The Tides Underneath

There is no light beneath the ocean's skin.

Only pressure. Only silence. And the kind of truth that strips the bones clean.

Two shadows stood before the restless tide. The sea gnawed at the shore like it was trying to spit something out.

"She's pathetic. Utterly pathetic," the first voice said—female, brittle, like ice cracking under its own weight. "Crawling back with her tail between her legs, as if failure can be undone by contrition."

The second voice was low. Tense. "She still played her part well to some extent."

"And that makes her useful?" the woman snapped. Her tone didn't rise—it didn't need to. Each word landed like a knife gently twisted. "She let mortals stain her waters. To top it off she's broken. That alone is enough."

The other figure said nothing.

"She was already a disgrace before this." she continued, calmer now—but crueler for it. "At least now, she's honest about what she is."

A pause. The man's voice again, uncertain. "She's waiting. Outside the reef. Still asking for forgiveness."

The woman let out a breath. Not a sigh. Not pity. Just… disgust.

Plain unfeeling disgust.

"She mistakes mercy for relevance."

"You want her silenced?"

"I want her gone."

Then, quieter—cruelly serene:

"The sea does not mourn what has been discarded."

Something shifted in the water behind them. A distant rumble, deep beneath the tide.

"Have her dissolved."

The command didn't echo. It didn't need to. The sea heard it anyway.

"A water nymph who fails to keep their tide sacred is no water nymph at all."

-------

The deck groaned beneath his boots as Kaden moved between barrels and crates, calling out instructions with the flat, steady tone of a man running low on everything but duty.

"Keep the grain sealed until morning. Salt what's left of the fish. And make sure no one touches the fruit—unless they're feeling lucky enough to grow gills."

A few of the men chuckled. Most didn't.

The laughter had gone thin since the island.

He ran a hand through his hair, sweat mixing with sea salt and something heavier. Something like ash. He didn't know why he still expected Haleel's voice beside him—always quick to make some sarcastic remark, always there to fill in the silence Kaden left behind.

But now there was only silence.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement near the bow.

Andravion.

Still.

Staring back.

Kaden didn't need to ask where his captain's eyes had drifted. The island was far behind them now—barely a shadow on the horizon. But it was still there. In their minds. In their ribs. In the aching silence where Haleel used to be.

He hesitated, then crossed over, slow and careful.

The wind tugged at Andravion's cloak. His hand rested on the railing like he needed something to hold him upright. Or maybe something to keep him from going overboard.

Kaden stopped a few paces away. He didn't speak right away.

Then, low—measured, tired:

"Men keep asking why we left so soon. Why we didn't bury him and the others properly. Why we didn't wait for morning."

He paused. Andravion didn't turn. Just kept looking back.

"I told them we gave them to the sea. That it's the oldest rite there is."

A gust passed between them, wet and cold.

Kaden looked down at his boots. Then up at the horizon again. "Truth is… I just couldn't watch it happen."

Still nothing from Andravion. But something in the way his shoulders tensed told Kaden he'd heard.

Kaden's voice dipped, almost a whisper. "He was my friend too."

Silence. Then:

"He was better than I deserved."

Kaden blinked. Looked over. Andravion's voice had finally broken the air. Quiet. Hollow. Cracked down the middle.

The captain's hands clenched the rail.

Kaden didn't know what to say to that.

So he just stood there with him. Let the moment breathe. Let the sea take what it needed.

Eventually, Andravion pulled his cloak tighter and walked away.

Kaden stayed behind. Watching the water.

The things they'd lost… the things they left… they didn't sink.

They drifted.

And they followed.

A thought slipped through his mind.

"Not all hearts are forged for war."

Kaden paused mid-thought.

He shook his head, scowling, forcing himself back into the moment. Just tired. Just grief. Nothing more.

But the air felt colder now.

Like something unseen had noticed him.

....

Far beneath the waves, where sunlight dared not touch, the sea had already begun to whisper.

It pulsed through stone and salt, past shipwreck bones and ancient silence, until it reached the cavern—alive with secrets and slow-moving power.

There, two figures hovered in the gloom. Waiting. Listening.

The cavern glowed faintly, lit by threads of bioluminescence curling through the water like veins of light. The two continueed their plot.

The man paced, jaw tight, fists clenched like he was holding back the urge to break something.

"He's alive. Still walking around like nothing's happened. Like he won."

He turned to the woman, voice low and sharp. "I want him wrecked. I want him crawling back to that throne of his with nothing left. No men. No hope. Just... ruin."

Across from him, the woman lounged on a throne of coral and gleaming pearl, the sea licking at her ankles like a pet. Her smile was bored, but her eyes glittered like glass.

"So dramatic. You mortals love your long deaths." She stretched, her limbs fluid and languid as waves. "But slow ruin takes effort. I prefer… certainty. One command and the tide will take him. No blood. No mess. Just silence."

He frowned, jaw clenched. "No. This isn't about killing him. Not yet. I want him to rot from the inside.I want him looking over his shoulder every second, wondering what's next. I want him scared. Lost. Alone."

He breathed heavily, hands trembling not from fear—but fury. "I want him to fall apart."

The woman laughed — not kindly. It echoed off the cavern walls like breaking glass.

"You speak of him almost as of he's stone. But he is flesh. The boy might think of himself a stormwalker — yet even storms kneel when the sea rises."

A thought flickered behind the man's eyes. He spoke again, quieter.

"And if he doesn't?"

The sea beyond howled in answer. A deeper sound stirred beneath it, something ancient and watching. The woman rose — tall, divine, terrifying. The water curved around her fingers, pulled to her as if the tide itself awaited instruction.

"Then I will send a whisper. Not to crush him entirety… not yet. Just enough to remind him: even the strongest drown."

-------

The world around him shifted—soundless and slow, like breath caught between sleep and waking.

Andravion stood in the familiarity of the stillness of the realm beyond the physical.

The realm forged from thought and divine power.

A pale sky stretched above him, cracked like old porcelain. The ground below was glassy and dark, reflecting nothing.

And in the middle of it, she stood.

Ramona.

She was not draped in gold or glowing like some heavenly monarch. No, her presence was sharper than that. She was clad in layered robes of ivory and ink, flowing like scrolls caught in a frozen wind, ancient runes softly pulsing across their hems. Her hair fell long and dark like night and bound at the crown with a circlet of braided starlight.

Her eyes. gods, those eyes looked like they were forged from mirrors and moonlight, seeing not just his face but the layers of thought beneath it.

She looked like someone who had held the hands of kings and emperors before they became tyrants… and struck them down when they did. Heck she looked like she could hold the entire earth in one hand and squash it with a little exert if force.

Andravion couldn't speak. Because he knew what was coming.

However, what came was far from what he expected.

She didn't move, didn't blink. Her silence carried the weight of a thousand spoken words.

Then—

"How dare you," she said.

Colder than ever. Not rage.

Judgment.

A divine stillness that crushed deeper than any shout.