Eric didn’t answer right away. His thoughts churnedlike the sea. That ship had hundreds aboard, cargo, too. The souls and the goods fed trade routes and the livelihoods of countless port towns. But the channel it had taken was narrow and treacherous.
She was out there. He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her. Like a current running beneath calm water. Like the hush before the tide turned.
His wife was no fool, no helpless victim of circumstance. She was a tactician. A strategist. Always calculating, always adapting. She saw what others didn’t. She moved faster than they could react. Just days ago, she had guided him to the ship flying a false flag—subtly, cleverly, letting him take the lead while she maneuvered the truth into the light. That was how she played: silent, swift, always ten moves ahead.
He knew she was doing it now—somewhere beneath those waves, she was already moving pieces across the board. But what she didn’t know—what she needed to know—was that she wasn’t playing alone anymore. She had the best player in the kingdom on her side. Him.
They had a chance to stop this—this mess of ancient grudges and sea monsters and blood-slick politics—but only together. That was the key. That was the only way they won. But how could he get to her?
A warship would be a declaration of aggression.Triton’s army would rise. Ursula would be caught in the crossfire.
A cutter was smaller, faster—but fast looked like intent. And to hostile sea creatures, a speeding blade over the water was an invitation to strike.
His gaze shifted down the line of ships. Past the warships. Past the cutters. To the little vessel rocking gently at the end of the dock.
He lowered the spyglass. His hand ached from how tightly he’d gripped it. His eyes never left the horizon. “Hold the line.”
The captain blinked. “Sire?”
“I’m going out there myself.”
There was a pause. A gust of wind tugged at their cloaks. The scent of kelp and oil clung to the dock like a warning.
“I’ll ready the fastest cutter,” the captain said at once.
“No,” Eric replied, calm but firm. “I’m taking my houseboat.”
The boat wasn't fast. It wasn't armored. But no one ever attacked houseboats. They weren’t worth it—no treasure, no threat. At worst, sea creatures would surface and bare their teeth to frighten the passengers for sport. But no deaths. No violence. To everyone, the houseboat was just driftwood with curtains. To Eric, it was cover.
The captain turned toward him sharply. His lipsparted, perhaps to argue—but then he looked into the king’s eyes. Whatever he saw there had him swallowing his protest. He bowed low.
“As you command, Your Majesty.”
A murmur rose behind them. Eric turned just slightly to see a small gathering of nobles—his council. His court. His critics. They stood draped in velvet and fur, gesturing wildly, hurling words like arrows.
“The entire navy should go out and escort the liner!”
“It’s madness to send the king alone?—”
“He’s bewitched! Can’t you see?—?”
Eric didn’t even spare them a reply. Captain Hawthorne ignored them as well. He barked orders with sharp efficiency, dismissing his men.
None of the sailors moved. They all stood at ease but ready. Though ordered to stand down, the navy stayed rooted to the dock, steel-eyed and silent, watching their king prepare the houseboat to face the sea’s wrath.
Grimsby, of course, was not far behind.
“My lord,” he called, climbing the narrow gangplank onto the boat with more dignity than the moment deserved. “Think about this. You’re the king now. You must think like a ruler.”
Eric paused mid-motion, one hand on the helm, the other coiling a rope around the cleat. “You're wrong onthat front. I need to think like a husband who pissed off his wife.”
“Send Queen Ursula a gull and a wreath of sea lilies. That's how your father apologized to your mother.”
At least the chamberlain was addressing his wife properly. But it wasn't enough.
"I'm not my father, Grimsby." Eric turned to face him fully. The wind teased the edges of his cloak. His curls were damp with spray. His eyes, though, were steady. “Pick your king. If it’s not me, say it now. If it is—get behind me.”
Grimsby’s lips pressed into a thin line. But he said nothing. Just gave a stiff nod, then stepped aside. "I'm behind you. But I'm not going out to sea with you."
