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Sunlight filters through the upper currents as water splits against the propeller of a fluorescent, golden-hued tail twisting within stone spires.
Schools of fish scatter as though a sunbeam breaking into thousands of shards as the mermaid swerves between reef-building corals and below structures that, for the current moment, serve the purpose of a race track.
She moves with intention — one hand outstretched in front to establish long, efficient strokes, effortlessly veering away from arched obstacles. The mermaid does not falter in her venture, not even at the faint blink of blue-scaled appendages at the corner of her vision, threatening to staunchly match and, perhaps, surpass her pace.
The luminance of a streamlined fin beads freckles of light off her scales. She creates waves as muscle contracts with greater force. Below her, seahorses and crabs alike slumber in the comfort of the ocean's grass while turtles hide in the multitude of submerging rocks. Serene and placid, a dichotomy to the focus of narrowed eyes and pursed lips.
Light, airy laughter rings bright.
It follows the sudden emergence of a figure at her side—its tentacles push back on water to project a body forward. The sea-witch turns around, looks at the mermaid who does not offer her a glance, and teases, "You're slower than the rumors claim, your highness."
And with that provocation, writhing appendages overpass her. The witch does not break her gaze, but instead swims backwards just to throw her competitor a lopsided smile.
"I'd hate to embarrass you too quickly," Mydei shoots back, reclaiming her lead in a short breath. "But I can't allow your head to grow bigger than it is." She darts through the current, a flash of gold, and Phainon doesn't relent. Merely follows behind her in a surge of effervescence.
They've drifted down this same path on countless occasions; at the outer reef surrounding Castrum Kremnos, beyond its borders, where Phainon has found a second home for herself, one she vastly prefers over the abyssal deep seas. There is only so much time a creature can spend among motionless darkness, neighbor to nothing but the whirl of gray mist and a myriad of strange life forms, without beginning to feel cracks in their sanity.
In her resolution, Mydei misses the sharp whistle of an incoming dolphin, who blocks her path with not a care in the world. She grinds her teeth as she watches Phainon take advantage of this short slip-up to step back onto the winning podium with a far-too pleased expression.
A tentacle of hers brushes along the length of Mydei's waist as she passes, taunting. Playful.
"Oh, don't look so forsaken, Mydei! It's not often the reef bears the honor of the princess' presence — the poor thing just wants to say hello," Phainon calls out, the silver-blue of her hair floating like delicate seaweed in the tranquil depths.
"Though perhaps you have been coming here frequently." She pouts, hopelessly insincere. "Ah, Mydeimos… you'll give me the wrong ideas like this. Whatever will I do?" to which Mydei simply scoffs, though with no real bite.
Ribbons of gold dipped in red champagne fan out in the water as the locks of Mydei's hair trail behind her. The finishing line of the track they've made is marked by a rough pillar of stone, one within both of their eyesight, now.
"You have plenty of wrong ideas already," Mydei drawls, body twisting into a whirlwind, the momentum allowing her to speed past Phainon. "Winning, for instance."
The finishing line closes in — stone becoming larger with each flick of her tail, each stroke of her arms. While Mydei swims with streamlined control, Phainon moves with untamed grace. A wild curl of current as her tentacles unfurl and recoil in rhythmic waves.
Contrasted in their physicality, and yet equals in every way.
One of Phainon's appendages subconsciously tilts in Mydei's direction as she catches up, beginning to languidly wrap around her tail as though a marine snake. "Is that how witches define victory?" Mydei rips herself out of her hold with ease, throwing her a sharp glare. "By entanglement?"
Phainon replies sweetly, "And here I was thinking you liked that."
Mydei shakes her head, unwilling to be fazed by what is so obviously Phainon's attempts to distract her, the sneaky thing. Instead, she pitches onward, strategically swerving between ribbed arches of ancient stone and reef-rock.
It would take five long strokes, and she'd be there, just five—
Silver-blue flashes past, an unblinkable velocity. Tentacles snap taunt as Phainon steals the narrowest opening between stone and coral, laughing as she cuts ahead. The radiant sound — paired with the whir of water as she moves, a low rumble— is harmonious, and almost enough for Mydei to stall in her pursuit. Almost.
She doesn't, of course. Though no matter, it isn't enough to claim victory. Mydei knows Phainon has named herself winner just by the utterly pleased, utterly delighted sound that fills the ocean space, along with her typical, jabbing taunts: "How fortunate that we've no audience, Mydei. Imagine the scandal if anyone saw me—dangerous, no-name sea witch—besting the Kremnoan princess, ah, three times in a row was it?"
Mydei scoffs, passing the finish line just seconds later. Barely a difference, really. "Oh, I'm sure they'd have a lot to say about your underhanded tactics."
Phainon inclines her head, expression pulled into theatrical obliviousness between pants. "Hm?"
Mydei's tail curls upwards, circling Phainon's waist and pulling her forward, just to mouth at her collarbone and then nip at the sensitive skin of her nape, sharp teeth on flesh — enough to have her jolt but not enough for any true pain. A reprimand.
Phainon winces. "Ow— Mydei. Is this any way to treat a victor?"
Her tongue laps over that same spot, soft and deliberate, soothing the sting of the bite. Phainon's appendages twitch, then creep up higher, coiling around to pull Mydei closer. The plush of Mydei's chest presses against tentacles — ones that wind up along each side of Phainon's torso to wrap around her own breasts into a sinuous bodice. They reflex involuntarily at the contact before Phainon can school them to remain still.
The mermaid hums low against her skin, "How does our victor want to be treated, then?"
Phainon pretends to think, though the hitch of her breath makes it clear she has a vague idea of what she wants as a reward. "I'll have to linger on that."
When Mydei doesn't remove herself from her, Phainon makes a chastising sound. "The guppies are watching; they'll think you have no decorum. What will they tell their mothers?"
"That the talkative creature ought to audition for a role at the amphitheater, since she's particularly gifted at feigning innocence while her hands wander."
And to that Phainon pouts, head tilted downwards in mock offense — yet makes no move to withdraw the hands that are idly toying with the red fabric stretched across Mydei's chest. The dastard thing is a barrier, a veil between where her fingers rest and where she'd rather they'd roam.
Alas, the sea-witch is helplessly fond of the smaller creatures of the sea darting around her. She sighs and lets her hands fall. Later.
Mydei follows, head pulling away from the crook of Phainon's neck — and then, her brows raise in question at the look on Phainon's face. A small smile quirked on the edge of her lips. and her eyes soft, holding a quiet warmth that should be impossible for a cold-blooded being.
"Spit it out," Mydei prompts, endlessly perceptive.
Phainon, feeling somewhat caught, blinks. "It's almost scary when you do that."
"You're awfully easy to read," Mydei returns, her voice a gentle low — a welcome adjustment of tone to how Phainon's shoulders faintly curve inwards, and her teeth scrape at her bottom lip. Knuckles brush against the witch's cheek, urging. "Go on. What is it?"
Phainon looks at her for a moment and then turns around, her limbs moving with her as she lowers her body down to the soft grit of quartz sand. There, she flips over a beige seashell, fossilized under the ocean's turbulence. Below it is an object that Mydei can't make out the shape of, but one Phainon grabs with a hitch of hesitation.
