Grief Will Drown You

Confirmed Dead.

This is the second time he’s said it. I understood the first time, enough to prepare for what comes next.

Believing it? Letting myself accept it? It feels impossible.

Because I know Ambrose. I know what he’s capable of. I’ve trained with him in physical combat. He doesn’t have many weaknesses, and those that I found, he quickly corrected. When he shifts into his merform, he’s just gone. He could be there one second, and in the next, he’s slicing through 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 flashes that stupid, adorable grin, gives a lazy wave, and swims off like it was no big deal.

He’s terrifying to go up against.

And it’s not like he was alone. Twelve of our knights went with him. Seasoned fighters, all ocean-born. They’ve proven 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. Then there’s Celimene. 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 a declaration of honorable death. Left purposefully blank, for you to fill out with the names of the deceased.”

Is he really going to make me ask?

Seconds pass.

I start to realize he is. 

It takes everything I have to not lunge across the desk, grab him by his dumb ornate coat, and shake him until common sense and basic decency are knocked into him.

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

“How did it happen?”

“An Ulmar,” he gravely responds, almost whispering it. “We think it was nearby, drawn in by the Blackmaws. 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 early because Life made him way too talented.

An Ulmar definitely counts as cheating.

Tears unwillingly cloud my vision.

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

It isn’t fair.

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 angrily 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.

He surprises me when he sticks out his tongue. A red sigil made with the core runes for silence, obedience, and death is on it, forming a horrible permission-based binding spell that only the truly loyal or the truly desperate agree to. 

A sealed tongue.

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 and gives a warning. If they keep trying to write it, gesture it, or reveal it any other way, the seal kills them.

“I am forbidden from speaking about your husband’s death to anyone but you,” he says, voice low. “Everyone 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 public announcement until Zaltspire is conquered. In exchange, the Crown will release its official statement on Beliren right after you.”

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

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

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

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

“How nice of him.”

Even now, that man is playing every angle. 

“Fine. 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 barrier.

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 cleared 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 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 to us.

Beliren never sent one.

Ambrose had messaged me right after he arrived, saying the Blackmaw situation was worse than expected. 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.

There wouldn’t have been any Blackmaws near the city. 

“When?”

“Beliren’s signal disappeared sixteen days ago. I was immediately sent out to you when the scouts returned with the news of what happened.”

“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 jumps at the sound, flinching when he realizes what happened.

I forgot I was still holding it. How annoying.

“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 armor bearing the crest of House Threnos from a safe distance.”

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

“Whose armor? Chestplate? Pauldron?” 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. I want him to 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. 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 at him. He’s lucky the pen broke.

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

“You’re joking.”

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

His voice lowers, apologetic.

“It’s too risky for the kingdom.”

“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 to the ruins? How long did they look before turning around?”

“Duchess—”

“If there are people stationed there, they can watch the Ulmar and wait for an opening. They can examine the barrier or the city crystal.”

“The Blackmaws make that impossible.”

“I’m sure the royal army has a talented team capable of infiltrating infested waters.”

“Duchess, please—”

I stand, slamming both hands on my desk. Pain shoots up from my injured palm to my arm.

“He’s Ciro’s closest friend! Does he not care?” I yell out, no longer caring about composure. 

“Of course His Majesty cares—”

“Then why isn’t he here, telling me this? I get the secrecy, not wanting to talk about this over crystal or letter. But why didn’t he come tell me himself?” I snap.

“The war—”

“If Ciro can’t investigate, then I will.”

“Please… I implore you to listen. We cannot allocate the resources,” he says slowly, like saying it again will make it less useless. “And neither can you.”

I hate this, I hate him. I hate all of it. Because he's right.

“It was supposed to be a simple matter,” I say, falling into my chair, looking up at the ceiling. “An infestation with an easy cleanup operation. Something we are more than equipped to handle. Now an entire city is gone and there are thousands dead. And nothing will be done because of bad timing.”

I look at him again.

He nervously shifts his weight from foot to foot, avoiding me. “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 count every heartbeat, half-expecting someone else to walk in. Only when it’s been silent for several minutes do I finally let go.

Tears come in terrible, ugly choking waves. I slap a hand over my mouth so I don’t make any noise. My other arm wraps around my middle, a self-comforting gesture that doesn’t help.

I think of him. Of Drisana. I think of our knights. Their friends and families. I think of all of the dead. Of how I need to pull myself together because this is only the beginning.

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 all of that water feels like it’s sitting directly on my chest.

You were supposed to come back.