Last night had been going so well. The gifts. The games. The dancing. For one brief, stupid moment, I’d let myself believe I belonged. That I could laugh and drink and breathe without the constant ache in my ribs.
Alaric ruined it. His confession still echoed—jagged as broken coral. But it wasn’t only his words. It was the way he’d held me—too tight, like letting go wasn’t an option. Like my body was a thing he could keep simply by gripping harder. He’d saved me because he thought I could end his curse. Because the quartz and I glowed with the same light.
He hadn’t saved me because he was good. He’d never claimed to be. That lie had been mine—some desperate fairytale I wrote in my own head. A story where a man pulled a girl from the sea because it was right. Because heroes did that. Because damsels were meant to be saved. I’d wanted to believe in that version of him. But heroes didn’t tighten their grip and drag you across a dance floor. Heroes didn’t speak through clenched teeth and callit protection. Heroes didn’t make you feel small inside your own skin.
He’d smiled and touched and let me think the warmth between us meant something else. He’d let me believe he loved me.
The truth cut deeper than anything he’d ever said. Every lingering touch, every stolen look, every word that had made my heart stumble felt contaminated—like I’d been drinking sweetness from a cup lined with poison. None of it had been about me. He hadn’t saved Nerina. He’d saved what he thought I could offer—power. A key.Salvation.
I wanted to hate him. To burn every memory to ash. The hurt ran too deep. My heart had betrayed me, beating for someone who had never really been mine. Who had never really wantedme. How could I forgive myself for being so blind?
Tonight’s dress lay across my bed like a dare. Ivory silk, luminous as fresh-fallen snow beneath moonlight, its bodice sculpted in silver filigree that climbed like frost over glass. Constellations shimmered along the skirts, stitched in pale gold and starlit crystal, every thread catching the light as if the night sky had been coaxed into fabric.
Soon the guests would arrive. The hall would roar with laughter and song—fire and mead flowing freely.
And still I couldn’t make myself wear it. I couldn’t step into that hall with swollen eyes and a hollow chest and pretend I hadn’t been split open.
Steam curled in soft tendrils around the bathing chamber, fogging the high-arched windows and clinging to the stone. Firelight flickered from sconces set into the rock, gilding the carved beams above. The scent of cedar smoke and hot water wrapped around me like a cloak.
The round basin at the center of the room was more pool than tub, its carved edge worn smooth by years of bodies seeking warmth. I sank into it with a shuddering sigh as the heat kissed my skin and seeped into muscles wound too tight.
And then the shift began.
The water licked higher, tugging at something deep inside me, and my body yielded. My legs shimmered—bones and skin giving way to iridescence as scales unfurled in a slow cascade of starlit hues. Blues and silvers and violets rippled beneath the surface, catching the firelight until I gleamed like a shard of moonlight. My tail fanned out, translucent fins trailing like silk through the water.
I’d learned the hard way what it meant to go too long without it—the ache in my skin, the tightness in my chest, the brittle feeling, like driftwood cracking beneath a harsh sun.
My tail stirred the basin, sending faintly glowing ripples across the stone. Eira sat cross-legged on a low bench near the wall, sleeves rolled, boots abandoned by the door. She worked alength of ribbon through her fingers—braiding and unbraiding it absently—humming some Northern melody under her breath.
After a while, her gaze flicked toward the stool where folded garments waited. White. Silver-threaded. Catching the firelight.
“How are you finding Yule?” she asked gently. I watched the flames waver in the sconces.
The wreaths we’d made with clumsy, drunken hands. The way the hall had lifted me above their heads, chanting. The welcoming hugs.
My throat tightened. “It’s… different than anything I’ve ever known,” I said carefully. “It was wonderful.”
Eira nodded, accepting the answer for what it was—and what it wasn’t. She didn’t press.
Her eyes returned to the dress. “It’s meant for tonight,” she said. “The final celebration.”
“I know.” The words tasted heavy. “I don’t think I’ll be wearing it,” I added. “I’m not feeling well.”
I didn’t want to be seen. Or touched. Or pulled into anything I couldn’t step away from.
Eira studied me—no judgment, no suspicion. Just… seeing. “You don’t have to explain,” she said.
Relief loosened something in my chest.
She went back to the ribbon, her presence warm and steady. As the steam rose and the fire burned low, I let myself rest in the quiet—held not by ceremony or expectation, but by the simple grace of not being alone.
The water’s warmth lingered on my skin long after I left the basin, but it did little to soothe the hollow ache inside me.
Now I sat on the edge of my bed, wrapped in furs. My hair, freshly washed, hung heavy down my back—woven into a neat braid by Eira before she left. My thoughts kept circling the same jagged edges.
A knock broke the silence—three soft raps against heavy oak.
I stiffened, swiping quickly at my eyes. “Come in,” I called, though my voice wavered.