As she comes back up, she says, "It's nothing, you know, grand, but I just thought— With the circumstances of my… presence within Kremnoan walls, or rather lack of, you'd still have a piece—? Of me, when… ah, it's silly."
Mydei waits with patience as Phainon's mouth moves with apprehensive uncertainty. Her cheeks are lightly puffed out, and her hands are cradling the object as though fragile when she returns to Mydei's level.
There, cupped between her palms, is a bracelet.
It's not unusual for the mermaids of the kingdom to adorn themselves with threaded gems, and certainly not uncommon for the kingdom of Castrum Kremnos, where jewelry has become a status symbol. Mydei herself wears a golden cuff on her forearm, one that signifies her position as crown princess, if the grandeur of her tail weren't enough.
But this — this is different.
"Oh," Mydei goes in a way she rarely does.
It's not meant for courtly display — the pearls are imperfect. Some smaller, others vaguely iridescent with surface wrinkles. Still, they're woven together with precision, nimble fingers threading soft sea-silk into something fitting — perhaps not for the crown princess of Castrum Kremnos, but for Phainon's Mydei.
The sincerity of the craftsmanship alone is enough to have Mydei blinking soft and slow, not to mention the source of the pearls themself — Phainon. The sea-witch, alongside the variety of her distinctive traits — whether the suction of her appendages, the faint bio-luminescent shimmer beneath her skin when she's stirred, or the inky undertone to her scent — has an ability unparalleled to none.
Phainon cries pearls, and those pearls make up the offering in her hand.
"They'll make it past the wards," Phainon adds when Mydei takes a moment too long to respond, assuming that it's in question of whether something belonging to Phainon would be welcome inside. Castrum Kremnos is not accepting of outsiders, and a sea-witch dazzled in misconceptions is certainly no exception.
The mermaid hums. "How did you test that out?"
"Throwing them at your walls, of course. If it had hurled back and struck me blind, I would have reconsidered," Phainon says in jest, but the crack in her voice lets slip how her nerves remain. The purse of Mydei's lips doesn't help — her silence settles unease in her lower gut.
"Do you not…" Like it? She means to add, but the words are far too eager even in her own head.
Mydei schools her expression back into her usual calm at Phainon's fretfulness, then asks, "Phainon, when were these made?"
She frowns. "The pearls?" And then, with hurtling realization, "Mydei, you don't think that—"
"Were these forged from your suffering?" Mydei asks, low and weighted, but faster than she usually does, a string of words riddled with distaste. A worry born out of how well she knows Phainon, and how little the woman cares for matters that concern her own integrity. That, ridiculously, the level of self-deprecation she's long made a home inside of has led to this, and Mydei has somehow given her the wrong idea that this is what she wants — a bracelet made from tears of pain, from torment — that she would wear it as an ornament, and—
"No," The gravity in Mydei's voice has Phainon sputtering with wide eyes. "They're not — I wouldn't—"
"I asked because you would,” Mydei says quietly. “If you thought it would please me.”
"I know it wouldn't," Phainon offers with a weak smile. That drains the tension from Mydei's shoulders immediately — the affirmation that there hasn't been a terrible misstep between the two of them.
Phainon huffs, "Now I look like a harlot."
Mydei's head tilts to the side, though she's quick to realize the true occasion these pearls were shed. "Oh?" She muses. Her fingers trail over the length of the bracelet in a movement that shouldn't be as alluring as it is before picking it up. "How scandalous, Deliverer. Which night were these from?"
If it were possible, Phainon would flush a pretty pink; she'd been enthralled once the idea of weaving her own tears of pleasure into jewelry had hit her following a particularly frenzied throes of limbs they share frequently, but having Mydei feel each bead in her hand has her pulse stuttering.
Phainon remembers it all to clearly — relentless hands mapping her body, finding places she had not known could unravel her. Somehow, Mydei had learned her sensitive spots and seemed determined to coax the sweetest keens from her lips, paired with beads of pearls spilling warm down her cheeks in shimmering confession. A mouth had kissed them away, caught them between teeth while firm hands urged her back into a helpless arch.
"Are you hoping for another demonstration?" Phainon teases.
"Yes," Mydei says so simply, Phainon can't help the way her appendages twitch.
It doesn't go further than that, this teasing — they're sharply interrupted by a sudden blur of orange-red darting in repetitive circles around Mydei. Both of them look down to see an angelfish, fins glowing brighter with each abrupt turn, with pigmented scales — vibrant, as though a warning signal, and that's precisely what this is.
This particular species is not uncommon within central Kremnos, trained as royal couriers. They serve as both an alert and an escort; to inform them that something is wrong, and to also lead them towards where they're needed.
Phainon frowns, looks at Mydei to see she's equally as confused. "Has something happened?"
"Not that I was made aware of," Mydei says, brows furrowed. The stillness of her tail makes clear the regal sharpness of her senses at this omen.
"Your father isn't summoning you because his heir has taken to slipping past wards for questionable company, is he?" The unsaid below the light-heartedness of her banter sings, I didn't get you into trouble, did I?
"As if his commentary holds any value," Mydei almost snarls. It's not quite the truth of it — the Mer-king, Eurypon, yields tyrannical governance over Kremnoan land. Still, Mydei treats the matter simply, just as she does with anything else when it comes to Phainon — the king's assertions won't mean anything for her if Mydei does not allow it, will not allow it.
Phainon doesn't believe it, of course, though she doesn't protest. How can such a matter be as straightforward as Mydei treats it? The crown princess should have no business entangling with a sea-witch, predatory and malevolent as they are.
When the angelfish darts forward, suggesting Mydei to follow, Phainon urges, "Duty calls, your highness." With the ghost of a smile on her lips and gentle, coaxing eyes, she says, "Go. I'll be here when the tides bring you back."
Mydei purses her lips for a moment, her eyes lowered to the bracelet in her hand. Carefully, she slips it over her fingers, down to her wrist, and positions it neatly. Phainon watches with agape focus, as though she hadn't truly expected Mydei to wear her offering so soon.
She looks at it now, pearls framing the bone of her wrist, her pearls — and it feels like claiming, in a way that has her chest tightening. The knowledge that Mydei will have it with her, and in a sense have Phainon with her, as she carries out her duties, like the witch is standing guard at her pulse.
It feels dangerously close to a vow, unspoken.
A singular finger brushes along the curves of the bracelet one last time, and then Mydei is turning around, tail following her as the angelfish guides her where she's needed.
Phainon waits until she's out of sight before squealing into her hands, pitched and ecstatic, tentacles wrangling with uncontrolled energy. She feels somewhat like a child still in the process of courting and succeeding in her efforts, with Mydei accepting the bracelet and wearing it.
Nearby, a puffer fish pauses in its venture to throw what looks like a completely judgmental glare. "You're just jealous you have no princess of your own to spoil," Phainon sing-songs, appendages wiggling in triumphant mockery.
The fish's fins splay in disapproval before pivoting away.
The outer reef of Castrum Kremnos is not nearly as grandiose as its inner counterpart.
While the central region that bears the palace is embellished in red and gold, with soaring structures made of coral and limestone that tower over its inhabitants, the barrier is dreary. Shadows forged from narrowed spires and turrets drown the area in dimness, making for a deeply dingy picture.
Mydei follows the angelfish through the territory — doesn't note anything unusual about the surroundings that could prompt her presence.
