Grief Will Drown You

“You’re being promoted. Both of you.”

I casually lean forward and plant my elbows on the desk, lacing my fingers tight to hide the trembling. The skin around my eyes is irritated, almost like I’ve scrubbed it with sand. It’s hot, swollen, and definitely red.

Ronan doesn’t move from where he stands. That dark green hair of his is sticking up in every direction as he runs his hand through it, brows drawn together, brown eyes fixed on me.

Next to him, Mallory’s lips part as if she’s about to speak. Her blue braid shifts against her shoulder as she crosses her arms and squints her gray eyes with a concerned expression on her face.

I clear my throat. I’m painfully aware that I’m nowhere near presentable right now, which is why I haven’t left my office.

“You’ve been acting as vice-captains for decades,” I say. “Splitting command and covering each other’s blind spots without any friction between you.”

They glance at each other. 

“You’ll keep doing it,” I add. “As co-captains.”

My attention falls to the crystal shards hanging against their chests as my fingers drift to my own without thinking. Unlike theirs, mine is set into my wedding ring. All three are the same cut as Einar’s and Ambrose’s, meaning the five of us are—no—were linked together.

They’re communication-grade, obscenely expensive, affordable only to high-ranking nobles who buy them for themselves and the officers they choose to equip. Now three remain. Ambrose’s wristband and Einar’s necklace are lying at the bottom of Beliren’s ruins.

I flick my gaze to Ronan and Mallory’s black and gray uniforms. Embroidered on the left breast is the crest of House Threnos. Two silver sea serpents locked together, one with its jaws clamped around the other. No House in the kingdom has anything similar. That damn messenger is right, and some foolish part of me is still looking for a reason he isn’t.

“Our captain…” Ronan starts, really studying me now. He does it with the same intensity a soldier studies a perimeter when something feels wrong. Each word is placed with careful steps as he tracks my face.

“…You’re giving us Einar’s position. Is he retiring?”

“No.”

“Being reassigned?”

“No.”

“Was he severely injured?”

I don’t answer right away.

“Personal oath, before I say another word. I want you to promise you won’t speak of what I am going to tell you, until I give you permission.”

Ronan straightens slowly, the furrow between his brows deepening. Mallory uncrosses her arms and lets them fall to her sides.

A personal oath isn't like a tongue seal. You name your own consequence out loud and binding magic holds you to it. Whatever you're willing to lose is exactly what you'll lose if you break it.

“I, Ronan Forsyth, swear a personal oath. I will not speak of any knowledge exchanged in this room from this moment forth until Nerissa Threnos gives her permission. If I break this, let every spell I know be stripped from me and leave me unable to relearn them. Let me be branded a traitor to this House.”

I almost wince. Every spell? That includes the ones he was born with. If he was in the water and broke it, he’d instantly die, unable to breathe or withstand the ocean depths. If he was in a dry city, he’d never be able to leave without escorted help, and no one loyal to the kingdom would help anyone with a traitor’s mark.

That’s a bit—

"I, Mallory Gudrun, swear a personal oath. I won’t talk about what’s exchanged in this room until Nerissa Threnos allows it. If I break this, take my right arm, take my sight, and mark me as a traitor to this House.”

Those two, honestly.

A gust of magic rises from their feet, whirling around them until their entire bodies are enveloped in a golden glow that gradually fades.

I don’t like asking this. But Ciro took his own measures, and I have to as well.

They wait for me to speak.

“It’s worse,” I finally whisper.

Ronan is stunned into silence.

Mallory blanches, shaking her head hard. “Hold on. Worse? There’s no fucking way. Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Einar—Tell me I’m jumping to conclusions. Where is he? Where’s everyone?”

I look directly at them.

“Ambrose and everyone who went with him… They aren’t coming back.”

A few seconds pass before Mallory’s breath breaks on a sob. Her hands fly to her mouth, eyes squeezing shut. Ronan goes rigid, gritting his teeth. His hands curl into fists, clenching so hard his nails draw blood.

My own hand throbs in sympathy. I still haven’t been able to bring myself to heal the small cuts from the broken pen. I use the sting of it to help me force out my next words.

“Beliren’s crystal went dark sixteen days ago. It was an Ulmar attack. The barrier fell, leaving everyone exposed to the Blackmaws. The city is gone. It’s become a breeding ground. The Crown’s scouts confirmed bodies in Threnos armor. They couldn’t find any survivors. The Ulmar is still there, so they couldn’t stay long. The area is restricted. That’s everything I know.”

“That messenger—” Mallory’s voice croaks out. “Is that why he was here?”

“Yes. He came to give me the declaration and explain what they found.”

“Gods,” Ronan murmurs, turning away. Just slightly, enough that his face is angled toward the wall.

I give them several minutes to collect themselves. 

There's a reason these two are standing here. Trust isn’t handed out because of blood or tenure. It’s earned, tested, and reinforced over years. Ambrose and I were careful to phase out the traditionalists.

We chose people who could stand under our crest and uphold it with strength, grit, honor, and integrity.

Mallory is here because I recognized her talents, and pulled her into our training. She specializes in throwing knives and illusions. Her magic output is focused into her right hand. She uses it to hide movement, make the obvious disappear and the irrelevant impossible to ignore. 

Coupled with her knives, you won’t even realize you’re being hit until it happens. But her eyes are something else entirely. Meet them long enough and you’ll find yourself in a prison built from your own mind, unaware of what is happening around you.

She is the best illusionist in Threnos territory and she is mine.

