Category: Elspar Stories

Of Depth and Deception (Chapter 1)

The full book is available on Amazon here.

Chapter 1
Skehl

Skehl trailed his sister into the Belly, a white-grey haze of glow and gloom greeting them like a watchful mourner—or an anticipatory accomplice. At this gelid, stale depth of the Aghata Trench, with all the heaviness of an ocean crushing down upon him, he could hardly breathe. Hardly think. He bit his lip, clenched his webbed-hands, and endured. Slinking through this thick, clinging veil had become just another reality of his life. Another of the myriad consequences resulting from his and his sister’s most treasonous decision to spare the living…

By stealing the dead.

In and out, he assured himself, kicking his long blue tail. Two bodies, that was all they needed. One each to replace the clan deserters they had only hours prior permitted to flee, escape. The sooner they found their replacement bodies, the sooner he could turn surfaceward. Towards the Skaltressian Palace where an entrance exam that would forever alter the course of his life was set to take place… if he hadn’t missed it already. Time was impossible to discern when down this deep.

A moment passed of silent swimming, and the first bodies began to appear. Each one manifested like a shadow, limned by the faint grey glow of that pervasive, sickly haze. Skehl flicked his gaze from one to the next. There was a time when their bloated, rotted forms would have sent chills like squirming eels down his spine. But no more. Months of experience had killed that instinct.

From their empty eye sockets, their gaping mouths, the final remnants of their lifelight wisped in languid, dull-white streams, thinning, melding into the gloom. Tethers of kelp-twine were all that kept them from drifting off; one end tied around their waists, the other around any of the countless sunken boulders, bedded deep in the sludge and grime.

A chill brushed against one of his tattered blue tentacles, on his left side—his blind side. He furled it at the tip, drew all of his few dozen tentacles closer. When he glanced back, he saw it was only a corpse’s splayed, frozen fingers. Imagined the dead actively reaching out to him. Like an omen of condemnation.

He swam on with haste.

His sister offered little help. Just swam steadily onward, her mass of usually mighty magenta tentacles rustling along her body, limp and lifeless. She moved as if lost in a daze. Or in the depth of herself. Her self-imposed distance, like armor, proved most impenetrable precisely when Skehl needed her most.

Like now.

This would go a lot faster if you would actually—There!

He beat his tail, swimming over a few more swollen bodies towards one a little fresher, nearly identical in color and size to one of their freed deserters. This one’s color was a slightly lighter green hue, but her length and build, as well as the circumference of the wide jellyfish-like dome atop her head, were close enough.

“Thressel!” he called, waving to get her attention. “How about this one?”

The body would suffice. He only wanted her to offer some semblance of presence, acknowledgement.

She gave neither, just continued her slow drifting. When she did move, it was only to clasp her hands at her waist, where the shimmering scales of her tail blended into the bare Lais-moon pink flesh of her lower torso. Across her chest, her kelp-shawl rose and fell in time with her breath.

“Thressel…” he said, kicking his tail, doing his best to close the space between them. “Can you be here, please? With me. I–I really need us to hurry.”

She turned to him, eyes wide with dull surprise, as if she had forgotten he was there.

“She’ll do.” Her voice was tired, brittle. Like the crumbling of sun-dried kelp.

Skehl sighed, his top lip twitching. “Great. Thanks.”

He turned from her and withdrew a clamshell-knife from his satchel, set himself to hacking through the twine.

“Here.” He held the corpse out to her. “Char away.”

Even with his back turned as he resumed his search, the brilliance of his sister’s Shock, reflecting off the haze, nearly blinded him. The sharp crackling of her power, the searing sting of it, poked and prodded him from all sides, like teeth closing in around him.

Sacrilegious as their actions here were—in this place meant for somber reflection, for family and remembrance—they worked. Rare was a raised eyebrow or a pointed inquiry when a body was returned to the palace marred beyond recognition. Such was the privilege of Trenchguards, of which his sister was one. One of the best.

Skehl continued in silence, doing all he could to ignore that warm, black stench of death that seemed intent on infiltrating his nostrils and gills. It might have been torture, had it not become so ordinary an occurrence.

As a distraction, he focused on time. Its steady passing.

He regretted it immediately.

I’m… not going to make it back in time, am I?

A faint purple glow appeared. Off in the distance.

Someone was coming.

No. No, I will not…

Read Chapter 2 here!

October 21, 2025
Of Depth and Deception (Chapter 2)

The full book is available on Amazon here.

