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I’ll have the ship waiting.

no soul is lost to sea

Sereia,

I miss you. It has only been a few months, yet I ache for your smile. I carry the memory of it with me as I ready myself for the drawing. Might this be the year we at last sate his hunger? No, that is asking for too much. I’ll pray instead that he choke on our souls—forgive my irreverence, but at least then… he’d be dead. That is, if gods are capable of such consideration.

Yours,

Silas Blackwater

It was easy to write your defiance in ink. Harder still to give it a voice when you were powerless—unable to act upon your desires.

Bells tolled into the darkened sky. Prince Silas of Silvamare raised his gaze to the black clouds; they swelled over the mountains and sank into the ravines, snuffing out the daylight. Warm rain fell in great sheets, washing out the courtyard and blurring the shapes of people gathered there. Across the island, similar assemblies were commencing, each province bracing itself for another purging.

Silas stood in the downpour despite his mother’s insistence that he take shelter beneath the hastily erected canopy on the dais. His parents—King Arden and Queen Reina—remained under the wooden structure with his eldest brother, Linden. He didn’t judge them for it, but it only felt right that if their people must stand soaked and helpless while a single strip of parchment determined fate he too should stand with them in solidarity.

Water cooled on the nape of his neck, trailing his spine before becoming lost in the damp fabric clinging to his back. He thought of the letter in his pocket. He hadn’t yet decided to send it, so he’d folded it there to keep it close. No one had expected it to storm. It wasn’t until the courtyard began to fill that the squall front rolled in and the sky broke open.

The parchment was most certainly wet, the ink bleeding—he pictured it—a tributary of black winding through the paper’s creases, drowning out each word.

It seemed Cosmir, god of the heavens, had chosen for him. The gods took pleasure in tormenting them; he was sure of it.

A priest of Terron, the god of earth and life, blew through a horn carved of bone, the sound biting and wet, then drew from a large wooden bowl. Name after name reverberated off the stone walls, each one a death sentence the moment it left his lips. Rain had made the slips of parchment damp, and the blood-red ink smeared across the white surface as if the chosen were bleeding before he spoke their names.

Ghostly figures shuffled beneath the curtain of rain. Unease rose in Silas, sharp and acidic as bile. Panic wormed its way under his skin, an unwelcome parasite. His thoughts shifted to the island of Drakcultus—to Sereia. A brief glimpse of red lips and a bright smile steadied him just enough to remain outside the shelter a few feet away.

The priest’s hand dipped into the driftwood bowl again. As he called yet another name, the furrow of his brow was his only emotional display.

A feminine cry split the air, piercing Silas like an arrow. He flinched.

With a blinding white flash, lightning lit up the sky. Silas found Edward easily in the crowd. His arm wrapped tightly around his sister, like an anchor ready to hold steady against a raging sea.

Then, the world plunged into darkness.

“No, please,” she said. “No—”

Thunder swallowed the remainder of her plea and rumbled through the bones of everyone in the crowd.

The metallic clank of armor followed the clash in the sky. Silas knew without looking it was the guards, ordered to tail those destined for the Tide, ensuring they did not attempt escape during their goodbyes.

Above, another rumble mirrored the sound of a knock upon his chamber from three Tides past. A gust blew back his damp hair—the draft from the same opening door curving around him. When the memory washed over him, he didn’t push it away. He remained a statue against a battering sea.

“I beg you.”

Edward’s hands braced Silas’s shoulders, his face imploring. “I beg for nothing but this.”

He sank to the floor before Silas. “Save her.” His firm voice broke on the plea. To hear him so distraught broke something in Silas.

Edward had loved Cassidy for many years. He’d only just acted upon his feelings before she was called for the Tide.

Silas couldn’t look at his friend. There was nothing he could do to save Cass. Edward knew this. Any pull he had to keep those not of royal blood safe had been used to keep Edward’s name out of the drawing.

“I can’t,” Silas said, taking a step away, his tone cold as ice. “Don’t ask of me what I cannot give you.”

“You are a prince. You are my friend.” Edward looked up at him, pain and hurt lining his face.

Silas scoffed. The title of prince might protect him from the Tide, but it didn’t grant him the power Edward imagined.

“As your prince, I demand you get up off the floor.”

Edward flinched as if struck and rose to his feet. He paced—a man losing a bit of his sanity with each turn of the room—until finally coming to a stop before Silas.

“If you will not help me, then I will do it myself.”

Blood drained from Silas’s face, leaving him cold and shaken. Edward could do no such thing. He’d die trying, and there’d be nothing a prince could do for him then.