That is, until she whiffs the frail scent of decay, putrid in its sweetness, coming from the deepest waters ahead of her. As she swims into its depths, the odor becomes increasingly nauseating, the type that has Mydei reeling for a moment before she collects herself. Smell isn't the only glaring omen — fragile corals that were once vibrant and teeming with life are now dusted in ash, a near molten black, as though a large oil spill has made them victims.
Mydei's jaw clenches — without a doubt, this is cause for concern. The princess has never witnessed anything like it.
The sound of troubled voices rings louder the deeper Mydei goes — the particular low, gravelly hum of an assertive cadence that Mydei is quick to recognize makes clear that all authority in Castrum Kremnos, including the king himself, has deemed the situation harrowing.
Down below stands a concord of the kingdom's high councilors and wardens. With the sharpness of a lanced trident in hand and regalia adorning the expanse of a broad torso, the Mer-king Eurypon observes at the center in his imposing glory.
"Mydeimos," the King calls. "You indulge distractions while rot claws at our borders."
Mydei lowers her head in greeting. "Father," she replies evenly, or tries to. The grit of her teeth at the subtle mention of Phainon — a distraction— takes a moment to restrain. "I came as soon as I was summoned."
Eurypon assesses her — eyes everything but affectionate. In his palm, corroded algae slumber. "Do you know what this is?"
Nearby, the wracking cough of a merman attempting to choke out rot that has slipped past his gills is boding. It must be poison, Mydei thinks, with how it forces the body to reject itself — lungs seizing against water that should serve to sustain them.
"It behaves like corruption," Mydei says, measured. "I have not seen anything like it."
"Kingdoms at the opposite end of the current have not been so lucky as to live in the comfort of ignorance," Eurypon crushes algae between fingers. It's now that Mydei realizes that this is no foreign entity — she's heard vaguely in the diplomatic correspondence between smaller regions along the reef about a mass of black that strips merfolk and all other sentient entities of autonomy and makes single-minded monsters out of them.
They call it the Black Tide, and the tide has no exceptions.
Leonnius, who works as a messenger, slips past wardens with troubling words slipping from urgent lips. "Your majesty, the current has taken the west end."
"And containment?"
The hesitation that follows is telling. "We attempted to reinforce the ward-lines, Your Majesty. The corruption destabilized it. It—" his throat works. "It moved."
“As if directed,” one of the other wardens ventures. “It bypassed the barricades entirely.”
The silence that follows is near-suffocating; a sinking sensation weighs on Mydei's chest. Eurypon turns to the darkened waters beyond the reef — thick with vile, a haze of ash.
The region they stand in, though less heavy, is much unlike the cobalt blue currents Castrum Kremnos makes a home in. There remains a layer of creeping mist, remnant tendrils of the Black Tide from where it had laid down destruction near the barrier.
"How many lost?" Is what Mydei asks.
Leonnius looks at her, eyes softening for a fraction of a second at the tension in Mydei's shoulders, and says, "Fortunately, not many live in the outer reef. We've only eight casualties."
"Only a matter of time before it sweeps the inner city," Eurypon grunts. He turns to the councilors, orders on his lips, "Seal the western passage. Collapse the outer ridge if necessary."
"Low population doesn't equate to no population," Mydei grits. "Civilians live beyond the passage. You would bury them."
"I would preserve Kremnos," Eurypon corrects. The king has never been merciful, not when it threatens the continuity of what he believes must endure. There is no pride in allowing Castrum Kremnos to be swallowed by the tide just as lesser kingdoms have been.
Mydei hates every sharp edge of Kremnoan honor, its fallacies, its gleaming rhetoric — how easily it demands blood from those with the least power to refuse. Those at the outer reef, who'd succumb to poisoned tides, told that their deaths will fortify the capital. And then they'll be hailed as brave, and have their abandonment be treated as a sacrifice.
It settles bile at the back of her throat.
"Preservation," Mydei says carefully. "Should not require preemptive burial."
Eurypon's arms cross over the fabric of his chest. "You've grown soft, Mydeimos."
"And you," Mydei's voice is quiet, a cutting edge. "Have grown accustomed to sacrifice that is not your own, Father."
The slippery defiance from the crown princess has everyone momentarily still — Leonnius, and behind him, Perdikkas, throws her a wary look. Though the king doesn't brutalize her with the sharpness of his tongue— instead, he watches. The narrowed determination of Mydei's eyes, the rise and fall of her chest.
Mydei ignores it. "Seal the passage if you must, but give them a window. Let the wardens draw whoever remains to the refuge of the capital. Martyrdom is not strategy."
Eurypon's reply dies before it forms — something in the water changes.
Subtle, at first — a tightening in the current, the premature stillness of a building wave. The lingering mist that wraps around them does not disperse as things that are not wanted do; instead, it gathers. A black hole of decay amasses into a ball, writhing. The accumulation languidly grows in size as the Black Tide's remnant corruption draws into one spot, at the center of their congregation.
"That… doesn't look right," Perdikkas comments. Mydei is inclined to agree.
Though the current around them begins to clear, with it being gradually drained of contamination, or rather the contamination moving elsewhere, onlookers watch with trepidation.
The tendrils of dark mist do not stay in place. It moves with intent, drawing forward in one direction — right where Mydei stands. It's deliberate, unhurried in its surge, but determined.
Next to her, wardens mount their weapons, prepared to defend — Mydei should find it insulting. "Your highness—" one of them calls out.
"Hold." The princess does not move; she observes the filament of black, prepared to draw backwards lest it serve harm, but something about the way it slithers has Mydei questioning its purpose.
Alas, it seems she's correct in her presumptions, but it does not satiate the twinge of unease in her gut — because, suddenly, a tremor wracks her wrist. No, not the flesh of her arm, but the beads adorning it. The pearl bracelet burns, and Mydei stills, frozen. It causes no pain, not like a flame; rather, the pearls pull, a magnetic pressure that has the bracelet rising upwards slightly.
Confused murmurs that Mydei can't blame fill the space, and only increase in size when the mist of the tide does not spread along Mydei's skin, nor does it appear concerned with the princess at all. Instead, it slithers to the pearls as though a snake of fog, and then hisses on contact.
Ripples thread through the current as the mist is, somehow, ridiculously, unfathomably, swallowed by the beads, dissolving entirely into the sheen of pale pearls — her bracelet.
It doesn't remain luminescent for long; as the corruption is swallowed, the beads turn dark, decay spreading through as it's accepted inside. And then, once the tendrils have been ingested, the bracelet drops back down, heavy. Satiated.
Mydei blinks, blinks again, and again. What—?
Though the ash-choked currents are now clear, tension only builds.
Eurypon speaks first. "It seems a change of approach is necessary," voice velvet and low — predatory, much like a shark, with its pointed teeth, salivating at the sight of its prey. Mydei has to restrain the instinct to clutch the bracelet — Phainon's gift, Phainon's tears — with her hands.
Lydus, a man of the upper court, inclines his head at Mydei's wrist. "Pearls," he says, fascination in his cadence. "Pearls that have effectively neutralized the tide's remains. How is it possible?"
"Perhaps a trait we have long remained ignorant of. Besides, those fragile things are not common inside Kremnoan households," another person chimes in.
Behind her, the court continues in its curiosities. "The Black Tide may have cognitive impacts; what if this is a trick of the light? A visual deception born out of the tide's poison?"
