The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea

by Katherine Quinn

  “I trusted you.” The wounded man spoke, his voice cracking. He clutched his stomach with both hands, crimson saturating his cerulean robes. “Why? After everything we have been through, my friend?”

  Margrete tasted the anguish in the man’s voice—the betrayal—but she was anchored in place. Even without the invisible bonds, she couldn’t have looked away if she wanted to.

  Ten soldiers wearing thick leather and carrying broadswords swept into the room as the hooded man chuckled, the sound one of twisted triumph.

  Gods. His was a voice she knew all too well.

  Margrete gasped as the men formed a circle around their leader who now lowered himself to his knees and reached out to grasp the dying man’s chin.

  “Oh, Eldoris. This is all your fault, really. You were the one who showed me what could be achieved. What I could do with the magic you were too weak to utilize.” The captain gave a humorless laugh. “The world could’ve been yours to rule. Not just this small island.” His hand dropped from the man’s chin. “You settled for a crown when you could’ve been a god.”

  Margrete twisted in the seat. She wanted to go to the man on his knees, to save him. But through his pain, the man, who wore a thin circlet of gold, lifted his head.

  At that moment, she knew who he was.

  Bash’s father.

  The hood fell from the captain’s head. He turned his steely gaze to the throne, seeming to look directly into his future daughter’s eyes. Her breath hitched, and with one simple glance, every act of cruelty he’d inflicted on her over the years hurtled into her rapidly beating heart.

  The captain looked away and returned his focus to the King of Azantian. “You lost, friend,” he hissed, his lips twisted at the corners. Her father went to say more, but fresh footsteps sounded from behind the line of soldiers, interrupting whatever cruel words he planned to deliver.

  The muscled warriors parted, revealing a beautiful dark-haired woman with red lips and the deepest hazel eyes Margrete had ever seen. With a hand clutched to her protruding belly, she approached the captain, who bestowed her with a smile borne of deep affection. It was a look Margrete had never seen him wear. The sight of it was nearly as shocking as the scene playing out before her.

  “Arlin, my darling.” He took her delicate hands within his and pulled her to his side. “I was wondering where you ran off to.”

  The woman—Arlin—beamed at the captain, her eyes twinkling beneath his adoration. “I had some loose ends to see to,” she said, her voice a delicately cruel thing, “but I wouldn’t have missed this for all the world, my love.”

  The king sputtered blood, barely able to keep his head lifted, though he managed to speak, hatred lining every syllable he forced out. “You’re a traitor, Arlin.” He fumbled to stand but slipped in his own blood, his hands splayed out flat upon the throne room’s floor. “How could you do this to your people?”

  Arlin scoffed, rubbing her belly. “You know why better than most why, my king,” she spat the last word. “You always overlooked my talents. My intelligence. When I asked for a larger role, you surpassed me in place of half-witted men who didn’t have the sense to see what Azantian could become.”

  “I overlooked you because you are short-tempered and—”

  “Enough,” Arlin thundered. “I don’t want to hear any more of your lies. You are weak. Soft. And you never deserved the crown you wear.”

  Margrete’s lips parted in a soundless shout as a soldier kicked the king in the gut. His grunts of pain echoed throughout the room. More mercenaries rushed to attack the old king, but her attention drifted, captured by another sight she questioned was real at all.

  There, tucked away in the corner, well behind the captain and his men, was a whirling of dark shadows. The dancing haze morphed and settled until the faint outline of a man took form.

  The captain was speaking now, but she couldn’t take her eyes away from the intruder, from the magic that he possessed as he took shape.

  Ortum.

  Margrete gripped the throne as Ortum’s lips moved without a sound. He lifted his hands in the air, his fingers curled like talons. Time froze as a rush of wind blew through the hall, and the captain slowly lifted his face from the dying king to scan the room.

  Her heart thundered when his eyes landed on Ortum, but her father’s gaze moved on, clearly unable to see the advisor or the power Malum’s descendant wielded. He returned his attention to Arlin.

  A woman who wore Margrete’s every feature.

  She knew then, with a sickening realization, who Arlin truly was. Perhaps she’d known since the moment she saw her walk through the throne room doors.

  “It’s time we end this,” the captain grumbled to the king, reaching for his sword. “I’ll do you the favor of putting you out of your misery before I kill your son. Consider it my final act of friendship.”

  At the mention of Bash, Margrete’s heart ached. Her skin burned as she twisted to free herself from the throne. Never before had she desired to kill her father as much as she did now. The phantom bonds around her wrists slackened before pinning her back in place.

  “May the sea god embrace you,” Arlin said, grinning.

  As the captain lifted his weapon, ready to bring it down up the old king’s neck, the shadows that cloaked Ortum whirled once more. With his hands raised high above his head, Ortum mouthed a final word. A flash of iridescent blue light flared across the expanse of Arlin’s belly, there and gone before anyone noticed.

  A wave of adrenaline shot through Margrete as the light faded, and a deep knowing settled into place—Ortum had transferred the Heart’s power.

  Into Arlin herself.

  The figure of smoke that was Ortum wavered, but before he vanished, Margrete made out the way his mouth gaped, his coral eyes wide with shock.

