She shifts, testing the rope, and winces when the movement jostles her shoulder. “I already told you. I’m a diplomat. I came to negotiate.”
“Negotiate what? We haven’t had contact with the surface in generations. What could you possibly have to discuss with us?”
“The blockade.” Her chin lifts, defiant despite her position. “You’ve cut off water to settlements downstream. People are suffering. I thought—” She laughs, bitter and short. “I thought if someone came in peace, showed you that not all surface-dwellers are enemies, we might find a solution that doesn’t end in bloodshed.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
The look she gives me could curdle milk. “About as well as your people’s hospitality.”
Despite everything, I feel my lips twitch. She has spirit, this Sky-dweller. Most people in her position would be begging, or crying, or making desperate promises. She’s trading barbs with her captor like she’s negotiating from a position of strength.
“Zara Stormwright.” I roll the name around in my mouth, tasting it. The bond purrs at the sound. “I know that name. Stormwright. Your brother?—”
“Is Kael Stormwright, yes.” Her voice goes tight. “Commander of the Rapid Response Unit. Hero of a dozen battles. Everyone’s favorite legend.”
There’s something beneath the words—old pain, carefully hidden. “You don’t sound proud.”
“I am proud of him. I love my brother.” She meets my eyes, and the amber burns bright. “But I am not him. I’m Zara Stormwright. My own person. I’m tired of being defined by someone else’s shadow.”
The words hit somewhere unexpected. I think of Mira—of always being the one who stayed behind while she dreamed of leaving. Of becoming a Sentinel because it was expected, because someone had to guard what she wanted to escape. Of never quite knowing who I would be if I wasn’t her brother first.
“I understand that,” I say quietly, “more than you know.”
She blinks, surprise flickering across her face. For a moment, the diplomat facade cracks, and I see someone younger beneath it. Someone who came on a dangerous mission alone because she was desperate to prove something. Someone who almost died for it.
The bond pulses between us, warm and insistent, and I look away before it makes me do something foolish.
I should turnher over to Caspian.
That’s the proper course of action. The one that keeps me in the Sentinels, keeps me useful, keeps me alive. An intruder in our territory falls under elder jurisdiction. Whatever my personal feelings—whatever the bond is trying to make me feel—protocol is clear.
Except I know what Caspian will do to her.
We don’t negotiate with thieves. We drown them.
I watch her in the dim bioluminescent light, this fierce, foolish woman who flew into enemy territory with nothing but words and hope. She’s studying me back, probably trying to calculate her odds, figure out my weaknesses, find an angle to exploit. Good. A survivor’s instinct. She’ll need it.
Option one: Take her to Caspian. She dies. Probably slowly, probably publicly, as an example to any other surface-dwellers who might think to intrude on our waters. The bond screams at the thought, a visceral rejection that makes my stomach turn.
Option two: Let her go. I’m a traitor. Caspian’s loyalists hunt me down, and I die. She probably dies too—she can’t fly with that wing, doesn’t know these waters, would be lost in the delta before nightfall.
Option three: Keep her. Hide her here, try to figure out what to do. The bond strengthens with proximity. Every day I spend with her makes the connection harder to ignore, harder to sever. Eventually, I won’t be able to think clearly at all.
There has to be a fourth path.
I think of the Sunken Citadel, the capital of our people, where the High Elder dwells. She’s ancient, blind, wise in ways that Caspian has never been. The elders say she can read the truth inwater currents, sense lies in the way blood moves through veins. If anyone could judge this situation fairly—could decide what to do with a diplomatic envoy we never asked for, could maybe even explain this impossible bond—it would be her.
The journey is dangerous. Through the deepest parts of the delta, past territorial markers and patrol routes, into tunnels that haven’t seen traffic in years. If Caspian’s loyalists find us, we’re both dead. If the natural hazards don’t kill us first.
But it’s a chance. The only one I can see.
“You wanted to be taken to whoever can decide your fate,” I say slowly, testing the words.
She straightens, alert. “Yes.”
“There’s someone. The High Elder of the Sunken Citadel. She’s... she’s not like Caspian. She might listen. She might even be able to—” I stop, not sure how to explain the bond to someone who probably doesn’t know our customs, doesn’t understand what current-sharing means.
“Be able to what?”
