Page 77 of Whispers of the Starlit Sea
What was Ciara’s fiancé doing back in the place where he’d been imprisoned? And worse — why was he floating in the flooded cave beside the wrong sister?
Did Ciara know he was here? Did she know what he was becoming?
Sorcha’s gasp drew their attention. Rona turned first, and the cruel triumph on her face sent a ripple of dread through Sorcha.
What was her sister planning? Did she even understand where this would lead?
“Come to join us, sister?” Rona's voice dripped with mockery. Beside her, Ewan picked up the eerie chant, feeding the gem in the bracer with each syllable.
“Never! You’re going to get people killed.” She forged her way closer, but they were in the center of the deepest part of the pool, where she couldn’t go.
“Humans, maybe,” Rona said with a shrug.
“Humans are people too!”
Rona scoffed. “What would you know? You’re just a little Healer. A poor one at that.”
More rock tumbled from the ceiling. The beam from the bracer grew brighter.
“Attacking the tower is only going to bring it down on our heads!”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” Rona drawled, “I can’t exactly walk up there to get what I need.” Her eyes gleamed. “Unless, of course, you’re volunteering?”
“Over my dead body.”
“That,” Rona murmured, “can be arranged.”
She resumed the chant, her voice joining Ewan’s. The glow pulsed brighter, sharper. Water surged in response, slapping against Sorcha’s legs.
She shivered, her ballroom gown soaked and clinging, the cold floodwaters tugging at her like ghostly hands.
“Why do you even want it?” Sorcha asked, her voice rising above the chaos. If she could make them talk, it might break the rhythm of the chant and disrupt the spell’s power.
“It’s magic,” Rona said with a scoff, as if that should be enough. Her tone was flippant, dismissive — because of course Sorcha couldn’t possibly understand.
But she’d felt the magic in the mirror. She knew what it was.
“Now,” Rona added with a sneer, “run along to your little corner and heal someone, why don’t you?”
Heal. She wasn’t a strong fighter. She couldn’t command storms or break stone. But her magic still mattered. Maybe, just maybe, she could heal the damage the bracer was doing. If she couldn’t stop them outright, maybe she could slow them. Hold the spell at bay. Just long enough.
Sorcha lifted her chin and began to sing. She shaped the magic into every note, letting it rise from her chest with steady resolve. Rona shot her a glare, but Sorcha didn’t stop. She’d learned how to breathe like a human, learned how to stretch each phrase between ragged inhales. It wasn’t as easy as singing with gills, but she could do it.
She focused on the stone above, seeking the deep cracks, the fractures weakening the cliff. If she could calm them, seal even one…
Nothing resonated.
Maybe she needed to touch it? But it was too high. Too far.
She shifted her attention to the floodwaters around her feet. Sang to them gently, coaxing, reminding them of their home, the ocean, not this shattered cavern.
Still nothing.
Her song faltered for a breath. Why wasn’t it working?
“Can’t heal? Or won’t?” Rona mocked.
The familiar flush of shame flowed over her. Rona had always pushed her to heal in ways she couldn’t.