Chapter 2
Skehl

On his own, Skehl could have hidden easily enough. His own blue glow was subtle, like the light of the Cal-moon, if watered down and muffled behind a splash of dark clouds.

Thressel, however, was beyond hiding. Tentacle-laden as she was, she shone like a sun against the Belly’s dim, colorless backdrop.

All they could do was wait.

An older Skaltressian approached through the haze, slender and rustling with a modest amount of mauve tentacles. Her arm draped the shoulders of a boy barely beyond his youngling years. Her brother, no doubt. Skehl noted the boy’s length, those vibrant red tentacles, swaying amidst his tilted posture. As if he were struggling to keep his balance.

It was the boy’s eyes, though, that most piqued his interest.

Inky white… he realized, leaning in as the siblings neared. He’s Shattered.

Skehl hated himself for the relief he felt. For the plan he was already forming.

Technically, the boy was still alive—in the sense that he was still breathing. Yet everyone knew there was no coming back from a Shattered mind. Skehl especially.

Because of Binah.

“Greetings,” the mauve sister said, her voice strained. “I didn’t expect… OH!”

Her eyes went wide, fixed on the burnt body.

“What have you done?”

Skehl turned to Thressel, unsure what to do or say. They had never been caught before. From her downcast eyes, her lips tight as a clam, he knew he was on his own.

“She was, uh…” he began, crafting his lie as he went, “a Trenchguard. Killed our older sister. Burned and brutalized her for unpaid medical debts after I…” He gestured to his blind left eye.

The mauve sister recoiled when she noticed and held tighter to her brother, as if Skehl’s “condition” could have somehow harmed the boy more than he had already harmed himself.

Facing down her upturned nose and that twinkle of fright in her eyes, Skehl could only think of how this—right here—was precisely why he needed to make it to his exam. Should he pass, he would be welcomed to join the ranks of apprentice Seers. He would finally belong somewhere. With others who understood his power. The nuance of its price. And he would be spared the fate of those left untested, untrained. Like the boy with the red tentacles. That he had survived this long on his own was a miracle.

“It’s been years since we lost her,” Skehl continued, sprinkling in a little truth. “And the pain never ebbs. When we learned that the Trenchguard responsible for her death had passed, well… sometimes vengeance calls with a fervor.”

The mauve sister traced Skehl’s form with her eyes, that etching of disgust never leaving her face. Her gaze passed to Thressel, to her multitude of pristine tentacles. A symbol of status and power.

She turned back to Skehl.

“Unfortunate as your sister’s untimely fate is, it was the price of your own negligence. You never should have attempted what you did. This”—she gestured to the young boy— “is where your selfish indulgence will get you.” The gills on her neck fanned as she took a few steadying breaths. “It’s disgraceful—what you did to that Trenchguard. She was… only doing her duty.” Something flickered across her face. “Though, I suppose I can understand the sentiment. Our older brother… he, uh… The same.”

Skehl wanted to say something, to offer some sort of comfort.

But what does one say to something like that?

“Was it worth it?” the mauve sister asked. “Whatever it was you Saw?”

He glanced again at the boy, floating there. Tilted. Lifeless, and not.

That question isn’t really for me, is it?

“In a way,” he said. “What I Saw… I’ll never forget it. Or, more so… the reason I chose to do it. Rarely is one’s intention ever solely self-serving.”

The mauve sister held his gaze, a thousand nameless emotions playing at the corner of her trembling lips. “Thank you.”

Thressel grabbed Skehl’s hand, squeezed.

“Alright,” the mauve sister said, stifling a bubbly sniffle, “off with you both, then. And remember, the Belly is a place for mourning, not vengeance. Whoever they were in life, the dead are owed their rest. Understand?”

“Of course.” Skehl’s stomach was a tangle of knots; he still had a plan.

He and Thressel kicked off, left the mauve sister to her tethering, her grieving.

Once a short distance away, Skehl leaned towards her and whispered. “Not too far. I have a feeling she’ll be quick.”

Thressel stared at him in that lifeless manner all her own.

“His size.” He glanced past her, saw the mauve sister was already tying the boy’s tether. “His coloring. A strong charring and we’ve got our last body.”

“But…” She narrowed her eyes. “Skehl, he’s still alive.”

“Was Binah still alive?”

She bit her lip and turned away, blowing a hard stream of bubbles through her nose. “We’ll find another. However long it takes.”