Thunder boomed again, yanking him back to the courtyard—to the present. He blinked away the image of the fire-lit chamber. Rain cascaded from the eaves of the dais, splattering against his boots. He turned his attention to the priest, whose lips still shaped names beneath the endless downpour.

The sea god was cruel for forcing them to do this. It was a miracle they’d survived his scourge for so long. Half a millennium had passed since the first Tide. From that moment, he ruled over them not only as god of the sea, but as one of death and destruction. Two island kingdoms had fallen since, failing to sate the god: the Sable Isles were first, then Volcara centuries later.

Unease coiled in Silas’s chest, a serpent whispering, Which island is next?

It was inevitable. Another fall would come, then another. Until only gods remained—indifferent over the ruins of what they’d once claimed to love. Perhaps then Cosmir and Terron might step away from the skies and the soil and give the sea his due.

Through the haze, Silas’s gaze found Edward once more. His hands were now clasped, his head bowed in prayer, but Silas knew he had long since stopped believing anyone was listening.

The rain fell harder, pelting his skin and drowning the fire inside him—a living, breathing force within his veins. But despite its warmth, he could only feel cold as the memory of what he’d done that night to keep Edward alive dragged him into the chamber once more.

Ignoring Edward’s pleas, he’d crossed to the cabinet of crystal bottles. With his back to his friend, he poured two glasses from the decanter. “If you are going to attempt to save her, will you have one last drink with me, then?” he asked, handing Edward a glass.

Edward took it, glaring at Silas over the rim as he drained it in a single swig. He slammed it down onto the end table.

“You really won’t help me?” The air crackled around them, fractures forming in the bonds that held their friendship together.

“I am sorry. I can’t,” Silas said, needing Edward to understand. “But I am not sorry for doing what I must to save you.”

With a furrowed brow, Edward looked at Silas’s untouched glass after glancing at his empty one.

“What do you mean?” Each word was its own sentence.

Silas saw the betrayal, the painful realization, when Edward’s eyes returned to his.

No, Edward would not forgive him for this. But he could live with that if it meant his friend lived too.

Edward staggered toward the door, trying to leave before the elixir took hold. His steps faltered as he reached for the handle; the mixture worked faster than anticipated. He fell against the stone frame and crumpled to the ground. There he would lay, unconscious until morning.

By then, Cassidy and the other sacrifices would be gone. Their souls lost to the sea god’s domain, their memory all that remained.

Silas took a blanket from his bed and covered Edward before turning to the window. Night descended, its darkness a veil of mourning. Beyond the palace courtyard, past the docks and the strait which split the island in two, he imagined the rocky shores on the island’s opposite side, where his people lay under another elixir’s spell, waiting for the Tide to rise and take them.

Looking up, he saw the crescent moon appearing from the scattered clouds, and in the moonbeam’s light, he saw the flash of blue eyes belonging to a girl he’d met that spring, the princess he could never have. He drank from his own glass, laced with the same elixir that would let him sleep through the Tide’s song. He settled into the seat across from the fire, staring into the flame until the world darkened around him.

When he woke the next morning, Edward stood over him, chest heaving, eyes bright with unshed tears.

“Stand up.”

He did.

Edward’s fist connected with Silas’s jaw, splitting the skin. He stumbled, catching himself on the back of the chair. Edward’s eyes seared into him, his hurt cutting sharp as a blade. Edward left without a word, slamming the door behind him.

A final name cut through the storm, dragging Silas into the present. Sunbeams peeked through the broken clouds like golden ribbons, a promise that the storm would soon ease. He rubbed at his jaw, where a scar remained—a reminder of his actions.

With his gaze fixed on the canopy, he saw his mother’s hand tighten on his father’s arm; her knuckles white, as he spoke.

“It is a great honor to sacrifice oneself so that the island and kingdom may live on to see another sunrise. Our hearts are with you, for each soul is a loss we all bear. Terron be with you.”

The king provided the only solace he could this day. Yet, it wasn’t enough.

Every year, Silas stood powerless before the god. How much longer could he endure only watching? As the second son, he felt it was all he could do.

The priest blew his horn one last time, signaling that the drawing had concluded. Once he knew Edward’s relatives were spared, he breathed out slowly, and the tightness in his chest eased.

When Faith Demands it be

Silas,

The summer solstice celebrations will begin soon in Adoratia. This year I will lead the newest generation of Adoratians in their leap off the cliffs. I find it hard to believe that I was ever terrified of the plunge, fearful my glider wouldn’t catch, that I’d be at the sea’s mercy.

