Grief Will Drown You

Dead.

This is the second time he’s said it. I understood what he was saying the first time, enough to let the words make me prepare for what comes next.

Believing it? Letting myself accept it? Not when my heart insists he’s lying.

Because I know Ambrose. I’ve trained with him for years. We’ve sparred so many times I’ve lost count. When he shifts into his merform, he’s just gone. One second he’s there, the next he’s slicing through open water faster than most creatures can swim. He throws around spells that would knock three of the King’s court mages flat on their asses, then just flashes that stupid, adorable grin, gives a lazy wave, and swims off like it was no big deal.

And he wasn’t alone.

Twelve of our knights went with him. Seasoned fighters, all ocean born. They’ve proved themselves many times over. Einar was there for crying out loud. He’d hauled Ambrose out of more disasters than either of them ever wanted to admit to me. Celimene was there too. Her paranoia would’ve had her scanning the water so frequently she’d know right away if something was off. No one sneaks up on Celimene.

I trust every single one of those knights with my life. They would’ve died before they let Ambrose fall.

There’s no way this makes sense.

For this messenger to be the one standing in my study telling me this…

Ambrose isn’t the only body they are asking me to mourn.

I grit my teeth.

The messenger hasn’t actually given me any details. All of that damn talking and none of it explains how it happened.

I wait.

He steps forward and sets the scroll on my desk.

“Is this the report?” 

“No,” he says. “It’s the official declaration of death.”

I glower at him before schooling my face into a neutral expression.

Is he really going to make me ask?

Seconds pass.

I slowly start to realize, he is. 

And it takes everything I have to not lunge across the desk and grab him by the coat. I’m so close to yelling at him. He seriously needs to swim back to Ciro and have him send me someone who is actually competent.

“How did it happen?”

“An Ulmar,” he responds, almost whispering it. “The Royal assessment is that the creature was drawn to the region by the Blackmaw infestation. There were… no survivors… The city of Beliren no longer exists.”

“That’s—”

The words die in my throat and with them, the last scrap of hope I’d been clinging to gets ripped away.

Ambrose always joked with me that Death would have to cheat if it wanted him.

An Ulmar definitely counts as cheating.

What the hell am I supposed to do with an Ulmar? Do I march an army into open water and throw it more bodies until it chokes on a bone? 

Tears unwillingly cloud my vision.

Dammit.

There’s no throat for me to wrap my hands around. There’s no enemy I can hunt and make scream to avenge him.

I drag in a shaky breath. It burns all the way down.

“Why did Ciro send you?” I demand. 

I hate how raw my voice sounds.

The messenger steps closer and opens his mouth.

I swear, if he’s going to apologize again, I really will throw my pen.

Then he sticks out his tongue. A red sigil is burned right onto it.

My eyes go wide.

A sealed tongue.

Only the truly loyal or the truly desperate agree to that kind of binding. Once the caster brands you, your mouth belongs to them until they decide otherwise. The seal is made to target specific information; the branded can only speak it to whomever the caster allows. Anyone else, and the spell stops the words. If they try to write it, gesture it, or reveal it any other way, the seal kills the speaker.

“I am forbidden from speaking about your husband’s death to anyone but you,” he says, voice low. “Everyone trusted who knows the truth has been sealed the same way. His Majesty hopes this will give you time to prepare for… any complications within House Threnos.”

He means Ambrose’s parents.

Part of me wants to feel grateful for the heads-up. But Ciro isn’t just my friend—he’s the King. He wouldn’t hide a missing city out of the goodness of his heart.

“There’s more to this,” I say flatly.

The messenger’s shoulders slump a little. “Yes… His Majesty asks that you delay the family announcement until Zaltspire is conquered. In exchange, the Crown will release its official statement on Beliren right after you.”

Oh. There it is.

“You must understand. The campaign is at a critical point,” he adds. “News of Beliren’s fall on top of the Duke’s death… it could crush morale and give Zaltspire exactly what they need to rally.”

“Ciro needs time,” I mutter under my breath.

He nods.

“This happened in Threnos territory,” I say. “When people find out it was hidden, who takes the blame?”

“We will handle Beliren,” he affirms. “His Majesty was clear. Neither you nor House Threnos will carry the blame for hiding this.”

“How diplomatic of him.” The words taste bitter. 

Even now, that man is playing every angle.

“I’ll do it. It’s better for me this way too.”

He looks relieved. 

But it’s gnawing at me.

Ulmars are the oldest and most dangerous living species of water dragon. They don’t rise to inhabited depths. They like to stay close to their territory, way down in the hadal zones. Beliren is nowhere near one. It’s a dry city, protected by a powerful water barrier.

Ambrose said the Blackmaws were only on the outskirts. They never reached the city itself.

