By the looks on their faces, I’m not winning at the aquarium thing.
“You capture fish?” Tiana tries the word. “From oceans.”
“I know what oceans are,” Kestra says. “They’re our seas.”
“That would have been easier to explain,” I mutter.
“Fish?” Tiana asks Kestra.
“Brainless mermaids.”
“And we’re done here.” I laugh. “Go. We need weapons.”
“Fine.” Tiana walks away but I hear her whisper to Kestra, “Sirens?”
“They actually have those, but don’t tell her that.” Kestra’s voice trails away.
I bite my tongue. I know about the sirens. Had an assignment where I had to convince them to stop taking out our ships.
“You two...” I stop. Start again. “You’re good at this.”
Kestra pauses in the doorway. “At what?”
“This.” I gesture between the three of us. “The talking. The planning. Being...together.”
Tiana’s head tilts. That assessing look I’m starting to recognize on both of them.
“I’m not.” The words scrape out before I can stop them. “Good at this. I had cousins. Built-in people. Never had to learn how to...choose someone. Or be chosen.”
The silence stretches. I want to take it back.
“The military was easier,” I hear myself say. “Orders. Objectives. You don’t have to figure out where you fit. Someone tells you.”
Kestra’s expression doesn’t change. But something in her shoulders softens.
“Kieran is the same,” she says quietly. “He knows how to command. How to strategize. But choosing someone? Letting someone choose him?” She shakes her head. “He’s terrible at it.”
“So am I.” Tiana’s voice is smaller than I’ve heard it. “Tatiana chose me. Trained me. I never had to earn it. I just...was.”
Three queens who don’t know how to be chosen.
Something passes between us. Not spoken. Just acknowledged.
“All right.” I clear my throat. “Weapons.”
Looking around me, I let myself sink into reality.
Kieran is bigger than me, but I think I can make his pants work. I pull on new trousers, a tunic, and toss some out for the others. I find a small box at the back, but it doesn’t hold weapons.
A keepsake box. Inside, a red ruby wrapped in satin cloth.
It feels significant. I should leave it—it’s not mine.
But when my fingers brush the stone, cold shoots up my arm. Not unpleasant. Familiar, somehow. Like touching something that already knows my name.
Something whispers through me. If I don’t pocket this now, it’ll be lost.
I’ve learned to trust those whispers.