"Then we will test it," Eurypon asserts. Mydei's fingers claw inwards, the sharpness of her nails digging into her palm as the king asks for a set of pearls, ordinary and clean, to be brought to the congregation. As they wait, a combination of fascinated and wary murmurs sets in place.
Perdikkas and Leonnius make it to her side with furrowed brows in question. "Your highness," the former says. And then, lower, "Mydei. Is this a cause for concern?"
Mydei's face remains composed, unaffected. "No," because the princess will not allow there to be any reason for apprehension.
A warden steps in with a string of beads — regular pearls. Eurypon takes it into his own hand, fingers rubbing over the curves as he says, "Bring forth a vessel of the tide from the Western breach."
The test serves two purposes. First, to prove the court had not been deceived by the Tide’s lingering poison. Second, to see whether this was a trait of pearls — or of Mydei’s, the bracelet hanging from her wrist, in particular.
The princess waits with a clenched jaw.
It takes a moment, but a shell basin arrives with darkened liquid, one thoroughly contaminated. It's positioned in front of the king, who carefully dips the pearls inside, taking care not to get any of it on his fingers. Then, they observe.
A hiss — just like the first time. Except, instead of being absorbed, the tide seeps into the pearls and brings rot to them. The luminous surfaces blister and then burn — quickly shriveling them out of its spherical form, coating it with molten ash. The string slackens, dissolves, and disappears inside charred residue.
The vessel does not clear up. Eurypon lifts his gaze back to Mydei, who meets them with unflinching placidity.
"It appears this isn't a matter of our own ignorance," the Mer-king announces to the court, and then speaks directly to Mydei, "You don't adorn yourself in gifts without attachment."
"Father," Mydei says, chin jutted out. Her pulse stutters as Eurypon sways forward.
"Your inclination towards gold regalia came from your mother," he says. "I cannot recall seeing you wear something so unremarkable as pearls, especially ones harvested outside of our reefs."
The accusation cuts clean, but Mydei doesn't relent. "Speak plainly."
"The wards record every entry and exit, the exact location, and precise recurrence, as you know well," Eurypon continues. "Mydeimos, has that sea-witch friend of yours been faring well?"
Several members of the court stiffen at the phrasing. Mydei should — at the implication that the king knows where these pearls may be sourced from, who has offered them to the princess, who they can receive more of them from as a weapon against the tide — but she doesn't.
Mydei doesn't stiffen, but nails crack the flesh of her palm, and beads of blood tint the surrounding waters.
"I was under the belief that Kremnos does not concern itself with outsiders. Is that not the purpose of its barriers?"
Mydei knows that her words tread the line of rebellion with its boldness, but it has been long coming. They slip out of her easily now, for a matter far larger than propriety.
It's difficult — the situation. She knows full well that this knowledge — Phainon's pearls somehow having the ability to neutralize the black tide — would work well in favor of preventing further destruction.
Yet the Kremnoans see only one manner to force a creature to shed tears, and that is pain.
It is for that reason they mustn't know how exactly to extract the pearls from the sea-witch, where its true source lies — because Mydei will not allow a single breath of Phainon's flesh to be harmed, especially when it'll hinder her as a weapon to be used, a machine to be exploited, a body to be wrung dry.
Mydei's chest caves in at Eurypon's next words. "There's not much information on sea-witches in our libraries, rare as the creatures are. Though," he stops, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I do recall reading about a certain rare trait, one belonging to those born in abyssal depths, and how the water of their tears solidifies into crystals. Maybe the, ah, intricacies aren't quite accurate, you'd imagine."
The beat of her chest, the tightening of her throat — Mydei watches the curve of a smile on the king's face, a predator savoring insight.
"Maybe, in truth, they were pearls. Unfortunately, I can't attest to that, but I'm sure our crown princess can, given her entanglement with the creature."
"You wish to form an allegiance with her," Mydei says, authority coiling below her measured tone. "No — let me correct myself. You desire to reduce a sea creature to a weapon, while refusing her passage beyond our borders and denying her even a semblance of reverence. Am I correct in my understanding?"
It's perhaps more emotional than it should be — spat out and gravely.
"Her," Eurypon echoes— and only then does Mydei realize he knows nothing of Phainon beyond her species.
Years ago, when Mydei had first begun visiting the outer reefs, Eurypon caught the faint scent of ink clinging to her skin and drew his conclusion: a sea-witch. That was all he had ever known, and ever since, he had watched her return to the palace with that far-too-serene expression, his glances sharp with quiet suspicion.
"It seems the two of you are closer than I had presumed. How heartwarming." The mocking tone does not slip past her.
A sharp intake of breath, the twitch of a muscle on her face; Mydei shouldn't take the bait that has been laid out so obviously for her. She shouldn't — because, regardless of how she's already responded with sharp remarks and avoidance, to shield Phainon is to bury her kingdom.
And if that isn’t torment enough, she doesn’t know what could be.
"The wardens have grown significantly in size as you've aged. More thoroughly trained, more equipped for brutality when it's needed," Eurypon pronounces. He draws closer, voice dark with malice. "But new advances have been made, as well. Shackles that sear flesh, poison that corrodes from within — both that I'm sure will be enough to bring a creature to tears."
I will have your head, Mydei thinks. I will have your head, and I will enjoy watching the way your limbs flail as they search for its dismembered counterpart.
The crown princess meets the mer-king head-on. "Such measures are superfluous," she declares, "when I can retrieve the pearls myself."
The court mumble in question. "The sheer amount of pearls required to neutralize the tide is no little number, your highness," Lydus says.
"Do you question my understanding of the situation?"
"O-of course not, your highness," he sputters.
"Then I ask," Mydei continues with calm authority, gaze fixed on Eurypon. "That the court focuses on reinstating barricades and leading the outer reef to the capital, while I deal with this matter."
"It is only natural for me to question the sincerity of your suggestion," Eurypon retorts.
Mydei doesn't waver. "The Kremnoan people have always been my highest priority, and they will remain so."
And Eurypon smiles, regal. "Then it's decided."
The court disperses in murmurs, and Mydei too, after a bow of assent, turns around to leave — bile gathers at the back of her throat, bitter and sharp. Punishing.
When Phainon had first brought Mydei down to her dwelling — a wrecked ship obscured by veils of red algae and sea grass — it would be dishonest of her to say it hadn't been a tour full of disapproving glares and tightly bitten comments. The skeletal hulk, with its splintered wood and barnacle-encrusted steel planking, had been presented to the crown princess with warm eyes and nervous tics.
Now, as Mydei follows the familiar route to her abode, all she can think of is how Phainon's personality sings through every draped yellow fabric and each antique salvaged from the wreckage and arranged along the deck. She can only see the care made to name this place home.
Despite Phainon living alone, it does not make her wholly lonesome — not with families of fish, from cods to seahorses, roaming around her abode as though welcomed neighbors.
As Mydei lowers herself onto the hull, she can hear the distant hum of a voice from the lower deck.
"—So many teeth but no bite, you cannot possibly be a weapon— a tool for grooming? No… perhaps for a very unfortunate fish, yes, before it's snagged to pieces ." A soft clatter follows. "Oh, I'm sorry, sweets, I should really take care of my language around you tiny things — hey, please don't knock that over—"
Mydei listens with quiet fondness; Phainon is no doubt conversing with her petite companions who carry the conversation with glubs and engaging flaps of a fin.
