As the final bell fades into silence, I feel the midnight tide swell against the harbor walls with unusual force, and something cold moves through the crowd like a breath from the deep places where sunlight never reaches.
2
EURYDICE
The silver bells in my wreath chime softly as I reach up to thread a ribbon through Theron's golden mane. The silk is red and I weave it carefully between the coarse strands of his hair. Each thread catches the lantern-light like captured starshine, and the texture beneath my fingers is warm and familiar—I've braided his mane countless times during lazy afternoons when he returns from patrol, salt-crusted and weary.
His amber eyes watch me with such tenderness that my heart flutters like a caged bird. Those eyes have seen battle and storm, but when he looks at me, they hold only gentleness. The lantern-glow catches the golden flecks in his irises, making them shine like coins at the bottom of a clear pool.
"What are you wishing for?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that I feel in my bones. The sound vibrates through his massive chest, and I press my palm against the soft fur there, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath my touch.
I rise on my toes to whisper against his ear, my breath warm in the cold night air. His ear flicks at the sensation, a habit that never fails to make me smile. "Many winters together. A lifetime of festivals like this one. Children with your strength and yourgentle heart." The words taste like honey on my tongue, sweet with hope and possibility. "I wish for us to grow old together, singing by the fire when our dancing days are done."
His arms tighten around me, thick with muscle earned through years of hauling ship-lines and wielding the great bronze axes of Milthar's sea-guard. I feel the deep vibration of his contented sigh, like distant thunder rolling across calm seas. "Zukiev grant it," he murmurs, pressing his lips to my temple. His breath smells of the mulled wine we shared earlier, spiced with cinnamon and cardamom from the southern traders.
The crowd swirls around us in celebration, but I am lost in the warmth of his embrace. The Festival of Zukiev's Longest Night transforms Milthar into something magical—every building draped with garlands of pine and holly, their sharp green scent mixing with woodsmoke from the great bonfire. The lanterns cast everything in golden light, making the snow sparkle like scattered jewels across the cobblestones that have been worn smooth by centuries of hooves.
Children laugh as they chase each other between the dancers, their small horns adorned with ribbons that stream behind them like colorful wings. Their parents watch with fond eyes, sharing cups of steaming kaffa and honeyed bread still warm from the ovens. The tavern keepers have rolled out barrels of ale and rirzed wine—the sweet, floral vintage that tastes like summer meadows even in the depths of winter.
Musicians play from every corner, their instruments creating a tapestry of sound that echoes off the harbor walls. Fiddles sing high and bright while drums beat the ancient rhythms that call to something deep in minotaur blood. The melodies speak of voyages completed, of storms weathered, of the eternal dance between sea and shore that defines our island home.
This is happiness, I think. This moment, this man, this magical night when anything seems possible. The Festival of theLongest Night has always been my favorite celebration—when Milthar throws open its doors and hearts, when the whole city becomes one great family singing together against the winter dark.
But as I pull back to smile at Theron, something at the edge of my vision makes me pause. Down by the harbor, where the waves lap against the stone quay built from black volcanic rock, something dark is crawling across the water. At first I think it's just kelp stirred up by the tide, but as I watch, the dark foam spreads like grasping fingers along the shore.
The water should be its usual deep blue-green, reflecting the lantern-light like scattered stars. Instead, it looks wrong—oily and thick, moving against the natural rhythm of the waves. My stomach clenches with sudden unease, though I cannot say why.
"Theron," I start to say, but my voice is lost in the sound of music and laughter.
The shadow-foam creeps higher, defying the natural pull of the waves. It moves with purpose, like something alive and hungry. A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the winter air—this cold comes from somewhere deeper, older, like the breath of something that has been sleeping beneath the waves for far too long. I tug on Theron's sleeve, trying to get his attention, but he's laughing at something one of his old shipmates has said, his attention focused on tales of their last voyage to the mainland.
The harbor usually smells of salt and fish, tar and rope—the clean scents of a working port. But now there's something else threading through the air, something that reminds me of deep caves and things long drowned. The stone quay, usually bustling with late-night fishermen checking their nets, stands eerily empty.
One of the paper lanterns near the harbor begins to flicker, its warm light guttering like a candle in the wind. The flameinside dances wildly, though there's no breeze to stir it. As the light dims, it illuminates something that makes my blood turn to ice water. There, just beneath the surface of the dark water, pale shapes move like drowned hands reaching upward. Bone-white fingers break the surface, grasping at nothing, and I realize with growing horror that they're trying to pull themselves from the sea.
The water around the pale shapes shimmers with an unnatural phosphorescence, like the ghost-lights that sailors sometimes see during the worst storms. But this light is cold, hungry, nothing like the warm glow of the festival lanterns that have blessed this night for generations.
"Theron!" I cry, but my voice cracks with fear.
That's when the screaming begins.
It starts with a child near the water's edge—a little girl who was gathering the pretty shells that the tide sometimes washes up during festivals. Her shriek of terror cuts through the music like a blade drawn across silk, and suddenly everyone is looking toward the harbor. The musicians falter, their instruments falling silent one by one as the wrongness spreads like ripples through the crowd.
More lanterns begin to fail, their light snuffed out as if by invisible hands, and in the growing darkness, spectral silhouettes begin to rise from the waves. They emerge like morning mist, but wrong—too pale, too fluid, moving in ways that hurt to watch. The festival's warmth seems to drain away wherever they drift, leaving frost in their wake.
They're translucent and wrong, these shapes that coil and drift among the dancers like smoke given form. Some look almost human, but stretched and distorted, while others are merely suggestions of limbs and faces floating in the air. They move through the crowd with horrible purpose, reaching for the living with hands that shine like moonlight on water. Where theytouch, people stumble and cry out, their breath misting white in the sudden cold.
Panic erupts around us. People scatter in all directions, parents snatching up children, lovers clinging to each other as they flee. The carefully ordered festival dissolves into chaos—overturned tables, spilled wine staining the snow red, the sweet scent of evergreen overwhelmed by something that smells of brine and decay. But I find myself frozen, watching in fascination and terror as one of the spirits drifts directly toward us.
Its face is beautiful and terrible—high cheekbones and pointed ears that mark it as one of the dark elves, but its eyes are hollow voids that seem to pull at my soul. Its mouth moves as if speaking, but no sound emerges save for a low humming that makes my teeth ache.
"Run!" Theron roars, his hand closing around mine with desperate strength. "Eurydice, we have to?—"
Something cold and wet wraps around my ankle like a chain forged from the sea itself. I look down to see a tendril of dark water coiled around my leg, tightening with each passing second. The touch burns like ice, seeping through my boot and chilling my skin until I can barely feel my foot. It yanks hard, and I stumble, my hand slipping from Theron's grasp despite his desperate grip.
"Theron!" I scream as the water-chain pulls me toward the harbor. My feet slide across the slick cobblestones, unable to find purchase on stones made treacherous by the spreading ice. I claw at the ground, at the air, at anything that might stop my inexorable slide toward the black water that writhes with unnatural life.
"Eurydice!" His voice follows me, desperate and raw, but the chain of water is too strong. It drags me across the quay and into the hungry embrace of the sea, and the last thing I see beforethe dark water closes over my head is Theron's golden mane streaming behind him as he dives in after me, his amber eyes wide with terror and love.
