even the antagonists. . . . A satisfying duology conclusion for romance and fantasy fans." — School Library Journal "With six narrators and multiple kingdoms, races, histories, and cultures, this sequel to Given to the Sea . . . provides a satisfying conclusion to the saga . . . . McGinnis as established a fascinating, frequently gory, and fully realized backstory for each narrator." — Booklist Mindy McGinnis is an assistant YA librarian who lives in Ohio and cans her own food. She graduated from Otterbein University magna cum laude with a BA in English Literature and Religion. C H A P T E R    1 Da r a   It is in my blood. It is in my bone. It is in my being. Before my mother became earth, she told us our names, her final thought becoming our first as my twin brother and I crawled from the pit that held our slaughtered people, our infant feet now the last on this land to carry the Indiri marks. “Dara.” I say my name now, our word for “vengeance.” To the side, a tree shrinks from me. It knows my tongue, as do all things of the land. And like all things of late, it wishes me gone. “Donil.” I say my brother’s name, the word for “family love.” Our mother knew us well, though she would never see our faces. No matter their meaning, my words are heard only by wild things and my horse, an animal that none in the Stillean stables could lay a hand on without losing a finger. “Famoor.” One ear turns back to acknowledge that I have spoken, but otherwise the stallion ignores me, as is fitting for a proud animal named after the Indiri word for “unbroken.” That I sit upon his back is a temporary arrangement, and I would that he remember it. When I fall, I do not wish for him to return to Stille, to stables and harnesses, the civilized world shaving away his wildness until he thinks not of foraging but of the hand that will bring the next meal to his wooden box, where he is protected from the rain and the earth, sealed off from all that calls to him. It was my own mistake, years ago, and I will not have it played out by any other, be they two-legged or four. I left that behind me when I passed from the castle’s shadow, my former home. Stille will not welcome me again, not after I led the king’s beloved to her near death, a foolish choice, twice over. For both Vincent and my brother care for the Given, and she had called them to her as easily as the sea drew Khosa herself. I would see her crowned with seagrass, but now she sits enthroned beside Vincent, the boy whose heart I cannot have. The forest moves around me, the dying rays of the sun touching briefly on my speckled skin. I cannot look at my own flesh without marveling that I carry it, a dressing on my bones that only one other wears. As falling rain sinks through the earth to feed salium and igthorn alike, my spots have burrowed within, giving life to what is both beautiful and poisonous at my core. I am one of the last Indiri, the violent half of the whole, the pride- ful carrier of deep wrath, which wants only to bury itself in the Lithos of the Pietra, even if it be my last act. The love I carry for my departed people is a song made with war drums, the name my mother gave me inked deeply on my being. I close my eyes against the bright flash of fiverberries, the sun warm on my eyelids as Famoor goes on without my guidance. The Given would laugh to see me here, at this place I recalled for her from my third-great-grandmother’s memories. The ancie