Terribly endearing, in a way that makes something low in Mydei’s gut churn with guilt for how she is about to ruin it.
When Mydei pulls open the hatch, she sees Phainon sitting on a shell bed, shaped like an open, oversized clam, its interior a shimmering pale pink, textured with fine grit. In her hand is an object — fingers trailing down the shape in meticulous inspection. Mydei doesn't have to see her face to know the pinched concentration she must have.
The goldfish startle before Phainon can realize her presence. Her head tilts to the side — not enough to meet Mydei's eyes, but enough to acknowledge her.
"Good timing — say, you wouldn't happen to know what this odd contraption is meant for, would you? Surely someone as noble as you is better-versed in matters like this. You—" She stops, the shift in the current unusual. Heavier. "Princess?" Phainon calls softly, turning at last to face her.
Phainon likes to think that, just as Mydei understands her, she also knows Mydei in her entirety. Despite the mermaid being far less expressive while maintaining a regal composure built on a fortress of both restraint and steadiness, it doesn't take long for Phainon to notice the fractures in the polished marble of her face.
Because there's a shadow of a frown tugged at her lips, not quite there yet but enough for Phainon to know immediately that something is wrong.
She's there in a rush of movement, hands cupping the sides of Mydei's face as her eyes dart from side to side, looking for any sign of injury, anything that'll name a cause to the prominent tension coiled in the mermaid's shoulders.
"Hey. Mydei, hey— what's wrong? What's happened?"
And when Mydei says, "Phainon," her voice falters, then hardens, like bone setting wrong.
Dread settles in her throat. Phainon's eyes drop to Mydei's stammering lips, and then to the line of her chest, down to her torso, where her tail begins, and then — her wrist.
A bracelet, her beads dulled, flecked with dark ash — and Phainon moves an inch away.
A cold claw grips at her ribs, sharp and unrelenting, and for a moment, the waters that press against her leave her suffocating. A gasp cuts off into a strangled choke, and hands pull up in front of her as though confronting an enemy on her premises. "What," she tries. "No—"
There's a sound ringing in her head, knocking into the solidity of her skull, a persistent pounding — high and shrieked, visceral and raw, and, oh, Phainon knows these voices well. Knows every crack, every coarse groan, every wretched whimper — and then the words, a name long-lost, a name forgotten by all but one, no matter the effort, clattering against the walls of her mind.
do you remember, ■■■■■■■■?
There are two hands on the sides of her arms, digging into her flesh, and Phainon wonders what it'd be like for the claws of a pretty hand to rip through them. What would they see? Would her blood run black, just as the ocean had done, when—
late, so late, and we were gone, and you came after and the pearls shed had not been enough
Frantic words from frantic slips, soft and persistent, and then with an edge, and it's desperate. Phainon has never heard these lips move with such distress. Has she done something wrong? It wouldn't be the first, it wouldn't be the last.
was it heavy, ■■■■■■■■? the weight of grief pressing, piling high around the decaying body in your hands, sunken cheeks and pale flesh and—
"Phainon."
It's not enough to bring her out of the haze she's succumbed to, but Phainon clings onto the familiar low rumble, tries to melt broken screams down and back to the corners of her mind. Phainon, a careful voice repeats. Something hard presses against her forehead, and it is warmth in a unyielding form. Grounding and firm.
A hand encircles the width of her wrist, pressing her palm against the solid rise of a chest. Hush now, the creature sings. Listen, listen to me. Phainon. These hands are no phantom claws — they have teased, they have carded the strands of her hair, pressed firm circles into her back, soothing, careful.
"Mydei," she murmurs — because who else could it be? Phainon blinks, and the ocean is not black. The ocean is the orange-red hue of a tail, and the soft curve of a pretty face.
Her vision stutters back into focus. It's then that she realizes their position; Mydei has her forehead pressed against her own, leaving only enough of a gap between them to have Phainon feel the staccato of a heartbeat below her palm.
"Sorry," because it's what she has to say.
Mydei doesn't pull away — not wholly out of lack of want, but partially because Phainon, in her desolation, had unconsciously wrapped her tentacles around a familiar waist and drawn her close, searching for her anchor even when blinded with grief. Now, they float in something almost like a cocoon, with tail and appendages intertwined, bodies pressed so close they blur at the edges.
When her tentacles begin to coil away, Mydei says, voice oddly hoarse — heavy with the weight of guilt — "Stop that."
Phainon huffs, mumbles, "You had… quite a bit to say about entanglement earlier," an attempt at a jest, but Mydei sees through her as she usually does.
They should talk about what needs to be discussed. It lingers between them, unaddressed. Evident in the way Mydei's hands, usually so composed, drift from Phainon's back to the strands of her hair, fingers threading through them in a restless tic. The soothing touches equally serve to regulate Phainon as they do to her.
And Phainon knows what this is, without Mydei having to spell it out for her. It's not difficult to put two and two together at the sight of that familiar decay clinging to her pearls —wrought out by the corruption Phainon had faced a time before she'd dug her old name into the depths of the abyss she no longer could call home.
Mydei, just as easily, realizes Phainon knows full well what her pearls are capable of out of wretched experience.
Her mouth opens, and then closes, and Phainon's chest twists at this foreign display of hesitation — because how does Mydei even begin? How can she ask this of her, when Mydei has so often been at the forefront of reassuring Phainon out of insecurities in the form of gentle chastisements and quipped consolations, with steadiness when there was none? And now she's here to harvest pearls from a body she has held in reverence, a body she has made love with — to reduce it to a function, to necessity, to something that must produce. This same body that has not been permitted past barriers that have labeled her as a monster, is now asked to offer defense for a kingdom that will never know the shape of it. How can Mydei—
"Sweetheart," so soft, the voice calls. Phainon smiles, a genuine thing, tender eyes that Mydei doesn't know what to do with. "It's alright."
"How can you say that?" Mydei whispers. "Phainon, how can you—" Her words crack at the edge, splintered.
At the core of it all, Mydei had expected this response from Phainon; the ease with which she accepts the situation for what it is, how naturally she offers her body up to be used and exploited. And that's the worst of it, Mydei thinks — there should be some level of disdain where there is instead the embrace of objectification.
Phainon knows what must happen, and so when she says, "Your highness seems to forget I've yet to be rewarded for my feat this morning," Mydei knows immediately what she's trying to do. "Or will she turn coward to her promise?"
A clear re-framing of the situation — Phainon treating it as a victor wanting to be pleasured to tears and not a sea-witch being wrung dry for the sake of survival. The level of perceptiveness goes both ways; Phainon knows this is what Mydei needs, what will allow her to carry out this task without the grit of teeth and the unwavering coil of guilt spasming in her chest.
The bait has been set out, and Mydei should take it. Reward a winning Phainon with the throes of pleasure, pretend like this is everything except what it is.
Mydei's eyes dart over Phainon's face, looking for a twinge of turmoil, only to see pure unbridled affection that has bile rising high at the back of her throat.
A finger brushes against the curve of Phainon's jaw. "Tell me," Mydei says. "Tell me what you want."
