The sea was a mirror that morning.

  For once, the air was quiet, undisturbed by wind or gull cry. It was the kind of calm that came only after months of storm: the deep-breathed stillness of something waiting to shift again. And on the edge of the jagged stone shelf, Lark balanced precariously on the back of a creature that had nearly devoured him a dozen times.

  “I don’t think she likes the kelp bridle,” Lark muttered.

  “She doesn’t like you,” Azalea said, swimming alongside with one hand steady on Myrrkaal’s snout. “The bridle is just a bonus.”

  “Great.”

  “You’re too stiff,” she added, voice smooth but cautious. “You ride her like she’s a warhorse. She’s not. She’s the sea.”

  “That’s not comforting,” Lark muttered, eyes flicking to the ripple of dark blue scales shifting beneath the waterline. “The sea has tried to kill me several times these few months.”

  Azalea smiled faintly, her silver eyes catching the light like mirrors.

  “She’s still young. Wild. She doesn’t know what to make of you yet.”

  “Fair,” Lark grunted, steadying as Myrrkaal twisted toward a deeper patch of sea.

  Despite his nerves, he grinned. He was getting better at this—at reading the curl of Myrrkaal’s spine before she surged, at gripping the rope with just the right tension to guide without hurting her. She was still unpredictable, still dangerous, still dragging him under when she lost patience—but now, more often than not, she surfaced again.

  They moved together in slow arcs across the deep. Azalea drifted beside, her hair billowing like ink in the water, guiding the beast with light touches, quiet clicks of her tongue. Occasionally, she looked up at Lark, her expression unreadable.

  Weeks had passed like this.

  Lark’s wounds had begun to knit—though the scar across his ribs still ached in the mornings. His nightmares had grown quieter, less frequent. He no longer woke choking on air or screaming his brother’s name. Azalea didn’t ask what the dreams were. She only watched him sometimes when he didn’t think she would.

  When the sun began to fall, Myrrkaal nudged her snout into the sand of the small shoreline where their fire pit sat. Azalea climbed ashore, her white hair damp with salt. Lark followed, wringing out the sleeves of his tunic. He was leaner now, more wiry, sun-darkened and scar-dotted. His nails had thickened and sharpened since the last time he’d trimmed them—feral, feline things now. His eyes glinted with something more beast than bard.

  The peace was fragile. It always was.

  Azalea prepared fish as the sky blushed with sunset. She split the meat with practiced flicks of a sharpened shell. Myrrkaal remained in the shallows, her huge head resting near the embers, one eye ever open.

  “Here,” Azalea said, handing Lark a strip of raw fish.

  He raised an eyebrow in silent question.

  “Feed her.”

  He did.

  He crouched by the beast, removed the loop of knotted rope that served as a muzzle, and held out the fish.

  Myrrkaal snapped. Not at the fish. At him.

  Lark hissed as her teeth grazed his arm, shallow but bleeding.

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  Azalea chuckled under her breath. “She’s still warming up.”

  “Does warming up usually involve blood loss?”

  He laughed anyway, and the sound surprised even him.

  The tide came in. The sky grew darker. And the scent of smoke and salt drifted far across the water.

  Far enough to wake old debts.

  They came without splashing. No warning, no sound.

  It was the scent Azalea noticed first—a sharp tang of brine and lilac. Her shoulders tensed. Her eyes turned narrow.

  Then: “Get up.”

  Lark blinked from his seat near the fire. “What—?”

  Azalea didn’t answer. She was already standing. Her gaze locked on the surf beyond the cove.

  They rose like shadows from the foam—three sirens. The one at the center was tall and pale as bone, with long silver hair tangled in pearls and kelp. Her face was nearly identical to Azalea’s—save for the jagged scar that cleaved through one brow. Her eyes were storm-gray.

  “Ithyra,” Azalea said, voice low.

  “Sister,” the lead siren replied, her smile sharklike. “You’ve been hiding.”

  Lark stood slowly, his hands open. “You…know her?”

  “Go back to the cave,” Azalea whispered to him. “Now.”

  But he didn’t move.

  Azalea took a step forward, chest rising. “I am in exile. You shouldn’t be here.”

  The second siren—dark-skinned, eyes full of stormlight—laughed cruelly. “We could smell your shame from leagues away. Why didn’t you come home, Azalea? You always ran from responsibility.”

  They spoke in circles, twin songs wrapping over one another. Lark didn’t understand all of it—but he saw Azalea tense. Saw her fingers twitch toward her side, then freeze. Ithyra looked at Lark, and her smile split wide.

  “You brought a pet,” she crooned. “How quaint.”