Sure, an Ulmar can break it, but why? The Blackmaws would’ve been enough for it to gorge itself on. Maybe if there was a large cluster near the barrier? No. Ambrose would’ve gotten it. There has to be another reason.

I can picture the panic, citizens suddenly shifting forms as the city flooded. It would’ve riled up the predators into a feeding frenzy.

The destruction makes sense. The slaughter makes sense. But no survivors? Not a single one?

“By whose report?” I ask.

“Royal scouts,” he replies. “They were dispatched when Beliren went dark on the Crown’s communication network.”

Every recognized city in the Pelagios Kingdom is bestowed with a Crown crystal. It’s a huge glowing thing that links back to the capital like a beacon. It boosts signal strength between smaller crystals, allowing for long-distance communication. 

When one goes dark, it means either the crystal’s been shattered or something’s actively scrambling the signal. 

House Threnos doesn’t get automatic alerts when that happens. We’re only pulled in if one of our cities sends a proper distress pulse. 

Beliren never sent one.

Ambrose had messaged me right after he arrived, saying the Blackmaw situation was worse than expected. It took them a few days of nonstop fighting to get into Beliren. He’d mentioned he’d be gone longer than planned. 

They were going to clear the infestation from the barrier to the outskirts, looking for the nests. They’d be too far from the city crystal for easy contact. He didn’t want to waste time running back and forth just to send reports. He wanted it cleaned up before Drisana’s evaluation so he could be there to watch.

“When?”

“Beliren went dark sixteen days ago. I was sent out the moment the scouts returned.”

“Give me their names.”

I’ll talk to them myself.

His jaw tightens. “I… don’t have them.”

I give him an icy glare.

“You don’t have them,” I say dangerously. “You’re standing here telling me my husband is dead, and you don’t even have the names of the people I’m supposed to believe?”

“If the Duke had survived,” he says carefully, “he would have found a way to send word.”

The pen in my hand snaps with a sharp crystalline crack. He flinches.

I forgot I was still holding it.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I bite out, dropping the broken pieces onto my desk.

“Th—the scouts did not recover remains. They couldn’t. They did, however, identify bodies in armor bearing the crest of House Threnos.”

I exhale through my nose and pluck the fragments free one by one. 

“Whose armor? Chestplate? Pauldron? How many pieces?” My voice isn’t as steady as I’d like it. “Armor could’ve been torn off in a fight.”

He gives me a pained look. I want him to say it. Stop giving me false hope.

“The bodies were still in the armor,” he says quietly. “Or what was left of them. Duke Ambrose’s armor is well known…”

“So my husband was caught off guard,” I say. “He—and every elite fighter with him—were annihilated before any of them could disengage or send a distress pulse.”

“Rare events do occur,” he offers weakly.

I scoff. He’s lucky the pen broke.

He hesitates for a few seconds. “The surrounding waters have been restricted indefinitely until further notice. A perimeter has been set up. If anyone swims near, they will be redirected away.”

“You’re joking.”

“The Blackmaws are feeding on the corpses. The region has become a breeding ground, and the Ulmar has not left. We cannot allocate the resources to engage the threat at this time. The King’s forces are fully committed to Zaltspire.”

His voice lowers, apologetic.

“Further action would be too risky.”

“I know it’s risky,” I say. “I’m not asking for the Ulmar’s head. I’m asking what has actually been done besides drawing a line around the dead and calling it an act of the ocean. How close did the scouts get? How long did they look?”

“Duchess—”

“Did anyone attempt to lure the Ulmar away instead of engaging it? Did anyone examine the barrier? The city crystal? Anything that might explain why a hadal creature appeared near a dry city it had no reason to attack?”

“We cannot allocate the resources,” he repeats, like saying it again will make it less useless.

“It was supposed to be a simple matter,” I say. “An infestation. A cleanup operation. Now an entire city is gone. Thousands are dead. And nothing will be done?”

He nervously shifts his weight. “Until the situation changes, no further action has been approved.”

All I can do is stare at him.

“Get out.”

He bows hastily, turns and practically runs for the door.

I wait long after the door shuts behind him. I count every heartbeat, half-expecting someone else to walk in. Only when it has been silent for several minutes do I finally let go.

Tears fall, hard and ugly. They come in choking waves that make my shoulders shake. I slap a hand over my mouth and bite down so I don’t make any noise. My other arm wraps around my middle, a self-comforting gesture and a pathetic imitation of being held.

With stinging eyes, I look at the blurring pile of orders beside the ledger until I can’t make them out anymore.

Outside the warded window, the ocean keeps drifting by and the weight of all that water feels like it’s sitting directly on my chest.

You were supposed to come back.