And Phainon responds with as much steadiness as her voice allows, more for Mydei than herself, "I want you to do the work today. I don't—" She stops, chest suddenly tight. "I don't want to think."
And, oh, this is something Mydei can give so easily, has given Phainon before, so she latches onto the words with the desperation of a drowning sailor. Two hands cup the sides of Phainon's face, and the sharp edge of Mydei's duty as crown princess softens, melting into quiet devotion when she brings her lips to Phainon's.
"You'll tell me if it's too much," because even now, Mydei can't sit with the possibility of pushing Phainon too far. Her hands drift over the curve of Phainon's shoulders, and then her fingers trace a careful line on her back, as though memorizing each spot anew.
Phainon thinks, it has to be too much, and decides it's better to keep those words enclosed. Instead, she says, with an almost wry smile tugging at her lips, "I should find it insulting that you believe I cannot take this."
Mydei is unhurried in her worship; committed to savoring each touch, pressing down right where it allows the slip of a hitched breath from Phainon's plush lips. The hand encircled around her waist guides her towards the shell-bed, and one of Phainon's appendages mirrors the movement, tugging Mydei forward, letting her feel her eager anticipation.
Phainon is lowered to the pearlescent interior of the shell, as though laying something sacred to rest, reverent in her focus.
The hands that map her body move with intention; after the tentacles, which work as a chest covering, naturally uncoil under Mydei's touches as though a blooming flower, a palm reaches down to cup them. Those lips don't fall from her mouth — they slip languidly over her bottom lip, their breaths mingling into an indication of how they've intertwined.
"Shouldn't—" Phainon's back arches, mouth catching the fragility of a quiet gasp, at the first brush of a finger over a nipple. "Shouldn't we hurry?"
"No," Mydei mumbles against her mouth. The truth is steady beneath her calm: the Black Tide is controlled as of the current moment. Before Mydei left the outer reef, she had studied the pull of the current, and the matter is clear — the ocean will not turn against them tonight.
Time, in all her mercy, bestowed Mydei the privilege of gentleness. There is no need for desperation to sharpen her touch. "Focus on me," Mydei asserts softly. "Nothing else."
Phainon's head falls into a nod, and then relaxes onto the surface of the shell as though her strings have been severed— every last inhibition loosened and placed, willingly, in Mydei's keeping. A mouth leaves kisses as it traces down the side of her neck, pausing where Phainon's breath falters to press down the sensitive hollow there, easing the tension gathered beneath her skin.
Fingers play with the sensitivity of her nubs, pinched between them, each tug softened with a kiss. Neediness gets the best of Phainon; one of her smaller tentacles wraps around the hand splayed at her hip, tugging it to the blooming heat of her arousal.
Mydei tuts in endearment, the sound warm against Phainon's flesh instead of admonishing. "Patience," she murmurs, though the softness of her voice is indulgent. The tentacle curls more insistently, pleading without words.
Instead, Mydei brings her mouth down to wrap around one of her tits instead, flicking the bud with her tongue. Phainon takes care not to muffle the sounds that escape her — she lets each unguarded breath and fragile whimper slip from her lips in an offering. She hopes it'll reassure Mydei that there is no pain here, no distress. Mydei swallows each noise down as if it were sustenance — her focus narrows to each twitch, each tremble, much like how Phainon focuses on her.
The hand now hovers over the slick of Phainon's arousal, cunt clenching in expectance. When two fingers tap against the throb of her clit, Phainon keens so prettily that Mydei finds she can not remember the name of corruption.
And when Phainon, honeyed and sweet, breathes, "Please," Mydei listens. It is a surrender that sings, have me, have all of me.
Mydei watches the shift of her expression as she settles into a steady rhythm with her fingers, rubbing tight circles right where she wants her. Phainon's fingers curl into Mydei's shoulders as the pace picks up, searching for purchase. The motion becomes increasingly more sloppy as her arousal coats the ends of Mydei's hand.
The first tear that gathers at her lashes does not fall in haste.
With each motion — Mydei's tongue lapping at her nipples, fingers rubbing in the parting of her folds — Phainon's eyes glisten as her body unravels. It falls to the corner, and then hardens into the curve of a pearl, luminous against the shine of the bed.
Mydei tries not to pay it any attention when it slips down Phainon's cheek and onto the surface below her, but she can't help the involuntary tightening at her throat. Her voice is hurried, uncertain, when she says, "Good?" as if in search of an anchor, grounding.
Phainon understands instantly. Her thumb soothes against Mydei's cheek. "Mm," she hums. "I'm spoiled. You'd… think I'm the princess here."
Mydei brings her mouth back to Phainon's lips, drinking down the reassurance, while one of her fingers teases at her entrance. When Mydei doesn't push inside, an appendage of Phainon's tries to tug her arm downwards. Mydei, ever so merciful, complies and lets Phainon feel the first stretch.
She sinks into it easily; the copious slick of her cunt allowing the penetration to be a comfortable thing — and so Mydei follows the finger with another, pushing it next to the one that has begun to curl inside. Phainon's hips buck, tentacles writhing from the sensation of Mydei pulling them out and back in, hitting right at her sensitivity.
It doesn't take long for a set of pearls to run down the flush of her cheeks, begin to form small piles around her head. Some of them rest between her pale strands like dew on morning grass, others clinking as they tumble to the surface of the bed. Each of them fragile, unyielding — tiny monuments to this vulnerability she's allowed to bloom.
The glow of the pearls frames her face in a quiet halo, and Mydei can't help but whisper, "Beautiful."
With the careful observance in Mydei's eyes as she fucks fingers inside of Phainon at an increased rhythm, Phainon finds she feels none of what Mydei had feared she would. There is no sense of being reduced to labor, with each touch meticulous and deliberate — ones that come from knowing Phainon in her entirety.
Phainon is no vessel, nor a mechanism, here. No, she is held in the hands of devotion itself.
"Mydei," like a prayer. "More— I need— Hah—!"
A third finger, and then a thumb on her clit; two forms of stimulation, and the building pleasure hits her all at once. In her attempt to keep Mydei where she wants her, tentacles grip and curl around the mermaid's waist — as if Mydei had any desire to pull away from her at all.
Normally, she'd be meaner; refuse Phainon's whimpers with relentless teasing, mock the way she falls apart so easily with words that only unravel Phainon further. But here, she only seeks to give, and give, with no intention of withholding. Coaxing instead of denying, with no deliberate cruelty.
The clench around Mydei's fingers, and the— "Don't— Don't stop, I'm gonna—" pushes Mydei to thrust into her fast and hard, until Phainon's words melt from a plea to a high-pitched moan as her first orgasm spreads through her like tidal waves.
"Good," Mydei praises, rubbing at her clit as her body spasms. "Good girl." She slips into the familiarity of seeing Phainon writhe underneath her like this — back pulled into an arch, eyes pinched, and mouth parted in a rhythm of sweet ahs that follow each thrust of her fingers.
When pearls cascade this time, Mydei cups below her jaw to let them fall into her palm, treating it as an indication of how she's pleasured Phainon rather than concerning herself with its later use.
The fingers don't stop. Mydei murmurs, "Can you give me another? Just like this," and Phainon nods, shaky. The need to make herself clear rushes through her, lest Phainon misunderstand her words as being rooted in a want for pearls, and Mydei adds, "For me. Give it to me."
