Because it nearly killed me.
A vial. A potion. A promise wrapped in glass the color of hearts blood.
The liquid shimmered dark red, thick and luminous, swirling like it was alive. Like it was waiting. A twisted claw curled around the bottle’s neck, talons locked into the glass as if guarding it. It looked ancient. Dangerous. Too ornate to be anything good.
I twirled it between my fingers, feeling the unnatural chill seep into my skin. The liquid inside shifted, its glow wrong even in moonlight.
A potion that would let me set foot on land—if Morgra was to be believed.
The thought sent a strange, undeniable thrill through me. I hadn’t stepped foot on a true continent in ages—only Morgra’s cove and the Forgotten Trench, which could hardly be considered land. The idea of solid ground beneath my feet again—of walking freely without the sea’s pull—was intoxicating.
She hadn’t told me what it would take back. I couldn’t help but wonder what price I’d pay.
Before we left the cove, Morgra had pulled me aside. Pressed the vial into my hand like she was handing over a death sentence wrapped in glass. 'Shake it once,' she told me, 'and speak thewords etched into the base. The magic will know you, curse and all.' Her eyes hadn’t left mine when she added, 'Just a drop. No more. Use it sparingly. I don’t know exactly how long it will last—might be hours, might be less. Once it's gone, it’s gone. There’s no more magic like that left in this world.”
I looked down. The bone was old, smoothed by time, the carving shallow but deliberate. Two words stared back at me.
Debitum sanguinis.
Morgra hadn’t smiled when she gave it to me. She hadn’t warned me either. Not truly. She’d offered possibility, not mercy—and with Morgra, I’d learned long ago that neutrality could be just as lethal as malice.
A temporary reprieve. A borrowed freedom. But borrowed from what—and at what cost? If such magic existed, I would have heard of it. I’d chased every rumor, every whispered promise of a cure, only to find lies, dead ends, or worse—traps. I’d scoured ancient texts, traded with warlocks, even sought answers in the darkest corners of the supernatural underworld. Not once had I encountered anything like this. That alone made it dangerous. Magic like this never came without a price.
And getting the Eye for Morgra would only be a fraction of it.
It wasn’t the potion that gnawed at me. It washer.
Nerina was stubborn. She challenged me in ways I hadn’t been challenged in centuries. She burned with a need for answers, just as I once had.
And yet she had looked me in the eye and asked me to trust her. Begged me to trust her.
Trust.
A bitter, wretched thing.
The difference was, I had learned what chasing ghosts cost you. She hadn’t. Not yet.
She was foolish. Reckless. But she was brave.
And I admired that part of her—the part that would stop at nothing to find what she was looking for. Determined.
I stared at the dark water. The waves rolled endlessly, stretching toward a fate I wasn’t sure we would return from.
I had to keep her safe.
But how could I, when she was so willing to throw herself into the abyss?
A soft creak behind me signaled movement. The crew was restless. I could feel their unease—hear the shuffle of boots, the low murmurs exchanged just beyond my line of sight.
They weren’t just avoiding me.
They were waiting.
For orders. For reassurance I wasn’t sure I could give. For some sign I wasn’t leading them into ruin.
I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to.
The crew kept their distance when I was like this, reading my silence for what it was—warning. Or restraint.
