Page 30 of Jewel of the Sea

Arkon, Dracchus, and Jax were the last to leave the room.

Dracchus’s pace was easy. He stretched his powerful arms as they moved down the hall. “He aims to make this difficult.”

“Change always is,” Jax said.

Dracchus grunted. “Macy has proven herself. She is one of us, and our people owe her a great deal. Denying that is dishonorable and disrespectful.”

“It is a natural reaction to cling to supposed traditions when faced with changes that may threaten one’s power,” Arkon said. “Kronus feels more threatened now than ever before because he is unsure of his place with humans coming into our lives.”

“Kronus clings to the old hatred,” Dracchus replied. “That is what he fears losing. He has already forsaken our traditions through his dishonor.”

Arkon regarded Dracchus with new interest. “You mean to say that Kronus’s identity is intertwined with the hatred for humans that has been instilled in us since we were younglings?”

“We are all taught humans are our enemies. It is a foundation of how we have survived and avoided contact with them all this time. Kronus and his ilk have not accepted that things must change for the sake of our people’s future. Macy is not the threat.”

“But she can be seen as a threat to our way of life, can she not?” Arkon offered. “She does things differently than we’ve known, and some kraken are adopting her methods. That’s not to mention how some of our females feel about being replaced by human women.”

“She is a danger to a way of life that would’ve had to change with or without her intervention, eventually. We must learn to adapt, for the good of our species.” Dracchus looked at Jax, and the two exchanged a nod; the moment was surreal to Arkon.

How many years had they spent in conflict with Dracchus? How many years had they wasted, when they might have workedtogethertoward a prosperous future throughout?

This power struggle was more important to the kraken than any in Arkon’s memory; it was the difference between progress and stagnation, between a chance at peace and an inevitable war. Even knowing that, he could not shake his impatience — this needed to end, the hunt needed to end, so he could get to Aymee.

A crowd had already gathered by the time the trio emerged from the Facility — everyone who’d been in the Mess and a few newcomers. Kronus floated just over the seafloor, his skin its normal ochre and his intense yellow eyes locked on Dracchus, Jax, and Arkon.

As he followed Jax to take a place in the ring of onlookers directly opposite Kronus’s supporters, Arkon relished the relative quiet in the water. The sea was never truly silent, but its ambience was typically gentle, a cocoon of serenity belying the savagery hidden in its depths.

It was preferable to listening to Kronus prattle on, at the very least.

Dracchus positioned himself in front of Kronus, and they flashed red at each other. It was a mutual acceptance of the challenge. A signal for the contest to begin.

Kronus was a male in his prime, an experienced hunter, and he’d been chosen by many females as a mate. He moved with confidence and speed as he commenced his dance. His tentacles were soon a blur of motion, spinning and undulating, and colorful patterns skittered across his skin. His performance would be the envy of many — the dance was about prowess, endurance, and control.

The nearby females watched, enrapt, and some of them shifted to maroon, openly signaling their interest.

Then, Dracchus offered his retort.

Though his heavy build suggested a lack of speed or grace, Dracchus’s power leant him quickness, and his tentacles stretched and curled as he spun. The patterns pulsing across his skin created a hypnotic effect, altered by his spinning into ever-changing, scintillating shapes.

He matched Kronus’s speed and then increased the pace. Their whirling bodies grew indistinct until Kronus’s form faltered and his patterns broke.

Dracchus was a juggernaut; he showed no sign of slowing, no sign of tiring.

As Kronus flagged, his color solidified into the vibrant crimson of aggression and fury. Some kraken in the crowd signaled surprise or excitement. The result of the dance — which Arkon might have considered an art form under different circumstances — would be violence.

Kronus charged first, a fraction of a second before Dracchus, but his advantage yielded no favorable results. Their limbs thrashed in a chaotic tangle, but Dracchus’s darker arms and tentacles enveloped his opponent. Within moments, Dracchus had an arm around Kronus’s neck, and his tentacles coiled around Kronus’s torso.

Four other kraken — Kronus’s most steadfast supporters in his crusade to preserve theold ways— rushed forward.

Whatever informal rules had existed around the challenge were shattered in that instant. Arkon’s hearts pounded, adrenaline poured into his veins, and he surged into the fray alongside Jax.

The water clouded with motion and dissipating blood. Arkon wove through flailing limbs, narrowly avoiding claws and tentacles, and lashed out at Kronus’s lackeys.

His knuckles hammered into a jawbone. Tentacles wrapped around his arm before he could strike again, hauling him toward his foe. Bending and twisting, he slipped free and raked his claws over his opponent’s ribs. More blood flowed into the water; they’d be lucky if the smell didn’t attract a razorback.

Someone grabbed Arkon from behind, hooking an arm around his neck and slithering tentacles about his abdomen. The hold constricted.

Arkon tensed his entire body, battling the increasing pressure. He kept the flow through his siphons small; too much water expelled would allow his assailant to tighten their grip.

---