Page 82 of Wicked Depths

The sirens are waiting.

They slip from the tide like shadows, their smiles too wide, their eyes too dark, their laughter a haunting melody that dances between the war cries. They drag the men down, nails raking through steel, fingers pressing against thrashing limbs, whispers like silk against their ears.

Come deeper, love.

Come drown for me.

I do not watch them struggle. There is no need.

I know how this ends.

Instead, I turn my gaze to the battlefield, where fire and shadow carve a path through the foolish remnants of Aldric’s army.

The forest burns with Nyxara’s rage, the trees twisted in agony as viridian fire races through their roots. Creatures of the wild tear through the lines of men, fangs sinking into flesh, talons ripping through armor like parchment. The Sentinels move like gods among mortals, their weapons dripping with the blood of invaders who should have known better.

And above it all, she flies.

Nyxara.

Her onyx wings split the sky, her body a leviathan of fire and fury, raining down destruction in streaks of burning green. She is beautiful. Terrible. Untouchable.

And Aldric was supposed to kill her.

That was the deal.

He was supposed to take Varellith before dawn and rip the heart from this realm and place it at my feet. Instead, the sun is cresting the mountains, gilding the battlefield in a golden haze, signaling what I have known all along.

Aldric has lost.

And I?

I have already won.

The great King of Solmar stands among the wreckage of his ambition, soaked in blood, sweat, and failure.

His golden armor is ruined, tarnished black with soot, splattered with gore. His once-pristine royal cloak—a symbol of his dominion, of his supposed right to conquer—is torn, singed, dragging in the mud behind him.

Aldric is out of time, out of men, out of options, and he knows it.

Still, he refuses to fall.

I’ll give him that—the man is stubborn.

He pants through gritted teeth, his chest heaving, fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of his sword. There is no armyat his back anymore. No war machines. Only the bodies of those who followed him here, who died for nothing.

He lifts his head and finds me.

And oh, how heloathesme. That fury in his eyes? That betrayal? That is what I live for.

"You," he snarls, voice hoarse, broken.

I smirk. "Me," I echo, letting the word roll off my tongue like a purr.

His hand tightens around his sword, but we both know the truth. Steel won’t save him now.

“We had a deal,” he grits out.

I sigh, feigning boredom, dragging a hand through my silver hair, still damp with sea mist.

---