Page 85 of Wicked Depths

The humans are defeated. But the land is wounded.

I walk through the ruins of my kingdom, through the ashes of what was lost and the embers of what remains. The once-magnificent trees of Varellith—tall, ancient, and untamed—stand in scorched, splintered silence. The battle tore through the forest, leaving charred roots and blackened soil, the ground soaked in the blood of those who fought to protect it.

And yet, despite the devastation, life stirs beneath the ruin.

The rivers are beginning to run clear again, the currents no longer choked with ash and debris. The creatures of the forest, both those who fled, and those who fought or watched from the shadows, emerge from their hiding places, hesitant but whole. The sky above, once blotched with smoke and shadow, begins to clear, the first golden light of morning breaking through the darkness, chasing away the last remnants of war.

Varellith survived.

And so did I.

The tide stretches far onto the shore, closer than it ever has before, as if reaching for something. The sea, once a force I fought to keep at bay, has not retreated.

It lingers.

It claims what is now part of it.

I follow the path upward, to the highest balcony of Varethorne, where the wind carries the scent of salt and rain, of fire and victory. And standing there, waiting for me, is Vaela.

Her silver hair catches the light, tangled with salt and blood, strands whipping in the sea breeze. Her pearl bodice and lace gown clings to her like mist over the tide, her bare feet pressing against the cold stone. Her expression is unreadable, but her presence is undeniable.

She belongs here.

Just as I knew she would.

Something foreign coils in my chest, pressing against my ribs, something tight, unrelenting, consuming.

I had hated her.

For betraying me. For making me believe she had chosen him. For whispering in Aldric’s ear, letting him touch her, letting him believe he could claim her. But I was wrong. She had never chosen him.

No, instead, the sea witch played him. Ruined and destroyed him from the inside out. And now he is gone.

And despite it all, she is here. Still standing, and still mine. I approach, the weight of war still thick in my bones, my magic burning low but steady beneath my skin. She tilts her head, waiting for me to speak first.

I don’t.

Instead, I do something I have never done before.

I kneel before her.

The wind howls through the empty battlefield below, the ruins of war still fresh, still bleeding, still healing.

"I was wrong," I murmur, my voice quiet but steady. "You, siren, are not my enemy. You never were."

Her eyes flicker, silver catching the sunrise, reflecting it back like shattered light.

"And?"

The word is simple, but there’s an edge to it—a test. I exhale slowly. I have never bowed for anyone. Not even the gods. But she is not a god. She is worse. She is a siren, a storm in human skin, a song spun from salt and sin, a force that defies the natural order of things.

I lift my chin, holding her gaze as I speak the truth I had known long before today.

"And without you, this war might not have been won for my king. I owe you a great debt, and so, my land, power, and soul… are yours. Should you want them."

The corner of her mouth lifts—a smirk, slow and knowing, dark with satisfaction appears. Her fingers tangle into my hair, gripping tight, forcing my head up until I’m looking into her silver eyes—glowing, sharp, dangerous. The ocean wind lashes around us, cool against my burning skin, carrying the scent of salt and victory.

“You know,” she muses, tilting her head, feigning innocence, though the glint in her eye is anything but, “I thought I’d have to work harder for this.” She drags her nails along my scalp, scratching lightly, making me shudder. “But look at you. So eager.”

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