That was when I noticed her.
She sat slumped against the far wall, knees drawn up, wrists and ankles bound. Her flesh was living green—smooth in places, rough in others, like bark worn thin by age. Dark veins branched beneath the surface, slow and deliberate, something ancient still grew there. Dew clung to her collarbone and throat, catching the light before slipping free.
Translucent fins veiled the edges of her long ears, gossamer-thin and veined like dragonfly wings. They quivered faintly with each movement. Her hair fell in damp, tangled coils, threaded with roots, twigs, and flecks of bronze, like fallen leaves caught in current.
Her eyes found me—pools of amber shifting to pale green, deep as eddies. A soft voice stirred from the dark. “Hello.”
I jolted, chains clattering. “You can speak,” I whispered.
A wry tilt touched her mouth. “As can you.” Her voice carried the cadence of rushing water—light, but edged with weariness. “I’m Moriko.”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Nerina.”
“I’ve never seen a mermaid with legs before,” she said, studying me. It wasn’t a question.
“Me either.”
Silence settled between us, filled only by the creak of timbers and the slap of waves against the hull.
“What are you?” The words slipped before I could stop them.
Her mouth curved in something that was not a smile. “Nerazhim. River-born.”
The name rippled through me, strange and old. I had read the stories once—spirits who walked like elves, whose rivers remembered every drop spilled upon their banks. I had never believed they were real.
“We have to get out of here,” I whispered.
A quiet laugh answered me—not cruel, almost kind. “Brave one.” Her eyes caught what little light there was, molten gold in the dark. “It’s no use. These shackles aren’t iron alone. They’re laced with Silver Salt.”
The name surfaced with startling clarity, dragging memory with it. Shadeau—narrow streets and leaning stone, my sleeves brushing my wrists with every step. Veyrion’s grip closing around my arm, not rough but unyielding, fabric hauled back before I could pull away. The look on his face when he saw what the salt had done to me. A stone well tucked between buildings. Cold water splashing into a basin. Him kneeling before me, hands suddenly careful—almost reverent—as he lowered my wrists into the water.
Silver Salt. A poison meant to weaken without killing. To break you down piece by piece. I felt it now—not just the burn, but the deeper silence beneath it. No song answering back. No current. No pull of power. Just something essential being smothered. Strangled quiet.
I tugged uselessly at the manacles, heart hammering. The metal answered with a faint, merciless spark, the burn flaring hot and familiar. “There has to be a way out of these.”
Moriko tilted her head, the faint shimmer of her skin catching the gloom like riverlight through reeds. “Spoken like the sea itself. Always pushing. Never content with stillness.”
“I’m not content with chains.”
Her golden eyes softened. For a moment, I swore I heard water running—not here in the suffocating dark, but in her voice. In her memory. “Nor am I." Her voice wavered on that last word, and the weight of it settled deep in my chest.
“Then we’ll find a way out.”
A stir of sound drew my attention. Across the hold, a Korrathi pressed its antlered head against the wall, breaths rattling like reeds in wind. A sea-elf knotted her fingers, humming broken syllables that died each time the shackles sparked. In the far corner, something scaled and reptilian curled tighter into itself, weeping low. None of them looked at us.
The fire in me flared hotter. I would not rot here. I would not let them rot here. I turned back to Moriko, my voice steel-edged. “If the salt silences magic, then we don’t fight with magic. We fight with something else.”
For the first time, a real smile touched her lips—small, but alive. “A crack in the dam.”
“Yes.” My pulse quickened. “Water always finds a way through.”
The night dragged like an anchor through my veins. Chains burned. Creatures stirred, then fell silent again. Somewhere above the boards, laughter bled through like oil on water.
I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Every time my eyes closed, I felt the shackles searing—felt the salt pressing its silence into my blood like a thumb over a throat.
But morning came all the same.
The hatch opened with a groan, spilling a thin blade of light into the hold. Dust motes drifted in the beam, turning the manacles at my wrists into faint, cruel stars.
