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The rations from the mainland will vanish into the hunger of a population that has been underfed for months. It buys time, but it doesn’t change the reality that this island cannot sustain its inhabitants.

“The fisheries need to increase their output,” I continue, staring out at the water beyond the harbor where the fishing boats venture each morning. “Whatever they’re pulling in now isn’t enough. I want the fleet running double shifts if necessary. Add boats from the scouting fleet, and crew them with the new laborers once they’ve been assessed.”

Garret is quiet for a moment, and I stop walking and turn to face him.

“What?” I ask.

“Humans fear going out to sea. We’ve only got a handful willing to get on the boats. We’ve had to send guards out with them. Even then, they often refuse.”

My brows scrunch in confusion. This was never an issue before.

“We lost two fishermen,” he says. “Four days ago. They went out at dawn with their usual crew of two, fishing the deeper waters off the northern shelf where the catch has been more reliable. When they didn’t return by nightfall, we sent a boat to look for them.”

“And?”

“Their boat was adrift, approximately two miles offshore, perfectly intact. Nets still inside. Lines still baited.” His jaw works once before he continues. “There was no blood. No bodies. No sign of a struggle whatsoever. It was as if the men simply . . . ceased to exist.”

The hairs along my arms rise despite the cold not bothering me. We’re both thinking the same thing.

The siren kingdom.

Over the last couple of years, hysteria has spread. Reports of hearing their song, people going missing at random. I put it down to kingdom grievances because, in our world, kingdoms are so heavily reliant on Purgatory Island, and no one will admit pirating and taking more than their share.

We’ve had issues in the past with desperate humans deciding they’ve had enough of our rule and attacking boats for supplies before sailing to find land that does not exist. We’ve had starving crews lost at sea from freak storms. They were accused of trying to spy on or steal from other kingdoms. The tension has always been high between kingdoms. Our alliances are frail at the best of times.

I turn my gaze toward the ocean and stare at its black surface. “Restrict fishing to the coastline only. No boats beyond the half-mile mark until further notice. Anyone who violates the boundary gives up their catch and their vessel.”

“That will cut the yield significantly,” Garret warns.

“I know what it will cut. But I would rather lose fish than men. Until we know what happened to them, we need to be vigilant.” My fingers curl at my sides, nails biting into my palms. “Post warnings at every dock. Have the guards increase night patrols along the shoreline. If anything surfaces, I want to know about it before it reaches the beach.”

Food shortages. Failing infrastructure. A shrinking island. And now something in the water is picking off my fishermen. I pray it’s pirates because we have no way of fighting against the other option, not anymore. We have nothing left to bargain or trade with, and sirens have never been a friend to my kingdom, not even before the purge.

“I want to visit the orphanage,” I say, turning back for the town.

We leave the docks and cut through the lower quarter.

The orphanage is a two-story structure of weathered stone, sitting at the end of a narrow street. Buildings lean toward each other, as if trying to keep out the cold, and the windows seem unusually dark.

During the early years of my reign, I built this when the number of parentless children in the kingdom had grown large enough that I could no longer ignore them, but it isn’t a grand place.

When I push through the heavy wooden door, there is no rush of warmth to greet us. “Why is there no heat here?” I ask. It smells damp inside, but there is something more worrisome in the air that I recognize. It’s the sharp, unmistakable smell of illness.

Garret dips his head slightly as he enters behind me. “There is no heat, my king.”

The main room stretches the length of the building, low-ceilinged and lit by oil lamps that flicker unevenly along the walls, their flames struggling against drafts that slip through gaps in the windowpanes. Small beds line both walls in neat rows, each one a simple wooden frame with a mattress and whatever blankets could be gathered, but that is when I stop.

There are fewer beds occupied than when I left.

Not slightly fewer. Significantly fewer. The row along the left wall, which was full the last time I stood here, now holds empty mattresses with their blankets folded at the foot. A girl of maybe seven lies curled on her side facing the wall, her breathing audible even from the doorway, each inhale carrying a wet rattle as she wheezes.

Footsteps shuffle behind us, and I turn to find the caretaker approaching. A human woman in her fifties with gray-streaked hair pulled back from a face that has aged a decade since I last saw it. Her hands twist in her apron as she stops a careful distance away, her eyes flicking between Garret and me nervously.

“My king.” Her voice wavers. “We weren’t expecting you tonight. I would have—”

“How many?” I ask, cutting through whatever apology she is building. I do not want apologies. I want numbers.

She swallows hard, and a child coughs somewhere behind me, the sound rattling and painful.