Now, it is a time of year I always look forward to. It’s the only time on this island where I feel free. Taking the leap allows me to strip away my responsibilities and my fears. I am nothing and everything all at once. I only wish it weren’t shadowed by such loss—but I digress.

While assisting in the archives of Cosmir’s temple, I came across a poem of sorts. I thought of you immediately; I know how you take pleasure in collecting such things.

“The sea answers the sky,” she said,

“As blood answers the heart.”

“And yet,” he whispered,

“What is the sky without the sea who mirrors it?”

“I rise and fall with his command,” she murmured.

“It is in her depths,” he said,

“That I see my truest reflection.”

You can imagine my surprise at uncovering such a poem in the god’s temple—it’s the only depiction of romantic love I’ve ever found in any of their archives.

The parchment is quite old. I can only wonder whose hand penned it, and what became of the sea and sky. Did the god himself find such a love? Or were they the musings of a lovelorn priest many centuries ago? I like to pretend their ending was a happy one, though a part of me says otherwise.

We’ll never know, I suppose—but it is tantalizing to let one’s imagination run wild with the possibilities.

It must be equal parts exhilarating and terrifying, to see oneself so plainly through the eyes of another.

Be well, my friend.

Yours,

Sereia Gaiano

Every year, the sea demanded its due.

And every year, Silas wondered if faith was anything more than fear wearing a prettier mask.

By afternoon the rain let go. Sunlight threaded the mist, turning puddles into little mirrors and the ivy a deeper green.

The chosen were to be honored with a feast. Across the provinces, priests would raise their hands to bless the meal, and the families gathered—that they might find peace and acceptance.

In the square, before the palace gates, tables stretched the length of the plaza. They were laid with bread still warm from ovens, bowls of stewed fish and summer herbs, and fruits gathered from the southern groves. Music wound through the air, flutes and lyres trilling above reluctant laughter and clatter—hopeful notes fraying at the edges as dusk drew near.

Silas and Linden moved among their people, the palace guards only a few paces behind. The princes steadied trays, righted chairs, and accepted thanks they didn’t deserve. Children darted through the crowd, their laughter ringing like bells. There was always a light only children could see; a hope they’d not yet learned to hide. They carried crowns of rosemary and forget-me-nots, their blue petals soft as silk. The crowns were symbols of remembrance, love, and perseverance. The little ones spent days gathering them from the forest edge and sun-drenched meadows of the south.

Silas tried to believe, as they did, that the sea might someday give instead of take, but his mind had outgrown the wistful protection of adolescence. The sea was here before them and would remain when they were nothing but dust on the wind. He was helpless to save their souls from the greed of a god, when he was only a man.

A girl no older than six tugged at Linden’s sleeve, offering a crown that hung lopsided in her small hands. He smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t wear it. You see,” he lowered his voice. “I’ve developed a great fear of—”

Linden made a show of looking around for eavesdroppers and then whispered in her ear.

Her eyes widened, smile faltering.

Silas couldn’t bear to see it fade. It seemed neither could Linden because next he said, “But Prince Silas is fearless and brave. Might he accept the risk of the lady’s gift?”

Silas knelt on the cobblestones, mud darkening his knees, bowing his head as though before a queen. “It would be an honor,” he said.

The girl’s eyes brightened like sunlight peeking through clouds. She placed the crown on his dark hair, giggling when the rosemary forced his hair at odd angles. Silas grinned up at her. “Might I have four more? For my friends.”

She gasped, clasping her hands to her chest before darting off to fetch them from the table by the fountain. Linden folded his arms, grey eyes several shades paler than Silas’s sharpened on the crown. “I’m not wearing one.”

The last time Linden wore one, he was stung not once, but twice. He hadn’t worn one since.

“They’re not for you.” Silas’s voice warmed with mischief; a ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

When the girl returned, breathless and beaming, Linden pressed a coin into her palm despite her protests that the crowns were free. She ran back to her friends, holding it aloft like treasure.

Silas straightened, his gaze drifting toward the sea. He overheard a conversation about an uptick in attacks on naval ships voyaging across the Wavecrest Ocean. He knew the situation was worsening when his father ordered the commander to send attachments to accompany the merchant ships to Drakcultus and Sidon.

It seemed to help the situation, but if the bits of conversation Silas heard were not ramblings fed by paranoia, they were going to have a problem on their hands.

Already the horizon was dimming—not with storm clouds, but with the quiet certainty of what the night would bring. The Tide was out there, watching, waiting, circling their island like any predator to its prey…

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