“I was never the kind of child who stayed where I was told,” I said quietly. “When the others sang or practiced weaving, I was already halfway to the wrecks beyond the reef. I wanted to see what lurked in dark places. I touched things I shouldn’t. I swam into trenches claimed to be cursed.”
I kept my hands moving, steady as my voice. “More than once I came back torn open—scales stripped, skin flayed raw by coral, teeth marks in my tail.”
A crooked smile tugged at my lips. “The healers grew tired of mending me. One finally shoved a needle into my hand and told me if I was determined to bleed, I’d best learn how to stitch myself shut again.”
I shook my head at the memory. “The first time, I fumbled so badly I only bled more. But I didn’t cry or beg. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.”
I cinched the thread. “When I finally tied the knot, my only thought was that now I could go back out and do it all again.”
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then a low sound broke it—Veyrion’s chuckle, rough and unexpected.
It startled me more than his wounds. His mouth curved, blood at the corner of his lips, but there was no mockery in it. Just something darkly amused.
“Of course you would,” he said, and there was something almost like admiration in the words. “Bleed, bind yourself together, then defy them all over again. Gods, you were born for fire.”
Heat prickled under my skin. I forced my eyes back to the thread.
As if reading the thought, he rasped, “Strange. I thought mermaids could heal with water.”
My needle paused mid-stitch. Slowly, I shook my head. “Most do. The ocean takes care of them.”
My mouth tightened. “But with me… it’s always been different.”
“When I was younger, my wounds lingered,” I admitted, the truth bitter. “Coral scrapes, predator bites—they scarred, festered, refused to close. The sea never seemed eager to fix me.”
My gaze dropped to my hand—phantom memory of Séraphine’s blade slicing my palm, blood offered for ritual. The skin there was smooth now, unbroken, giving the illusion that the wound had never existed. It had closed almost instantly, the blood gone before it even cooled.
I hesitated, then shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Though… sometimes they don’t linger. Sometimes they vanish. Instantly. Like they were never there.”
“Mm,” he murmured.
I glanced up, wary. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not,” he said mildly. “I’m listening.”
I drew the needle through again. His blood darkened the thread. “I don’t understand it. I didn’t heal like that before. Not ever.” I exhaled. “And now it’s happening more often.”
“Since you started taking it back?” he asked softly.
My hands stilled. “Taking what back?”
“The pieces of the crescent. If your magic was taken, your body learned to survive without it,” he said. “Healing included.”
His eyes traced the unmarked skin of my wrist. “Maybe you’re not discovering a new ability. You’re reclaiming an old one.”
Unease curled low in my stomach. “You’re saying that—”
He watched me carefully. “I'm saying that power isn’t just fire and force. It’s function.”
“My healing was never wrong,” I said slowly. “It was just… limited.”
“Suppressed,” he said.
I scoffed, though the sound lacked bite. “That’s an interesting interpretation.”
I finished the last stitch and cut the thread. His wound remained—clean, bound by linen, not magic.