Ronan, on the other hand, was already here when I arrived, already loyal to Ambrose in that quiet, unshakeable way. He is a barrier master. Most barrier specialists treat shield spells as walls for defense. Ronan sees them differently.

He redirects spells, turns them toward someone else or reflects them back. He can make a barrier razor thin and move it like a blade through water, slicing through targets if they aren’t fast enough. I once watched him collapse a barrier inward to pin a mage and crush him alive.

He favors a halberd on the field, and the combination is deadly. His barriers cut off retreat and force his opponent into the halberd’s reach while simultaneously protecting himself when someone gets too close.

I trust them.

I wish I had more to offer, more time to process, an explanation, bodies to bury and mourn. Instead I've handed them a promotion that tastes like a funeral.

Ronan is the first to compose himself. His voice comes out rough, “Our biggest threat is Lord Beric and Lady Oriel. Lord Ambrose may have been their pride and joy, but they will not respect his will. They will argue the duchy cannot be led by a wife who married in. They will push for Lord Harbin and his wife to take over.”

“Or worse,” Mallory says, eyes glassy and voice cracking. “He could ask for guardianship. Say Drisana needs a true ocean-born education—one you can’t give her. It's worked before in other houses with foreigners. And if he succeeds, he can call her unfit and make his eldest son heir.”

Lord Beric and Lady Oriel. Those two have been a pain since Ambrose announced Drisana as his heir.

Ambrose threatened to cut them off from us. They care nothing for me. But Ambrose and Drisana? His parents hadn’t dared raise the issue again and backed off.

Now I hold the duchy. And there are many ways that they could take it back. It could be anything: being too grief-stricken, not giving Drisana a “proper” education, failing to defend against attacks, a scandal, a political misstep. It’s endless. They just need one good reason.

The courts here aren’t particularly kind to outsiders. They like to preach that they’re equal and fair, but they’re not. There’s a reason most land-born mages never last here. It isn’t enough to be terrifyingly proficient with water magic.

It’s the people.

They think being a water mage born in the ocean makes them better than water mages born on land.

“We need to prevent the spread of information,” Ronan says. “Buy ourselves time.”

“Ciro is already helping with that.” I straighten. “He’s tongue sealed everyone who knows the truth and asked us to delay the announcement until Zaltspire falls. In exchange, the Crown will release their official statement after us, and claim responsibility for the secrecy on Beliren.”

Mallory wipes furiously at the corner of her eyes. “That’ll give us time to get everything in order.”

“Publicly, the story will be that the messenger came to inform me the task is taking longer than expected. I need you two to start making a list of who could fill the other vacant leadership positions. I've already adjusted the budgets and the supply orders.”

I motion toward the ledger and stack of papers.

Neither of them looks surprised.

“We’ll manage the patrols,” Mallory says. “Have more drills. I’ll reinforce the inner watch too and alter the guarding rotations.”

“I’ll have the integrity of the estate’s inner and outer barriers inspected twice daily until further notice, with every fluctuation recorded and reported to me,” Ronan says. “We can frame it as preparation in case you’re called to go support House Seraphin since Lord Ambrose is…delayed.”

“Do it.”

It’s a clean excuse. No one questions heightened readiness during a war. House Seraphin has been performing as expected and gaining ground. Soon, they’ll be in position to invade Zaltspire’s capital, its most heavily fortified city. It won’t make anyone think twice. 

So far, our troops have already been aiding them. Doing this will imply that they’ll need more. A lot more.

To that prideful family, it’ll read as a lack of faith. They’ll take it as an insult.

I’ll have to smooth it over with them. A letter addressed to Lord Seraphin personally. I'll frame it as what it partly is—what any responsible martial duchess does while her duke is occupied. I'll make it clear that Threnos has every confidence in their push, flatter their commanders and their strategy, and suggest I'm simply keeping the estate in order. We don’t want to be caught unprepared on the slim chance we are needed.

He's prideful, not stupid. If it comes from me directly, before he has a chance to hear it secondhand and form his own interpretation, he'll accept it.

Ambrose’s parents and rival houses will look for proof that I can’t do this. In their excitement, they’ll forget who they are dealing with.

I’ve governed this house in Ambrose’s absence for months at a time. I’ve signed martial orders and negotiated terms for territory disputes. I’ve bled for this banner. Under my hand, Threnos did not weaken.

It won’t weaken now.

Beric, Oriel, and Harbin will come demanding tradition, draping it as concern for the household. None of it will change what is true.

I am already in command.

“Their spies,” I say. “Feed them the delay. After the truth comes out, get rid of all of them discreetly.”

"Understood," they answer in unison.

“You know what needs to be done. Dismissed.”

Ronan steps forward and grabs the ledger and papers. Mallory lingers for a bit. “May I?” She gestures toward her own eyes, then mine.

“Yes, you can.” 

Her hand glows softly as she reaches it out. A gentle veil of magic falls over my face, smoothing away the redness and exhaustion so no one else will see I’ve been crying. She does the same for herself.

They move to leave. Ronan’s out the door but when Mallory gets there, she hesitates.

“I could make it look like Ambrose is still here,” she says quietly. “That he’s the only one who came back… If it’d help.”

It would. Anyone watching the estate would report movement, presence, business as usual. It makes sense. But it would also be cruel, especially to Drisana. Letting her see him. Letting her think he's back, even for a moment—

“I can’t do that to her.”

Mallory exhales. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I wasn’t being considerate of her.”

“You were thinking strategically. It’s alright.”

She nods, excuses herself, and leaves.

The letter. I must draft the letter to Lord Seraphin.