Page 12 of Female Fantasy
The books followed a badass human woman in her early twenties named Merriah and her ancient all-powerful love interest, Ryke. But the story was so much more than a romance. Merriah has suffered verbal abuse from her husband. Her shimmer has dulled, and she has lost sight of herself. But as the story progresses, she grows resilient, stepping into her power. At its heart, the series is about Merriah learning to trust herself, owning her strength and her femininity, and the way her potential grows alongside her confidence. I see so much of myself in her journey. She inspires me. Makes me feel seen. Less alone.
And then there’s Ryke.
Ryke, with his dark hair and amber eyes and flirtatious smile. Yes, Ryke is part mer (as in, cousin to Ariel). Sure, he can grow a sparkling onyx tail. And fine, it’sheavilyimplied that the size of said tail correlates to the size of his, um, appendage. But that’s not what makes Ryke so special. He not only cherishes Merriah’s beauty but respects her agency. He never tells her what to do or how to think. Instead, he listens to her and supports her. He asks for consent and allows her to take the lead. He always gives her a choice, even when it isn’t advantageous to him.
And he loves her. Oh, how he loves her.
With every ounce and fiber of who he is.
Even more than his good looks, dirty tongue, and perfectly defined torso, that true, unrelenting, all-consuming love is what makes Ryke the world’s most perfect fictional man.
Written by a woman, of course.
In other words, I fell head over heels in love.
The day I first read that book, I vowed never to settle for anything less than I deserved. A man who is as charmed by my intellect as he is the slope of my neck or the arch of my back. A partner who will ask me to remain by his side as we chart the course of our lives together instead of leaving me behind. Someone who makes me blush and flush with pride in equal measure. Who believes that my flaws are strengths and that our differences are what make us special.
A lover and a friend and a true equal.
A great love, one that could bring the gods to their knees and spin the Earth off its axis.
I’ve been searching for him ever since, to no avail. But I refuse to give up, to believe the Ryke to my Merriah isn’t out there waiting for me. I can’t allow my mind to go there, to slip into old habits, even for a second. I have to have faith. To trust the process. Even if that means spending my nights alone, snuggled up with words on paper instead of skin and bone.
Because if I can’t have the real thing, at the very least, I’ll always have Ryke.
I gape at Ryke, awaiting an explanation.
What is the Conch of Hippios? I have never heard the name before. Is the horn I attempted to steal some sort of religious artifact sacred to his people?
And what of war?
I was born during peaceful times. My father had never been summoned to war, nor had my wretched husband. I knew not of blood-soaked glass, of dull cleavers. Of swaths of fabric tied on doorknobs or haunted spirits.
But before I have a chance to pose my many queries, a sound rings out from all four corners of the glass oratory, shrill and shrieking. The most horrible noise I have ever heard, loud enough to wake the devil from his slumber, sharp enough to fill the banshees with envy. It vibrates through the walls until they shatter, and water begins to flood our hallowed hall.
“What is happening?” My voice is shot through with tremors.
Ryke is already moving about the room. He has lifted his body from the hatch below, his scaled black tail once again transforming into muscular legs. When I realize he is undressed, I look away quickly, my face undoubtedly red. But there is no time for such inconveniences as bashfulness.
Something is deeply wrong.
The sound continues to pulse through my eardrums as Ryke’s haven in the middle of the ocean begins to sink. He is collecting hidden items, I observe, nestled in the ceiling and within trick panels in the tinted glass floor.
He is preparing to make a swift exit.
“We are under siege,” he answers. “Our location is compromised. There has been a breach in the waters surrounding this fortress. We have but minutes to make our escape before they arrive.”
“Before who arrives?” I cry, wishing I could help him prepare.
“The sirens.” His lips are pursed, his expression grim.
“Sirens,” I repeat. “Are you referring to that sound?”
He shakes his head. “Sirens are mer,” he explains. “Well, they were once mer. Now they are more of a subspecies, one that rules over all of Atlantia. They are power hungry and greedy. It is not enough that they have overthrown our sovereign and conquered the land. No, they also insist on hunting down every mer who poses a threat to their rule to ensure that the rebellion never sees the light of day. Or rather, the light of the seven seas.”
“So your war is civil?” I say, piecing things together. “Brother fighting brother?”
If such is the case, then the mer are truly no different from the men who dwell on the shore. Impetuous and powered by greed. Hot-tempered, allowing their emotions to overthrow their logic until the only way to work through a disagreement is through violence and conflict. I have read the histories, heard the stories whispered around campfires. Neighbors becoming enemies over a border dispute. Friends becomes foes because of a love match gone wrong.
