Page 66 of Wicked Depths

It is something deeper. Something that coils in her gut like a sickness. A grief so raw it has become something monstrous.

And I know before she even says it. I know what she’s about to do.

"You," she murmurs, stepping toward me, her claws flexing, her breath even, but her voice crackling with quiet destruction, "are going back to the cell."

I scoff, my temper igniting instantly, the ocean inside me crashing violently against my ribs. "You cannot be serious."

Her expression does not waver.

"You will be locked away, where you should have been from the start."

I take a step forward, my chest brushing hers, the heat of her fury clashing against the cool pull of my magic. "You're blaming me for this?" My voice is sharp, clipped, biting. "I did nothing but—"

"You made me weak."

The words shouldn't sting.

And yet.

And yet, something sharp lances through my ribs, deeper than I expect.

I let out a slow breath, my magic curling around my fingers, the ocean in my veins demanding release, demanding I fight back. "You think locking me away is going to fix your mistakes, Dragon Queen?"

A muscle in her jaw ticks.

Her breathing is still controlled, but I see the truth in the way her claws tighten at her sides, the way her nostrils flare ever so slightly, the way she has to force herself to stay still.

"You do not get to speak of my mistakes," she says, voice so cold, so final, that it feels like a blade to the throat.

She lifts a clawed hand, her movements slow, deliberate—a silent command. The guards step forward, shadows moving in the dim light.

I tense, magic curling tighter, gathering in my palms. “I will not let you do this,” I growl, my power humming, waiting, aching to be unleashed.

Nyxara doesn’t even blink.

"You do not have a choice."

The guards move.

I fight them, of course.

But I let them take me.

Because I have my own plans.

The moment the heavy iron doors slam shut, the moment I am alone in the cold, dark cell—I smile.

Not a soft, wistful smile. No, this is sharper, edged with something wicked. Something deadly.

Nyxara may have forgotten one thing.

She may have locked me away.

But she did not take the one thing I needed.

I lift my hand, fingers brushing over the cool weight of the sea-water pendant that rests at my throat. The small, delicate jewel glows faintly, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. To anyone else, it looks like nothing more than a trinket, an ornament hanging from a thin chain.

But it is so much more.

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