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That is a vow I will make over and over until the sea itself is weary of hearing it.
Iwillspeak the truth.Even if it shames me.
I will put the blade in her hand, even if it cuts me.
Because she is not just my mate, not just my bond—she is my compass. My home. My heart.
And if I lose her because I was too much a coward to face what I have done, then I will deserve that loss.
I look at her, luminous even in the shadows, her eyes fierce though rimmed in fear.
The bond between us hums, demanding honesty, demanding more.
I draw a long, steadying breath.
The storm inside me stills into resolve.
“It is time to speak of old laws and marriage contracts, and of the shame I brought upon my house,” I tell myself. “Time you know everything about Kael—Lord of Water, Son of Ishmael, Breaker of Oaths.”
And this time, I will not flinch from my truth. I will own it, because that is the very least Phoebe deserves of me.
I draw a breath that tastes of iron and salt, heavy as the sea before a storm. My voice feels raw as I begin.
“Nowadays,Nightfallersare not so keen to bind themselves with marriage contracts. In some corners of our realm, yes, they still happen. But they are rarer now. Promises between families arestrange things. They can build alliances, but they can alsodestroy lives. Betrothal contracts should never be made between anyone but the principals themselves. That has always been my belief.”
I pause, the old bitterness curling like seaweed in my chest.
“It was my belief when I was young, newly come into my title, my inheritance, drunk on my own power and certain I knew better than any man. Hundreds of moons ago. But my father, Ishmael, the Lord of Water at that time, did not share my belief.”
I see him still in memory.
Cold, commanding, iron in his spine and storms in his eyes.
“He made a deal with Bartholomew, Lord of Old Ridge—the most prominent fishing village in the Tidal Lands, a hundred leagues to the south. It was a standard arrangement, one that had been made countless times before. Food for protection. Spears for nets. The usual barter of safety.”
My throat tightens, but I force the words out.
“Only this time, Bartholomew offered something more. His daughter. Maureen.”
The name tastes like ash.
I drag a hand down my face, feeling the weight of old guilt settle heavy in my bones. I dare not look at Phoebe.
If I meet her eyes—if I see horror, or pity, or, gods forbid, disappointment—I will choke on the rest of it. The words will die in me like they always have, buried under salt and silence.
But I cannot let that happen. Not now. Not with her.
So I stare at nothing, at the shifting shadows cast by the lantern light across the chamber walls. My jaw aches from clenching it. My chest burns with the weight of every unspoken word.
Then, I do what I have not done in centuries—I call the truth into form.
I lift my hand, and the air shimmers.
Water beads and thickens, mist rising to swirl into shapes—half-formed marionettes made of brine and vapor.
They take their places before us, actors in the story I can no longer keep locked away.
I force my voice steady, though each word tastes like blood.