Through her haze, Phainon murmurs, "For— Uhn— For you," because, even now, she knows it's what Mydei needs to hear.
The pearls don't seize in their fall. Phainon squirms, tentacles winding down the length of Mydei's tail as she clingsagainst the rising tide of her pleasure, completely undone below the insistent motion of fingers rubbing against her walls. Mydei draws gasps from her lips, one that shatters into something sweeter as release takes her again in the form of the twitch of her swollen cunt and the grip of her hands into a solid back.
Phainon lies in a cradle of Mydei's making, luminescent and divine, carved from her worship.
"There you go," Mydei soothes, a hand nuzzling against Phainon's cheek, who leans into it as she comes down from her orgasm with erratic breaths.
Phainon mumbles, already close-to-intelligible. "Wanna — Mydei, I want… what if I used—"
"Slow down," Mydei placates when Phainon begins to show frustration at the heaviness of her tongue.
After taking two long breaths, Phainon tries again: "I want to try — with these," she says, hand curved loosely around one of her tentacles. "You… always enjoy it so much."
Mydei inclines her head at the words, but eventually hums in understanding. It is not unusual for Phainon, needy as she is, to slip the ends of her appendages inside Mydei's tight heat during previous nights. Mydei would fall apart so beautifully from the penetration, and Phainon would watch with awe. There had always been something intoxicating about knowing she could undo her so thoroughly.
However, Phainon has never used her tentacles on herself, and, ridiculously, she's feeling daring today of all days.
In her concern, Mydei's lips press thin at the suggestion; it would not be unlike Phainon to propose such a thing with the intent of pushing her own limits in the name of duty. "Is that truly what you want," she whispers. "Or are you trying to be brave?"
Phainon huffs, fond despite herself. "Is it so unusual for me to want this for myself?"
"Sort of," Mydei quips easily. "You've never brought it up before."
Phainon tilts her head with a crooked smile. "I could— Could come just from the sight of you taking it, Mydeimos; I never saw need to… indulge in trying it for myself."
Despite the vulgar words, Mydei can't help the way her expression softens at the familiar, playful tease, so utterly glad this has not ended up as dreadful as she had worried it would.
"Pervert," Mydei admonishes, and then sighs. "Only the smaller ones — you'll hurt yourself otherwise."
Phainon nods, a narrower appendage already coiling down to where her cunt remains swollen in the aftermath of her orgasms. She jolts when the movement is stopped by a hand wrapping near the tip of it, and Phainon looks up at Mydei in question. Her expression dissolves as Mydei guides the tentacle to the tightness of her hole and teases it there.
Really, Phainon could just push in herself, but the quiet authority of Mydei's hold makes something electric unfurl in her chest.
"Slowly," Mydei directs. The first stretch is a completely foreign sensation; the appendage pushes past her entrance with a languid, deliberate glide. Mydei's lips entangle with her own as she pushes in further, the suctions of the limb rubbing against her walls in a pulsing grip.
Mydei decides how far of a length she can take by holding down on the appendage after it thrusts in a considerable amount.
"You—" Phainon's breath stutters at the insistent tug inside of her. "You…should've killed me for giving you the bigger one. How—?"
Mydei snorts under her breath. "Steady now," and Phainon listens, dragging the tentacle out under a quiet gasp. Getting used to the fullness takes several unhurried, exploratory thrusts, but Mydei coaxes her into relaxing into it by playing with her clit.
The pearls come quickly from the bright edge of where stretch and pleasure blur together, paired with Mydei's ministrations. It's enough to have Phainon choking around a sob, beads spilling in a scatter, striking the shell with faint, ringing taps.
Mydei's movements slow as she blinks up at the quick succession of pearls cascading below Phainon. Sensing her distraction, her sudden dissociation, Phainon reaches up to gently tilt Mydei's face to meet her own. "Hey," she murmurs, soft. "Look at me."
The world narrows back to the curve of Phainon's lips, the jolt of her body as she's filled up again, and again, and Mydei falls into it.
Just to anchor Mydei in further, Phainon breathes, "Feels — 's good, you make me… ah— Feel so good." The syllables spill from her lips like delicate chimes, keening so beautifully beneath her.
The fingers on her clit return to rubbing tight circles, drawing whimpers from pretty lips and the gentle curve of a back. "Taking it so well," Mydei praises. "Perfect girl." It's enough to pull her to the edge of release again, and one, two, thrusts have her writhing as she cums. Phainon doesn't stop the tentacle filling her up, and Mydei doesn't hold her back either.
"Ngh— it's… so much. Mydei—" Her head twists to the side, chest heaving. On top of where her tentacle thrusts in deep, Mydei slips her own two fingers inside. The fullness is too much, too good, and a soft, silvery cry escapes Phainon's lips.
Mydei guides the appendages near the sides of her chest to the flush of her tits, and Phainon instinctively latches the suction of her tentacles on her own nipples. "Oh — uh—" It adheres to her nubs, and then sucks with such force that Mydei has to push down on her stomach to keep her in place.
"One more," Mydei rasps. "Can you do that for me?"
Phainon nods, trembling. "Can— I can… Hah—"
There is no feeling of being a machine as Mydei pulls her in close when the first spurt of another orgasm leaves her whining, broken, and debauched. There is only the tenderness of a hand on her back, rubbing circles, helping her ride through her release with the quick motions of her fingers. Her arousal leaks against Mydei's tail, staining the mermaid with her want.
With her tentacle unintentionally still squirming inside her in post-orgasmic spasm, Mydei wraps both of her arms around the width of her back, tilting Phainon's head so that it rests in the crook of her neck as she sniffs.
Pearls fall into the hollow of Mydei's collarbone, pretty. A necklace, Phainon thinks, dazed and fluttering. Next time, a necklace.
Mydei mouths at her nape, hushing her, and Phainon is sure she can hear a murmured thank you between the soft reassurances. Ah, Phainon still has some work to do.
After she's able to work her mouth the way that it should, Phainon teases, voice still raspy with tears, "Adorable as it is, don't sulk, your highness." She tilts her head back up to meet Mydei's gaze, "There's nothing that warrants your erratic heart. Do I appear unhappy?"
"It would make far more sense if you were," Mydei's voice drifts low as she shares the fragile truth behind why Phainon's tenderness brings an odd tightness to her chest. Would it not be more rational for a creature to writhe against the notion of being used? And yet, Phainon had accepted it with such simplicity, and Mydei can not bear it, even after the deed is done. Especially after it is done.
"Mydei," Phainon calls. "I am not undone against my will. I—" she pauses, thinks about how to phrase this. "You’ve not taken anything from me. I have given what is mine to give, and what is mine is yours. Am I not yours?"
Mydei stills and then holds her tighter, a sudden possessive mantra of mine, ringing in her head in a way that has her dizzy. "Don't say something so foolish." And then, "You sure have a mouth on you," Mydei drawls, her lips quirking up into a small smile.
"My apologies," Phainon huffs, glad that the reassurance has somewhat worked.
The pearls embrace them as they lie in the evidence of their affection. Mydei's hand cards through the strands of Phainon's hair. "It was a comb."
"Hm?" Phainon's brows furrow.
"The object," Mydei clarifies. "A grooming tool for hair, albeit thoroughly chipped."
"So I wasn't completely off," Phainon realizes with triumph. "And how'd you happen across that particular piece of knowledge?"
