He didn’t look away. “Stop wasting your power hiding in other men’s shadows.”
I almost laughed. “And you think chaining me to you would fix that?”
“Not to restrain you,” he added. “To make sure no one else ever can.”
Men who promised freedom were always the first to tighten the leash.
My stomach twisted. “No. What you’d do is set me free until it suited you. I’ve seen what you do to those whoserveyou, Veyrion. You’d do the same to me, and call it mercy.”
His smile was slow, unbothered—storm-deep. “You don’t know me as well as you think.”
“And you don’t know me at all,” I snapped. “I would rather drown in the deepest trench than marry a man who uses fear to build his throne.”
Something in him had gone steady now. Certain.
“I’m offering you truth.”
For a heartbeat, something in his expression shifted—quick, unreadable—before the mask returned. Still, there was something beneath it, something he wasn’t telling me. The way his eyes lingered felt almost… searching. Like he was trying to match my face to a memory he couldn’t quite grasp.
“Do you know why Alaric was cursed?” Veyrion asked, tone almost casual—too casual.
I frowned. “He pissed off the Sea Goddess. That’s all I know.”
He chuckled, low and humorless. “Yeah… something like that.”
He leaned in, firelight carving his face into hard lines. “He crossed lines no captain should ever cross. The kind of crimes that wake gods.” His expression darkened. “And when he was done, he called it necessity.” The words slid into my ears and coiled there.
“Alaric,” he went on, quieter now, “is the reason the Veil exists—to keep sacred places hidden from monsters like him. The same crimes you’d hang me for? I learned them from him. He was my captain. My mentor. My brother.”
He let the toxin hang in the air, waiting for me to breathe it in. That was the point. Not truth—contagion. If he could plant even a sliver of doubt, it would do his work for him later. Doubt didn’t need proof. It only needed time.
I sat frozen, ice spilling through my veins. A slow, aching pressure bloomed in my chest. I wanted to laugh in his face, to cut his lies to ribbons. The image tried to stick—not because it felt true, but because it was meant to wound.
I knew Alaric had secrets. I’d felt them between us. But if this… if this was truth—
“You think I’d believe a word from your venom-soaked mouth?” I snapped, shoving my chair back a fraction. “And what about you, Veyrion? What about the innocents you’ve killed?”
Veyrion didn’t flinch. He didn’t even pretend to search for an excuse.
He didn’t look away for a long moment, then set his glass down with deliberate care. “Every one of them died for a reason.”
The firelight caught the edges of his smile—not smug, not defensive. Certain. “Sometimes that reason was justice. Sometimes it was strategy. And sometimes—” his voice dipped lower, confession without shame “—it was simply because leaving them alive would cost more than their deaths.”
My stomach tightened. “So you decide who lives and who dies.”
“Survival isn’t kind,” he said simply. “People like to call the dead innocent,” he added mildly. “I’ve never found the world that simple.”
The way he said it—steady, unflinching—made my skin crawl. He wasn’t trying to convince me he was good. He wasn’t even trying to convince me he was right. He was simply telling me who he was.
I wanted to spit something back, to tell him the sea wasn’t cruel by choice—But the images came anyway. Crates cracked open like ribcages. Bodies of supernatural creatures crammed inside, limbs twisted, eyes clouded. Marks of restraints on wrists and throats. The air heavy with salt and something far fouler. I’d wondered then what kind of monster could look at living magic and see only cargo.
Now I sat across from him.
The fire crackled low between us, shadows moving slow across the table. I hadn’t touched the food again.
“You helped me in Shadeau,” I said at last. “Why?” I shook my head. “I’ve seen what you do to creatures like me. Mermaids. Sirens. Commodities to you. Hunted for your entertainment.”
Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.
