The fisherman had risen now, shouting to someone else about the line of foam creeping toward his nets. A mother snatched her child back with a sharp exclamation. The anchored boat beyond the breakwater tugged and jerked, the rope straining against its post.Elizabeth watched them with a detached sort of curiosity, then her thoughts consumed her once more.
If she remained here—if she remainedanywhere—would the terrors follow? Would the fire leap? Would metal turn treacherous in innocent hands?
She closed her eyes against the glare.
Is there a choice at all?
To run to him would risk his life. To stay away would risk everyone else’s.
Better to be destroyed together than to scatter harm among strangers. The thought was wild, desperate—and yet it carried a terrible coherence. If ruin must come, let it fall where it was understood. Let it fall where love stood ready to meet it.
But love does not excuse destruction.
Her breath grew shallow. The air tasted of salt and iron. “I must not think,” she murmured, though no one stood near enough to hear.
But shewasthinking. Of his face in the library. Of the way he had stood before her father and released what he might have taken. Of the knowledge in his eyes when she had left him—knowledge he had not spoken aloud.
He would receive her. Whatever she carried. Whatever it cost. That was precisely why she must choose carefully.
What if there was no version of this that spared him? What if she was not meant to be saved… but ended?
The next wave came higher than the last. Enough to send a thin sheet of foam racing farther up the sand. A child darted toward it, shrieking in delight as the water chased his boots. His mother laughed and called after him.
Elizabeth’s heart gave a hard, involuntary beat.
The water surged again—farther this time, swift and gleaming, the foam hissing over sand that had been dry moments before. It struck the boy’s legs and nearly swept him from his footing before his mother lunged and caught him under the arms.
The fisherman stood upright now, shading his eyes and pointing at the fishing boat heaving on the horizon.
Elizabeth did not move… and the tide paused.
Not as tides do.
As if awaiting instruction.
Her breath stuttered. The air seemed to draw inward with her, as though the whole breadth of sea had leaned close to listen.
No.
She took a step backward.
The water followed.
Not forward in a uniform line, but in a narrow tongue, a darkened channel threading through the broader wash. It slid across the sand toward her boots, and then broke—dividing cleanly, curling around her toes without wetting the leather. The foam eddied at either side of her feet and retreated.
A space remained where she stood. Dry.
The next swell rose more violently. It did not crest and fall in its usual rhythm but lifted as though something beneath it had thrust upward. The anchored boat beyond the breakwater snapped hard against its rope. Wood cracked. A man shouted from the pier.
Elizabeth’s pulse hammered against her ribs.
This is coincidence. This is terror. This is fancy.
Another surge came. This one struck the small vessel broadside and flung it sideways against the stone. The rope gave with a report like a pistol. The hull scraped and listed. Two men on the quay ran for it, boots slipping on wet stone.
The fisherman’s net, half-spread upon the sand, was snatched and dragged several feet inland as though seized by invisible hands. He leapt to retrieve it, cursing, and nearly lost his footing when the retreating water tugged at his ankles with unnatural force.
A woman screamed.
