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 word make me prepare for what comes next.

Believing it? Letting myself accept it?

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 nothing.

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 immediately know 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 given me any details. All of that damn talking and none of it explains how.

I wait.

He steps forward and sets the scroll on my desk like it’s some holy offering instead of the thing that just gutted my life.

“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.

He is.

It takes everything I have to not lunge across the desk and grab him by the coat.

“How?”

“An Ulmar,” he says, 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 used to joke 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 that? March an army into open water and throw it more bodies until it chokes on a bone?

Tears 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 into my chest.

“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 shows me his tongue.

A red sigil is burned onto it.

My eyes widen.

A sealed tongue.

Only the most loyal—or the most 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 whoever 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 with the knowledge of what happened has been sealed the same way. His Majesty hopes this will give you time to prepare for… any complications within House Threnos.”

He’s talking about Ambrose’s parents.

I almost want to be grateful for it. But Ciro isn’t just my friend—he’s the King. He wouldn’t hide a missing city out of simple kindness.

“There’s more to this,” I say flatly.

The messenger’s shoulders drop a little. “His Majesty asks that you delay the family announcement until Zaltspire is conquered. In exchange, the Crown will release its official account immediately after yours.”

Oh, there it is.

“The campaign is at a critical point,” he continues. “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.

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 this.”

“How diplomatic of him.”

Even now, that man plays every angle.

It’s gnawing at me.

Ulmars are the oldest, most dangerous species of water dragon. They don’t rise to inhabited depths. They stay near their territory, way down in the hadal zones. Beliren is nowhere near one. It wasn’t one of the open-water cities either. Beliren had a barrier. An Ulmar can break it, but for what purpose? 

The Blackmaws would’ve been enough for it to gorge on.

Was there a large cluster near the barrier? I can see how panic would’ve spread, with citizens suddenly shifting as the city flooded. It would’ve thrown the predators into a feeding frenzy.

The destruction, yes. But no survivors? Not a single one? 

“By whose report?”

“Royal scouts,” he replies. “They were dispatched when the Duke failed to check in.”

“Give me their names.”

I’ll hear it directly from them. Exactly what they saw.

His jaw tightens. “I… do not have them.”

My eyes narrow. “You were sent to tell me my husband and his knights are dead,” I say dangerously. “And you don’t have the names of the scouts whose word I’m meant to accept as proof?”

“If the Duke were alive,” he says carefully, “we would have heard from him by now.”

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

I forgot I was holding it.

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

“Th—the scouts did not recover remains. They couldn’t. They did, however, identify several pieces of armor from a distance… 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 have been torn off in a fight.”

He gives me a pained look.

“The bodies were still in the armor,” he says quietly. “Or what was left of them. Duke Ambrose’s armor is well known. They would not have mistaken it.”

“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 almost laugh. He’s lucky the pen broke.

He hesitates, “The surrounding waters have been restricted indefinitely until further notice. No one will be allowed near.”

I stare at him.

“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.”

His voice lowers, apologetic.

“Further action would be too risky.”

“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.

“Get out.”

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

I wait long after the door closes behind him, counting every heartbeat until I’m sure he’s gone. Only then do I let the tears fall. They come in ugly, choking waves that make my shoulders shake. 

I place my hand over my mouth, pressing it tightly against my skin to stop myself from making a sound. The other wraps around my middle, a pathetic imitation of being held.

With stinging eyes, I look at the blurry pile of orders beside the ledger.

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

He was supposed to come back.