Even if it means they’ll hate me. Even if it means losing any chance of real negotiation. Even if it means destroying what we built last night in the dark.
I came here to prove I could handle a crisis alone. Turns out, handling it means being willing to stand alone so the person I love doesn’t have to.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
We reach the council building’s entrance. Guards stand on either side—elite Sentinels, their scales dark with authority. They eye us with suspicion but don’t stop us.
Torin squeezes my hand. “Ready?”
I squeeze back, memorizing the feeling. The warmth. The connection. The love I can feel pulsing through our bond.
“Ready,” I lie.
We step inside, and I prepare to sacrifice everything I am to save everything he is.
Because that’s what you do when you love someone. You give them the sky—even if it means drowning yourself.
11
TORIN
I’ve walked these halls a thousand times. I’ve never been so afraid of what waits at the end.
The council building’s interior is carved from living coral—or what once was living coral, centuries ago, before we learned to preserve and shape it. The walls glow with embedded bioluminescence, creating patterns that shift with each step. Beautiful. Sacred. The heart of Deep Runner governance for generations.
I’ve reported here countless times. Received commendations. Taken oaths. Stood before the High Elder and felt the weight of her blind gaze assessing my worth.
But I’ve never walked these halls as a traitor.
Zara’s hand is steady in mine, though the bond carries her nervousness beneath the diplomat’s mask. She’s planning something. I can feel it—a determination mixed with resignation that sets my teeth on edge. Whatever she intends to say to the High Elder, whatever diplomatic angle she’s working, it involves sacrifice.
I won’t let her do it alone.
The guards flanking us say nothing as we approach the audience chamber. They’re Caspian’s people—I recognize the ceremonial scarring on their forearms, the mark of those who swore loyalty to the radical faction. The fact that they’re here, in the High Elder’s own hall, should concern me more than it does.
But all I can focus on is the way Zara’s grip tightens as we reach the massive doors.
“Whatever happens in there,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear, “we face it together. You understand?”
She looks up at me, amber eyes bright with emotion. “Together,” she echoes. But there’s something in her voice. A goodbye I’m not ready to hear.
The doors open before I can question it.
The audience chambertakes my breath away every time.
It’s built into a natural grotto where the lake meets an underground spring. Water cascades down one wall in a constant silver sheet, the sound creating a background hum that the High Elder says helps her listen. The floor is polished stone, inlaid with channels that allow water to flow through in intricate patterns. And at the center, on a raised platform surrounded by a shallow pool, sits the High Elder herself.
She’s ancient. No one knows exactly how old—some say two hundred years, others claim older. Her skin has taken on the translucent quality of deep-water fish, pale and slightly luminescent. Her eyes are filmed white with blindness, but they track us as we enter with unnerving accuracy.
She sees without seeing. Reads truth in ways I’ve never understood.
“Sentinel Torin Blackwater.” Her voice is like water over stone—soft but inexorable. “You return to us changed.”
I bow deeply, pulling Zara down with me. “High Elder. I bring?—”
“You bring consequences.” She tilts her head, listening to something only she can hear. The water in the channels around her feet ripples, responding to her magic. “Step closer. Both of you.”
We approach the pool’s edge. I’m acutely aware of how we must look—my scales shot through with golden lightning veins, Zara’s feathers transformed to storm-gray with iridescent blue. The physical proof of what we’ve done written on our bodies for anyone to see.