  He hadn’t meant to transfer the Heart to Arlin. He’d made a mistake, and a dire one at that.

  Margrete’s thoughts were cut off as the captain’s sword fell. It sliced through bone, severing the king’s neck. She screamed as blood splattered her father’s face, which blazed with triumph.

  “Now, the Heart.” The captain stepped over the king’s dismembered body, his boots leaving bloody footprints across the floor as he strode for the dais.

  Margrete thrashed in her restraints. Every step her father took, each inch closer he came to her trembling form, sent wave after wave of pure, unbridled panic surging through her veins.

  Just as the captain reached the steps leading to the throne, mere feet before the daughter he couldn’t see, he lifted his gaze.

  His eyes seemed to find hers in the space across time, the icy blue searing into her flesh. Margrete saw hatred and greed trapped in his irises, but there was also a sliver of what appeared to be a feral sadness, the kind that eats away at a person until there is nothing left.

  Margrete wouldn’t let him do that to her. Not anymore.

  Her father took a step up, then another, and Margrete clenched her fists and roared. It was a savage sound, one mixed with fear and cutting rage. It held all of the venomous hatred she’d been forced to suppress. The resentment. The fear. The helplessness.

  Margrete erupted.

  The shackles holding her to the throne burned her skin, and flames coiled around her insides. This fire flared within her chest until there was nothing but a fine red mist of rage and a pounding heartbeat in the air. Her body shook from the sheer intensity of foreign power, but the shackles around her wrists continued to hold her down.

  Margrete let loose a screech of frustration as white fog curled around the edges of the room, dancing up the pillars and statues. Her father’s face blurred, but the malice that contorted his features could never be washed away.

  That cursed voice returned to her ears, echoing in the chambers. That damned voice that refused to leave her alone.

  You’re the one I’ve been searching for.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Bash

  “Where the fuc
k is Ortum?” Bash screamed, attempting to shake Margrete free from whatever trance she was under. But she was glued to the damned throne, held down by some kind of dark magic.

  Bash didn’t know much about the dark arts, which his father had banned decades prior, but he surmised only a potent spell could be used to paralyze a person, to still their body as their mind drifted someplace else. At least, that was what he assumed to be happening, if her clouded eyes were any indication.

  He was late coming to meet her, stopped by too many doting courtiers, and when he walked into the throne room, he found her perched on the dais, eyes glazed and unseeing.

  His panicked shouts must’ve been heard, for Adrian appeared at his side minutes later, and his friend ordered guards to search for Ortum. The advisor may not be as powerful as he once was, drained from decades of holding the sea’s children back, but as Malum’s descendant, he knew more about magic than anyone on the island.

  A guard raced over to whisper into Adrian’s ear, and his commander’s features fell. “No one can find him, Bash,” he said in a frantic rush. Adrian rarely lost control, but his breathing hitched, and panic shone clearly in his eyes.

  “Well, search harder!” Bash grabbed at Margrete’s arm, attempting to pry her free, but just as before, she couldn’t be moved.

  A sharp ache throbbed in his chest, intensifying the longer she remained under her spell, his desperation causing his hands to tremble. Sweat lined his brow, and he let out a guttural curse.

  Bash rested both hands on the high back of the throne as he hovered over Margrete. He’d never felt so powerless.

  “This is dark magic, Bash,” Adrian murmured behind him. “The air reeks of it.”

  Indeed, the room smelled of rust and smoke, and a scent he didn’t recognize. Only once before had he witnessed dark magic with his own eyes. He was five at the time, and a disgruntled council member of his father’s had turned the fresh water supply into blood using an ancient spell book he had salvaged. Bash could still recall the scent of darkness, of the lethal enchantment the man had used. The spell was broken the moment his head tumbled from his traitorous shoulders, the old king delivering the fatal blow himself.

  Only those willing to sacrifice a piece of their souls used such magic. Their power was supposedly granted by Charion, God of War and Vengeance, but only once they relinquished all the good within their hearts, turning them into a husk of the person they’d once been.

  Now someone was practicing the forbidden magic again, but who would target Margrete? And why?

  After the council member’s death, his father destroyed all texts and lore devoted to the subject. He sent guards from home to home, sweeping the island for practitioners, and there had been no signs of it since. Until now.

  “Margrete,” Bash whispered, reaching out a shaking hand to cup her cheek. “Wake up, princess.” Her skin was like ice, and he flinched at the contact. “Please.”

  Bash was aware of the shuffling footsteps behind him, of the courtiers’ hushed murmurs as they wandered into the room. His people were watching as he leaned over Margrete, his emotions on display for all to see.

  Bash didn’t fucking care.

  “Princess.” He trailed a finger down her cheek, gently clutching her chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m so sorry.”

  Sorry for bringing her here. For initially hating her because of the blood running through her veins. Sorry he hadn’t shown his true face to her when he had the chance. Because her pulse was slowing, her skin growing even more pallid, and Bash feared—

  He feared so very much.

  “Bash.” A heavy hand fell onto his shoulder. “People are watching, and as much as I hate to say this, it probably isn’t for the best that you—”

  “Wait.” Bash cut Adrian off as his eyes landed on a hint of red. He twisted around to the side of the throne and crouched, bringing himself closer to inspect what appeared to be two interwoven circles.

