But the gods had written her into this war long before she could write herself out of it.
Her sigil burned faintly on her hand. The thought of the decision ahead charging her magic.
She brought her hand to her chest, fingers splayed over her heart, willing it to give her an answer. A sign. Anything.
Only the sound of the sea beyond the hull greeted her.
Maris squeezed her eyes shut and whispered to the darkness, “How am I supposed to tear one half of myself away tokeep the other whole?”
The stars had long since taken their seat at thrones overhead, casting a cold silver sheen across the sea. The Argo cut through the water with a quiet grace now, no sails flapping, no laughter on deck. Just the ever-growing silhouette of Nerium, its lights faint but unmistakable on the horizon. They appeared as fireflies pinned to a cliff’s edge.
Maris hadn’t moved from the quarter deck in hours.
She stood suffering under the weight of her thoughts.
The air was salt-thick and hushed.
She should’ve stayed in her cabin and kept the promise to herself to not go looking. But she’d made too many promises lately, and most of them had already been broken.
Her feet moved before her mind caught up.
The quiet walk to the bow of the ship felt like a trance, every step softer than it had a right to be. When she rounded the mast and saw him leaning against the railing, violet stare fixed on the approaching shores, her breath stuttered.
She came up beside him, arms crossing against the r taking in the advancing landscape.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The silence wasn’t tense. It was deep. Like standing at the edge of a forked path.
Nerium’s cliffs glowed faint in the distance, the curve of its bay haloed in firelight. Her stomach churned.
She felt him watching her now, but she kept her gaze forward.
“I shouldn’t have disrupted your solitude, I can go." She offered.
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t prod. Just, quietly, “Don't.”
Her throat tightened. She looked down at her left hand on the railing, where a ring should have rested.
The sea hissed below.
She whispered, “What would you do… if I chose him?”
The words tasted like blood.
Alarik didn’t answer at first.
When he did, it was like a confession whispered at an altar.
“I’d burn for you,” he said. “Quietly.”
Maris closed her eyes.
It was not a plea but a promise.
His truth.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered.