  Ithyra stepped around further, her sisters trailing behind like vipers. She coiled behind Azalea, clawed fingers grasping at her now-dried white locks.

  Lark’s ears folded back, teeth bared.

  “Leave her be.”

  Ithyra grinned wider. “Oh. He growls. Cute.”

  The invader tilted her head back to Azalea, who said nothing more. She was silent, nervous. “You reek of surface fire and ash,” Ithyra said. “You reek of him.”

  The blow came quick and silent, the jeweled knuckles of Ithyra meeting the back of her skull with practiced strength. Azalea dropped without a sound, a slick line of blood painting her temple as she crumpled to the sand.

  “AZ!”

  Lark lunged to her, claws sharpened as he buried his boots in the sand, crouching over her form.

  The sirens circled him, sand clinging to their now webbed feet. Ithyra licked her lips.

  “She smells like prey now,” one whispered. “Let’s eat them both.”

  The sirens stalked closer. He didn’t have a weapon.

  But the fire still burned behind him.

  He whirled, grabbed a half-charred wedge of driftwood, flames licking its split edge, and turned back to face them—eyes wide, catlike, wild.

  “Come closer and burn,” Lark snarled, the fire-glow casting shadows across his bruised face. “I’ll kill you.” he added, his voice voided of hesitation. Not a bluff.

  “Brave little beast.” Ithyra snickered.

  He moved forward, slow, deliberate, fire held like a torch and a threat. The sirens hissed at his resistance. Circling, they tried to sing—but Lark didn’t listen. His ears folded back, clawed fingers tightening on the flame as he shook his head like a twitchy cat.

  Then, the second one lunged.

  He swung the flaming wood in a wide arc. The wood met slick, sea-slick skin with a hiss, searing a line across the siren’s shoulder. She shrieked—a high, piercing sound that rattled his skull.

  The third came for Azalea like a starved vulture, lunging low with claws outstretched, aiming to drag her back into the sea’s hungry deep. Lark moved on instinct—he planted his heel and drove a kick straight into her jaw. Bone cracked beneath his boot. She shriveled back, screeching.

  Then pain bloomed across his back, hot and sharp. Ithyra had come in from behind, her claws raking deep in an attempt to knock him down. He yelped and staggered, twisting wildly to face them again.

  Over Azalea’s body, he stood like a feral thing, teeth bared, blood running down his spine, tunic in tatters. Sand stung the wounds. His vision swam as both fear and anger pooled in his chest.

  He could barely catch his breath before Ithyra lunged again—faster this time. Her jaw stretched unnaturally wide, fangs gleaming wet, tongue flickering with venom. Her breath was foul and rotting.

  He didn’t hesitate, feline reflexes jolting as he jammed the wedge straight into her open mouth.

  Her scream shattered the air, primal and guttural. Smoke poured from her throat as the fire kissed flesh and sizzled through venom. She reeled back, clawing at her own face, choking on the fire.

  The other two sirens wailed in fury, circling, more cautious now—but angrier, too.

  Lark, bloodied and shaking, took the opening. He lifted the silver bell to his lips, hearing only the rush of blood and distant thunder through one ringing ear.

  “Audientia fracta.”

  The bell cried out—sharp, unnatural. A scream not born of any creature, but of magic and fury. Not a siren’s call. This one would stun.

  And it did.

  Lark didn’t wait.

  He scooped Azalea’s tall, limp form into his arms as best a mortal man could, half-lifting, half-dragging her through the shallows. His breath came in ragged gasps. Desperation clawed at his throat as he tried to call for Myrrkaal the way Azalea had taught him—but it came out a choked, panicked shriek.

  “Come back, you sea bastard,” he hissed under his breath, voice trembling.

  The smallest of the sirens had recovered quickly. She stalked toward him now, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on Azalea.

  Then, like a gift from Elion—the Dreamfather himself—Myrrkaal surged up from the water, rising like a wave with an anxious, musical chitter. She’d been hiding.

  Lark didn’t think. He swung one leg over her sleek form, hauling Azalea across his lap.

  Myrrkaal launched forward—

  Just as the siren lunged.

  Claws raked across Myrrkaal’s tailfin, and she shrieked—a high, serpentine cry of pain, but didn’t stop. She powered forward in a blur of blue, slicing through the surf, leaving the sirens flailing in her wake.

  The sun was gone. Night had swallowed the sea.

  Lark clutched Azalea tighter. His hands were blistered, his ribs slick with blood. Salt bit at every open wound.

  Above them, only stars watched, Eluun’s eyes. Silent. Unblinking.

  And Lark couldn’t tell if the Mother of the Moon was pleased… or furious.