  Painted in blood.

  “I need a cloth. Water!” he barked. A minute later, someone sat a pitcher of water and a clean cloth at his feet.

  Adrian wordlessly hovered above him, but Bash ignored his friend and instead swiftly dipped the cloth into the warm water and scrubbed at the throne, where the circles—no more than two inches in size—had been drawn. When the metal shone clean, he dropped the cloth, red streaks staining the pristine white linen.

  “Was that what I think it was—”

  A loud gasp silenced Adrian.

  Margrete’s lids flew open as she sucked in air, her eyes wide with terror.

  “Margrete!” Bash grasped both her arms, helping her rise before clutching her trembling frame to his chest. He didn’t give a damn if everyone on this island witnessed him now, because she was alive, and he hadn’t lost another person he…Well, another person he cared about.

  And he did care about her. More than he thought possible.

  “Are you all right?” He supported her head as she leaned back to meet his worried gaze. “What the hell happened?”

  He wondered what could have possessed her to sit on the throne, but the blood he found painted on its side was evidence enough that someone planned this.

  Margrete caught her breath, her cheeks regaining color, but the fear remained in her eyes.

  She met his stare, opened her mouth, and spoke the words that would shatter his world.

  “Bash. I know where the Heart’s power went.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Margrete

  Bash scooped Margrete in his arms and carried her from the throne room, past the gossiping onlookers. Margrete felt safe against his warm body, her face tucked into the crook of his neck. They didn’t speak as he carried her up the staircase, where he paused only long enough to shift her in his arms and open the door to his rooms.

  He kicked it closed behind them with his boot and gazed down at her, his eyes shadowed and full of worry. She could tell it had taken him great effort to keep his emotions in check before his people, but his facade was crumbling. She’d never seen him so pale.

  Without a word, he brought her over to the bed and gently lowered her onto the plush bedding. Taking great care, he climbed in beside her and pulled the blanket over them both. He held her close, his muscled arms winding around her, one hand pressed into the small of her back.

  Would she ever be able to get the image of his father bleeding out on the throne room floor out of her mind? Or the captain and Arlin’s cold, cruel gazes as they watched the king die? Margrete already had enough nightmares to contend with.

  “Feeling better?” he asked.

  “Yes. A little.” She couldn’t help but hold onto him. He felt like an anchor tethering her to reality.

  Bash watched her, one hand propping his head and the other resting on her waist, his thumb rubbing circles. “Can you tell me what you meant when you said you knew where the Heart’s power went?”

  Margrete could still see the stunned look on the faces of the onlookers. Their whispers echoed in her mind.

  Unnatural.

  Blessed.

  Divine.

  She let out an involuntary shiver.

  “I was early meeting you,” she began, her throat painfully hoarse, “and there was this urge, this voice, compelling me to sit on the throne.” It was well past time she told Bash of the two entities, the two otherworldly voices that whispered secrets into her ears. He deserved to know, especially after what her vision had shown.

  “A voice?”

  “Yes. I’ve been hearing it since I came to Azantian,” she confessed, and the weight fell from her shoulders. “I should’ve told you sooner, but I thought I was imagining it. Or maybe I just hoped I was.”

  Bash drew her further into his embrace. Her nerves lessened, even if she dreaded speaking the next words.

  “When I fell into the sea during the storm, I heard Malum. I understand how absurd that sounds, but I know it was him. He told me he was trapped but working to free himself.�
�� She squeezed her eyes shut at the memory of drowning. When she opened them, Bash was staring at her in awe. “But tonight…Tonight, I heard another voice, one that I recognized, and I believe I understand who it may belong to.”

  Darius. Malum’s brother. The other god of the sea. It had to be.

  She didn’t know why she felt so certain, but she couldn’t deny the truth that reverberated inside of her like the drums of war.

  “He told me to sit on the throne, and I foolishly heeded his request. The next thing I knew, I was no longer...I was somewhere else. Still in the throne room but trapped in a different time.”

  She expected Bash to look at her like she’d lost her mind, but instead, he took in a steadying breath and asked, “And what did you see?”

  “The night your father was murdered. The night my own father attacked Azantian.” She cleared her throat, preparing for the next part. The hardest part. “As the captain killed your father, I spotted Ortum. He was hidden in the shadows, murmuring something beneath his breath. Performing some kind of enchantment, I assume.”

  Bash’s breath hitched, but she continued.

  “And then there was a small flash of blue light, and it sparked across the pregnant belly of the woman who stood at my father’s side. They were…together, it seemed.” Her eyes held Bash’s, focusing on those endless green pools and the gold dusting his irises. “Bash. She looked like me. She had my nose, my chin, my hair. My hazel eyes, before I drowned, were her eyes.”

  He stiffened, seeming to grasp what she was trying to say. Bash had asked her once about her mother and where she might have hailed from, but when she told him, she could tell he didn’t believe her.

  “No one in that room seemed to notice when that light flashed across her pregnant belly at the same time Ortum performed his enchantment. I think…”