His father’s decisions might still carry the weight of a crown, but Eric would not let them be his kingdom’s undoing.
CHAPTER TWO
The coral had once shimmered like a kingdom of light, a kaleidoscope of pinks, oranges, and reds crowned by fan-like towers and spiraling stone. Now the reef was a skeleton. The ruin groaned beneath the gentle current, pockmarked with broken spires and discolored with the leeching gray of pollution. Fishing nets—torn and tangled—hung like limp banners from its once-proud arches, and beer bottles nestled between coral teeth like the offerings of drunken gods.
Ursula reclined on a bed of sea sponge and trailing kelp, her fin coiled beneath her. The spongy surface shifted with the current, cradling her weight as if the sea itself pampered her. Her back rested against the cold, slick curve of a barnacled column, a relic of someforgotten coral citadel. Salt clung to her skin—sharp, grounding—but her expression was distant, bored, as she watched her companions twist lazily through the water.
Flotsam and Jetsam danced through the ribcage of the ruin, long eel bodies lithe and quick. They had slithered over her body while the moonlight did its own dance on the surface of the water. Last night, their movements had been anything but quick and fleeting. They'd brought her to peak after peak as they raided her booty. The eels were pirates in spirit and sin.
“The boys said they caught sight of a liner veering toward the restricted route,” Jetsam drawled, his voice a silken rasp. He coiled up near her elbow, teeth flashing as he eyed her bared breast. “One that's too fat to turn in time.”
Every once in a while, sailors gambled and sent a ship through the restricted passages. Those waterways were swifter, the currents faster and more direct—a tempting shortcut for those eager to cut days off a voyage and deliver goods ahead of schedule. But speed came at a cost. The faster lanes wound through waters where sea monsters were known to prowl—territories thick with kelp-choked trenches, sleeping leviathans, and ancient things that didn’t take kindly to oars.
It was part of the brilliance of Ursula’s contribution to the treaty. She had advised that humans take theslower, safer routes—charting a course with naval escorts and sea folk protection—while leaving the treacherous lanes under Sea Kingdom jurisdiction. The Coastal Crown thought they’d been granted safe trade while her people kept leverage. Because the moment a merchant grew too greedy, too rushed, too arrogant—they’d veer off course, and the Sea Kingdom would still have teeth in the game. Except the Sea Kingdom had pulled out the teeth of the one who had set the trap.
“Carrying gold or grain?” Flotsam asked, appearing behind Ursula like a shadow come to life, brushing his teeth against her neck.
Jetsam shrugged as though it didn't matter when the reality was that it did. The ship was likely carrying gold if it was leaving the port. Some vegetation was hard to grow on the coastal lands, and so the kingdom would trade with inlanders from the North and South for things like grain and certain textiles like cottons.
Ursula shuddered at the thought of that scratchy fabric on her skin. She’d tried on something called a sundress once when on land, spun from woven cotton that chafed like nettles. She’d promptly torn the itchy garment off and stood as the tides intended—naked save for her seashell bra.
It had been a new pair of shells that one of her courtiers had brought back from the eastern seas. The polished clam shells had shimmered with hues of violetand moonlit pearl, bound with braided strands of kelp and coral silk that knotted neatly at the back of her neck. The shells weren’t identical—nothing in the sea ever truly was—but they'd cupped her like they had been grown for her alone, smooth and strong and meant to be worn by a queen. She hadn't been wearing it the day her father had kicked her out of the kingdom and had left it behind. She wasn't wearing any bra now.
Flotsam or Jetsam reached for her bare skin. Ursula didn’t squirm at their renewed attentions, but she didn't lean into it either. She'd already had her fill, and she was done.
She was so done.
Done with this decrepit reef. Done with this ragged life. Done lurking in the drowned remains of nobility, waiting for greedy men to stray from safe passage so she could bleed them of their cargo.
It paid her well. It kept her comfortable. But comfort was not luxury. Every haul, every scam, every drop of effort pulled her further from the throne she’d once deserved. Further from who she was meant to be.
“We’ll punch through the hull mid-keel,” Jetsam was saying.
"And while they’re panicking, we take the loot,” Flotsam finished.
“Brilliant,” Ursula muttered flatly. “You'll do this in broad daylight, in open waters, with two dozen archersstationed on the top deck, harpoons at the ready. Remind me again, which one of you gets shot first?”
The eels exchanged a glance. Jetsam looked slightly less smug. Flotsam frowned, as though trying to do the math that would come up with the correct answer.
Sleek and bendy the eels were. Smart they were not.
“You want the bounty?” she continued, voice cool and low. “There’s a smuggler’s fog rolling in from the north reef by sunset. That’s when you strike—silent, submerged. No fire. No show. Take the gold and let the ship continue on its way. They won’t even know where the breach happened until they reach their trade destination.”
“You make it sound so easy.” Flotsam's tongue coiled around one of her nipples. The bud should've piqued. It remained flaccid.
“That’s because I’m smarter than both of you combined.” She brushed past him and reached for her seashell bra. This one was just a pale pink. It should not have gone with her flame red hair, but everything looked good on her. Even seaweed.
Ursula refastened the clasp of her seashell bra, fingers swift and practiced. The straps had rubbed raw at her shoulders after a day of slouching in salt and boredom. She adjusted the fit, smoothed her hair with a flick of her webbed fingers, and kept her back turned.
“That's a fair point about the fog,” Flotsam murmured.
“What if we slip in from the undercurrent?” Jetsam said, already reworking her strategy like it had spawned fully formed from his own slippery mind. “Crack the haul from beneath while they’re blind.”
“Might even blame it on reef-rock,” Flotsam said, a smirk in his tone. “Could make it look like an accident.”
Ursula rolled her eyes so hard they nearly scraped the inside of her skull. Of course. That was how it always went. She’d feed them brilliance in pearls, and they’d spit it back at her in sand, grinning like they'd mined it themselves.
She didn’t correct them. What was the point? Instead, she turned away from the ruin, her long fin slicing the water behind her like black silk.