"Hephaestion has an unfortunate fascination with the ways of a land-walker. He sticks his nose up at the shore far more often than is dignified."
A hum, and then movement — Phainon extracts herself from hands that don't seem eager to let go of her. (Don't tell Mydei, but she's sure she heard a subtle whine as she pulled away.) When she turns back around, the comb is equipped in her hands; it's a wooden thing, with some of its teeth missing and others crooked.
Phainon lifts it with ceremonial seriousness, though the light tremble of her fingers makes obvious how she hasn't fully recovered yet. "Let us determine whether the finless are completely hopeless in their grooming," she declares, squinting at it as she examines the relic.
Mydei watches her with a fond expression. "You intend to test it now?"
"Of course," Phainon says, her palm on Mydei's shoulder as she positions her so that she can reach her hair. "If it snags, I'll consider it a declaration of war."
Phainon settles behind her with solemnity, lifting a curtain of Mydei's red-tinted strands in her hand; they slip between her fingers like silk. "Hold still," far too serious for someone holding a half-destroyed artifact.
Mydei allows her to do as she wishes, of course, though that does not subsides her worries. "If it rips half of it out—"
"Then I know to blame the land-walkers," Phainon retorts. "I'm only using the working end. Stop biting your lip."
Mydei sighs, but doesn't say anything further. The comb runs through the entire length of her hair with delicate precision, and both of them fall into the placidity of it, the meditative rhythm. Phainon, in her focus, hums a tune that Mydei has heard on separate occasions when she's working on something: polishing artifacts, threading jewelry, digging between quartz sand.
There's a topic Mydei has yet to tread on.
"This isn't your first time," Mydei starts. "Dealing with the tide."
The motion slows, but only for a short moment. "Surprising as it is, I've not lived in this wreck for all my years," Phainon replies, the words unintentionally carrying more meaning than one. "I'm not sure the Kremnoans have heard of it — a small region further east. There was a time when…" her voice trails off, words refusing her.
"Ah, it's not important, really," grief cracks the ends of her dismissal. "I couldn't do this, back then — offer my aid in a way that matters, when it matters. It's nice to be given a second chance."
The admittance lingers in the space between them. "Phainon," Mydei eventually says, her voice stripped of its usual steel. "There is no sin for you to atone."
And how easily those words have Phainon choking under the regret that has long consumed her — the years of trying to ignore the way it still clung onto her skin and stuck in her throat. Her self-inflicted pain had taken the form of her own self-deprecation, but it didn't matter; she had thought her guilt would never make her clean again, unforgivably damned to remembering faces and sounds and the smell of charred flesh.
The pearl falls down her cheek before Phainon can realize it— trickling down to Mydei's shoulder, and then to the fabric wrapped across her chest. It lands just below the steady drum of Mydei's heart, as though deliberate, pressed where the absolution she has sought lies.
"Look what you've done," Phainon rasps. "Take responsibility, Mydeimos."
Mydei twists her head around enough to meet the glisten of Phainon's eyes, and then the warmth of a faint smile. She doesn't say anything, lets Phainon feel the heaviness of relief. A mouth meets trembling lips, and the sweetness of Mydei's breath tangles with the inkiness of Phainon's shaky exhales.
The sea-witch melts into it with a soft hum, perfectly content.
The pearls worked faultlessly.
They'd been dispersed in the outer reef, where the Black Tide had remained stagnant by the western gate. The current had finally exhaled after the corruption was swallowed by the luminescent beads, taken inside and ingested until reduced to nothing but the remnants of decay.
Castrum Kremnos has returned to its relentless rhythm, but not without one change.
As soon as the tide cleared up, Mydei had entered the bustle of the central city, her gaze fixed and unwavering. Ahead, the palace loomed, a fortress of stone and strife, and the sway of her tail had moved with intention. She didn't concern herself with the confounded glances thrown at her as she went through the courtyard and into the throne room, where the Mer-king was seemingly engaged in diplomatic discussions.
It didn't matter.
Mydei looked at him, eyes narrowed in resolution, and demanded, "You will permit her past our wards, and you will accord her with the reverence she is owed. Deny this, and the word strife shall take on a meaning you will come to know firsthand."
It was enough to be named high treason, and the court knew it. Eurypon's eyes were as sharp as the trident clutched between his fingers as the council's murmurs fell into an uneasy silence. The crown princess didn't waver in her imposition.
Mydei had waited, unyielding in her charge, until Eurypon had bestowed the order.
“You stake much upon this sea-witch,” Eurypon said, voice low and iron-bound. “If she falters, it is your name that will stand beside hers.”
“Then let our names be spoken together,” Mydei said, unflinching. “I do not fear the sound of it."
And perhaps it's because destruction had turned its face away from his kingdom today, eased by the reprieve he had been granted, but Eurypon had smiled at last. "Very well. The wards will part for her. She enters Castrum Kremnos under royal sanction."
When Phainon had entered the kingdom for the first time, she had expected stone and scrutiny: the tenacity of soldiers equipped with lofty spears, the solemnity of merfolk who strive off warfare, and the music of hostility with each clang of a sword.
Instead — this.
The canals of Castrum Kremnos cut like veins between its houses, ones built from limestone and coral; red banners are snapped over the central reef, hailing the kingdom of warriors. Discipline is visible in the spears leaning against doorways and armor gleaming from balconies, but that does not allude to innate cruelty.
No, the brightness of Phainon's laughter as she darts forward, slipping through two rows of homes, is harmonious with the life that thrums through the city.
"You're slacking, your highness!" Phainon taunts, twisting sharply to avoid a rack of drying nets, the tips of her fingers grazing woven rope as she propels herself onward.
Mydei, knowing the route far better than Phainon, shoots through a lower archway, throwing Phainon a smug look as she passes her. "You should have studied the terrain better."
Phainon sputters behind her. "I've been here for three days."
Below them, onlookers have begun to gather, bewildered at this odd sight of the crown princess swimming amok, so irrevocably carefree. Warriors pause mid-drill while children cling to the canal's edge, wide-eyed.
A pair of Mydei's companions, Hephaestion and Ptolemy, hover over one of the bridges, observing the scene with amusement. Hephaestion blinks at Phainon, who narrows into the grottoes. "She's going to crash into the—"
Phainon ducks under a suspended chain at the last second, laughing as it clinks in her wake.
"—Never mind."
Ptolemy folds his arms behind his back. "Mydei's going to overpass her in five breaths."
"She's distracted."
The quirk of an eyebrow as Ptolemy looks at him in question. "What, by strategy?"
Hephaestion snorts. "Hardly."
And, Titans, they'll definitely be teasing Mydei about that too-soft smile on her face when Phainon overtakes right after regaining her position, because where has her tenacity gone? Ridiculous.
It does not come as a surprise when Hephaestion feels something round and sharp bounce off his head — he looks up to see Mydei, sharp-eyed in the aftermath of flicking a shell in reprimand from where she swims, having evidently heard every word.
Phainon twists her body around mid-glide to watch the altercation, delighted. "And yet not a word of refutation," eyes alight with mischief. "Mydeimos, your people will think that their fearsome princess has grown terribly fond of a sea-witch.”
Mydei surges forward, closing the distance enough so that her hands find Phainon's waist, and murmurs in close, "Let them."