“If Nyxarion’s Siren carries lightning for the Deep,” Vorthane hummed, the first to say it. “One must… wonder?—”
Barbles retracting, Syrathis hissed. “Careful.”
But Vorthane ignored him. “If an extinct gift might be revived from the Deep Court… what might sleep in the Shallows? Dormant. Waiting.”
"The Tidecaller's Breath," Syrathis said, abandoning his hesitation in favor of purpose. Speculation. "That was Asterion, once.”
Cutting through the current, listing to the left, Vorthane’s voice was edged with something positively giddy. "And the Lateral Weave? I haven't knownthatsince the time of my youth.”
Squaring frail shoulders, Pelagius set that calcified jaw. Reeking of ancient bitterness. "Speculation," he snapped, though he’d begun to tremble. "We cannot know what traits have been lost without examining the records, and we are neededhere," he said, fins spread. "Or have you forgotten there's a Siren bearing multiple lineages, living at the bottom of this accursed puddle."
Snaking free from where he'd been anchored against the shelf, Syrathis slithered free. "We spend our time hunting sun clams and bickering with reef breakers," he said, voice thin with the edge of his excitement. "We can swim to Caelith Mare and back before the girl begins to whelp."
"A Siren bearing the venom of two kings," Pelagius said again, shuddering with what might have been disgust. "The implications… they stagger the mind."
"Indeed worrying," Vorthane agreed. Hedging and careful. "If such power could not be controlled?—"
"I have fought Nyxarion Korrides twice," Thalos said, interrupting. Guiding them back into the current he wantedthem to tread. "Whatever forbidden power manifests in Kore's child, I assure you, the Deep does not wield it with precision."
Brow furrowing, Vorthane nodded. "If it cannot be controlled, then it must be met with equal or greater force. I assert we return," he said. "At once. Before another tide is wasted on talk of drainage gradients while history reshapes the very sea around us."
Arms crossed, fins pressed flat in sullen defiance, Pelagius said, "Returning to Caelith Mare is… prudent. We mustn't allow ourselves to fall victim to guesswork. We consult the archives. Properly. And return before the girl spawns, armed with answers."
But even as the ancient protested, Thalos saw the way those faded, pewter scales gleamed. Betraying him with a flush of faint gold.
Allowing himself a tiny smile, Thalos lifted one hand. "A word of counsel, if you must depart. Tell no one what you have seen here."
Spines flaring wide, bristling and outraged, Pelagius coughed. "The courts must be informed?—"
"The courts do not contend with Nyxarion Korrides," Thalos said, silencing the objection with a condescending glare. "Who allows this outpost to exist under fragile pretense, and who, I remind you, has killed for much less rumors spread about his bride."
Three ancient heads bobbed as one, chastened.
But brimming with a secret knowledge too extraordinary to possibly contain.
It was power.
Wisdom.
Secret whispers they would ferry all the way back to Caelith Mare.
And before three tides had passed, maybe four, every elder of the Hollow Court would hear of the impossible powers manifesting in a poisoned tide.
Lips twitching, Thalos rolled.
Basking in the silver moonlight.
CHAPTER 19
Warmth.
Radiant. Spreading and insistent, centered on the tip of her nipple.
Eyes fluttering open, she gasped. Blinded, for a moment. Seeing nothing but a glaze of darkness streaked through with the bioluminescent blue she’d come to know so well. Gaze tracking down, toward the sucking heat, she looked.
And then—silver.
Molten.