Skehl clasped his hands together, gills fanning. “Thressel—”

“No, Skehl.” Her resolve was absolute.

Now you come alive. Just to hold me back.

She rustled off, away from the boy.

Skehl clenched his jaw and turned again to the mauve sister, watched as she pressed her hand to her brother’s cheek, every part of her quivering. She lingered for a moment, whispering something in his ear. Then swam off, disappearing into the grey-glowing gloom.

Now was his chance.

You never lift a tentacle to help me…

He beat his tail, shot straight for the boy.

Let’s see if you’ll lift one to stop me.

A kick, another—and he was by the boy’s side.

Clumsily, he rummaged through his satchel for his clamshell-knife, halting only when he heard that undeniable, muscle-freezing sound: breath.

He swallowed.

But this isn’t living, he reassured himself. Like Binah wasn’t living when Thressel—

He drowned the thought, focused again on the boy. On that whisper of warmth radiating from his cheeks. On that screaming expression that would forever mar his too-young face.

Yet in his eyes…

Skehl saw Binah, his older sister. Her madness in the end. The pain of losing her.

He saw himself. The future he was fighting so hard to flee, escape.

He withdrew the clamshell-knife from his satchel, raised it to the boy’s throat. Pressed so tenderly, his hand trembling.

Why can’t you understand?

He felt that steady pulse, the boy’s life, rippling through the water. Like a prayer.

But for what?

He took a breath. Then another.

Readied himself. Then readied himself some more.

“I can do this!” He hadn’t meant to shout.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not a muscle.

His eyes began to sting.

“I can…”

Movement in the water, Thressel swooshing up beside him.

“Skehl,” she said. There was no fury in her eyes. Just his own reflection.

He saw his own fright. How puny and pathetic he was.

Is that how you see me?

“Is getting into the Tide’s Eyes really worth this?” she asked. “After all Seeing has done to us? To you?”

He recalled Binah’s face from that last day, when he had found her—what remained of her. Her lifeless eyes. Her mouth agape, as if frozen in perpetual pain. How weak she must have felt after so long strong. How she must have lost control while doing that singular, glorious thing that is most indescribable. Most irresistible.

When the itch comes calling.

“Yes,” he said.

Because I can’t do to you what she did to us…

Thressel stared into his eyes; he almost recoiled. Almost.

“Fine,” she said. “Then kick off.”

“But I—”

“Kick off!”

That tone of hers… it brooked no argument.

He slunk away. Watched as she coiled her tentacles around the dying boy’s body, squeezed. She looked as though she was more clinging to the boy than… killing him.

Skehl didn’t turn away as she let loose another burst of light, another thunderous crackling—all that power he didn’t possess.

If he could not do the deed himself, he would at least bear witness. Act the accomplice.

It was the role he knew best.

And the deed was done.

The deed was done.

They started back through the Belly, silent, kicking their way towards the tail-end of the trench, where it opened to the uncharted waters of the western ocean. Best to avoid swimming directly surfaceward through the trench itself, to keep away from curious eyes and rumor-spinning tongues. While cruelty was not uncommon for Trenchguards—indeed, it was negligible amongst their own—the commonkin were better left in the darkness of ignorance.

Skehl swam fast, playing dozens of scenarios through his mind. Some in which he arrived at his exam on time, the tests and trials he would be asked to complete. And others where he arrived late, and all was for naught. They were mere distractions. Inept ones, at that. For the boy—now dead—surfaced in every one.

He was… already gone…

A familiar voice pulled him from the mess of his mind, and he realized they had arrived at the trench’s tapering end.

“I should be getting relieved soon,” came that deep, predatorial tone that could only belong to a Tethien. To Bren, Thressel’s partner. “And we’ve both got the next few days off. How about we go for a little hunt, hm? Just you and me. Out in the western ocean. Heard a pod of spear-nosed slashers should be migrating through—and I know how much you love a good chase.” He pumped his brow and flexed his absurdly large biceps, clearly for Thressel’s enjoyment. “What do you say?”

Skehl rolled his eyes at Bren’s asinine proposal. The western ocean was said to be amongst the most perilous. Only the strongest, and the most foolish, would dare venture there.

“Hey! Before everyone gets all mushy,” came the shrill voice of Cahla, Bren’s Trenchguard partner, “Pay up.”

She held out her hand to collect their bribes, the cost for her discretion.

Skehl dropped three moonstone-chips into her palm.

