My stomach churned.
“I’ve seen what they leave behind,” he went on, eyes distant now. “Scales peeled like fruit skin. The scent of burning magic and salted blood. You don’t forget it. They call it purification.”
His knuckles whitened on the rail like he could feel the hooks.
“And their leader?” Alaric said, his voice like the scrape of steel. “Clever. Charismatic. Dangerous in the way only true believers are.”
He didn’t say the name. Didn’t need to. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes—a grudge, maybe. Or guilt.
His expression hardened. “He moves through the world like he already owns it. Like everything unnatural should kneel—or be carved open. He’s not the kind of man who forgets a grudge. Or lets go of what he thinks is his.”
I swallowed. “And they’re here? In Sylvaris?”
“Not openly. They move like shadows. Influence the ports, buy off leaders, fund research.” His voice dropped further. “If they catch wind of you, Nerina, they won’t just come with curiosity. They’ll come with purpose.”
His eyes flicked toward the horizon, where the sky was beginning to darken—like the memory itself carried a shadow.
"Then why go back?" I asked. "Surely there’s somewhere else you can get what you need."
His fingers curled around the railing, anchoring himself to the truth of it. For a breath, he didn’t speak—just stared into the distance, wrestling something he wasn’t ready to name.
"Not the kind of magic this ship runs on." His voice carried a weight of reluctant certainty, the kind that only came when there was no other choice.
He had told me little about the place itself.
As we watched the dark horizon, I pressed him for more information. "What’s it like?"
Alaric glanced at me, studying my face for a moment before asking, "Have you ever been on land before?"
The question sent a strange sensation through me, like the shifting of currents before a storm. Land had always been something distant, unreachable—shapes on maps, stories whispered by those who’d seen the world beyond the water. The idea of stepping onto solid ground felt foreign, like stepping into another life entirely—one that had never been meant for me.
I hesitated, then shook my head. "No. I’ve barely even seen it. Only the island near the Sanctuary of Milos—and even that was warded. Mermaids weren’t meant to set fin on shore.."
His brow lifted slightly. My answer didn’t surprise him, but it made him think. "Then Sylvaris will be unlike anything you’ve ever known."
I tilted my head. "And the people?"
“Depends who you run into,” he said, folding his arms. “Dryads. Elves. Spirits that don’t take kindly to outsiders. Some say thetrees themselves have a will—that they remember intruders, mark them.”
He gestured toward the distant line of forest. “There’s no king. No ruler. Just clans and ancient beings enforcing their own kind of order. Morgra sits on the fringes—tolerated at best. She survives only because Sylvaris allows it.”
The words lingered. The sea creaked softly against the hull.
After a moment, Alaric leaned back against the railing, looking out at the horizon. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
“It didn’t used to be like this.”
He exhaled slowly. “Sylvaris was once a haven. Open. Teeming with magic—shapeshifters, dryads, wood elves, fae of every kind.”
His jaw flexed. “But humans don’t know how to admire without trying to own. They hunted what was rare—for trophies, for spells they didn’t understand. By the time the forests turned hostile, most of its people were already gone.”
His voice darkened. “The Sylvari—the spirits bound to the land—finally had enough. They wove an enchantment along the borders. Not to protect visitors. To protect what little remained.”
He straightened, arms crossing again. “As long as the Sylvari tolerate Morgra, trade survives. Timber. Resins. Alchemical stock. TheBlack Marrowgets what it needs to sail.”
A pause. Deliberate.
“If that tolerance ends,” he said, “the routes vanish. No supplies. No passage. No warning.” He glanced briefly toward the forest. “And Sylvaris doesn’t negotiate.”
