Chapter 318
The man doesn’t get far before Wake reacts.
He slams his palm into the seafloor and murmurs something low in his throat. The rock obeys. A pulse shoots through the silt like a command, and the ground beneath our would-be spy explodes upward in a twisting column of coral and stone. Tendrils of limestone snake around his legs and harden fast, locking him in place up to his waist.
The guy flails, claws at the bindings, and hisses through clenched teeth. “You don’t understand—I’m not with them!”
“Right,” I say, swirling the orb in my hand, its glow rising. “Because nothing says friendly like stalking us after an ambush.”
“I’m not your enemy!”
“I suggest you start proving that,” Wake growls.
Our guard, still unconscious and bleeding from the head, floats just behind us like a grim reminder. I keep half an eye on him, my nerves firing in all directions. Wake moves toward the trapped man with a predator’s grace, eyes cold.
“You’ve got five seconds to explain yourself before I let the trench finish what those cowards started,” Wake says.
The man throws up his hands—or what I think are hands. His limbs look half-melded with scale and jelly, a strange translucent skin forming ridges along his arms. “I’m not with the attackers, I swear it. I’ve been following you because my mistress ordered it. She told me to observe—protect, if necessary.”
“Protect?” I scoff. “That’s rich.”
“She’s been watching,” the man says quickly. “She saw the ambush. She wants to meet.”
Wake narrows his eyes. “Who is your mistress?”
“The Olokun Heir.”
That makes us both pause.
He fumbles with a pouch at his belt—carefully, slowly—and produces a small sealed scroll, bound in braided kelp with a wax emblem pressed into its side. A spiraling shell.
I take it. Crack the seal. The message inside is written in elegant script, the kind used in old royal decrees.
Electra’s Heir, Your presence at the Conclave is expected. Your actions so far suggest an intent to bring reason where there may soon be none. I would have words with you. There are those here who do not trust your bloodline, and many who fear your consort. Come alone, if possible. I can offer no guarantees of safety beyond my own tent, but I will speak plainly.
—Nuala, Heir of Olokun
I hand the note to Wake. He reads fast, frowning.
“You expect us to believe the most private, reclusive clan in the ocean wants to have tea and talk politics?” Wake snaps. “They barely speak to their own allies.”
“She’s not like the rest,” the messenger says. “She’s trying to do something different. She wants peace.”
Wake glares. “So she sends a spy instead of an emissary?”
“Would your family have welcomed an emissary from Olokun?”
…I hate that he’s not wrong.
Wake gestures and the stone binding the man begins to retract—slowly, like a threat wrapped in mercy.
The messenger exhales, then rubs at the indentations on his legs as he floats freely again. “I can take you to her. If you come now.”
Wake looks at me.
I glance back at the scroll. “It’s a risk.”
“It’s a trap,” he mutters. But his tone softens. “But if she’s serious…”
“We need every ally we can get,” I finish.
There’s a beat of silence as we both think the same thing: this Conclave is already wobbling on a knife’s edge. If Olokun’s people are on the fence, we don’t have the luxury of ignoring their offer.
I nod.
“Take us to her,” I say. “But if this is a trick, you won’t live long enough to regret it.”
The messenger bows slightly. “Understood.”
Wake hoists our injured guard up onto his back with minimal effort. “We’ll take him to a medic on the way. Then we go.”
The messenger leads us into the current, toward the outer rings of Estellis where the waters grow darker and colder. Where the sigils of the Cradle rise like sentinels in the gloom.
And with each flick of my tail, I can feel it in my chest—this isn’t just diplomacy anymore.
This is war prep.
And the board is already in motion.
Log in with Google Account
Chapters
Favorite
Settings