“Well?” she said, dark eyes fixed on Thressel.

“Assignment came unexpectedly,” Thressel said. “I… forgot my chips in the barracks.”

Cahla’s sunrise-yellow tentacles flared brighter.

“That’s the second time this month you forgot. I’m not running a Carekeeper’s hovel here.”

“You’re not doing anything here,” Thressel snapped.

“What did you—?”

“Please,” Skehl interrupted, holding his hands at his sides, “Can you two just drown all that?” He pulled out another three chips from his satchel and shoved them into Cahla’s hand. “Here. Some of us actually have places to be.”

Cahla accepted the chips with a grunt, then kicked off a short distance away.

“Well?” Bren flashed Thressel a toothy smirk, wagging his long, silvery tail like an enthused youngling. “What do you say?”

Thressel hesitated, and Skehl was out of patience.

“Whatever you do,” he said, “be smart about it. And don’t go anywhere until the afternoon classes start, okay? I–I need you near. Please?”

Thressel nodded, the two charred bodies still swaying on the tethers she held. She would need to deliver them to her commander to confirm their assignment was “successful.” That would ensure she kept near enough to the palace. For a short while, at least.

“Thanks,” Skehl said, meaning it.

And, as he kicked off surfaceward, he thought he heard the faintest whisper of her voice saying something that sounded an awful lot like: “Good luck.”

Read Chapter 3 here!

October 21, 2025
Of Depth and Deception (Chapter 3)

The full book is available on Amazon here.

Chapter 3
Rader

After two long weeks riding various westerly currents through uninspiring stretches of open ocean, Rader arrived at last before the Aghata Trench — not to the usual glamor and pomp that greeted him, but to the quiet puzzlement of two mere Skaltressian Trenchguards, utterly dumbstruck by his arrival.

What a clever Tideress, feigning ignorance of my coming.

He loomed over the Trenchguards, the steady swish of his long, obsidian-black tail keeping him balanced and poised amidst the ocean’s gentle morning sway. Disbelief kept them frozen before him, their mouths agape.

“Hm,” was all he said, affecting an uninterested tone.

They remembered their places then, practically throwing themselves into bows.

Rader looked past them with practiced disdain, his gold-flecked blue eyes flaring with a fierce glow, like small white suns. He knew his role. He played it masterfully.

The younger of the two Trenchguards— a boy with long, pleated tentacles that glowed a rich blue—stole a curious, not-so-furtive glance across Rader’s body, then back down into the trench’s vanishing blackness. He was quick, yes. Both daring and demure in equal measure. But Rader was quicker, glimpsing precisely what he had most longed for throughout his long journey: a comely face, blushing.

The Emperion grinned, his gaze flitting over the boy once more, drinking in all his most alluring features: toned arms, broad shoulders, and that slender, sun-sparkling tail.

A clever Tideress, indeed. Remembering how I do so adore blue…

“Good morning,” he said.

“Favored,” the Trenchguards said as one. Then, the older of the two, laden with seemingly hundreds of tentacles in all varying shades of red, continued, stammering, “I–it is a tremendous honor that we may be at your service, Favored. Please, whatever you need, your will is our purpose.”

She had raised her head to speak. Rader met her eyes and she averted her gaze once more. Silent and waiting.

He let them wait, turning his attention instead to the trench itself.

Like a black vein without end, it stretched in both directions, so wide he could barely glimpse the opposite side. Yet it was the red that most held his attention. Those long, spindly tendrils rooted to the trench’s walls and spilling past its craggy lips like the exposed, bloody innards of a festering beast. He knew it was only a rare algae that fed on the sounds that might otherwise grow deafening at greater depths. Still, he couldn’t shake his discomfiting awe.

I’ve never known life to look so much like a dying thing.

He returned his attention to the cowering Skaltressians, his gaze settling again on the blue boy.

“You,” Rader said, and the young Trenchguard lifted his head. “Escort me to the palace.”

Wide eyes and a twitch of the mouth. “M–me?”

Rader flared the white glow of his eyes. Less menacing, more agitated.

And all for show.

Yet the blue boy must have seen only menace; he shot a terrified glance at his partner.

She elbowed him in the ribs. “Never keep a Favored waiting.”

“Isn’t that nice,” Rader said, a calculated edge of annoyance to his tone. “At least one of you was taught proper protocol.”

To be Emperion was to be unquestionable command. And Rader couldn’t change what he was. Or what was expected of him.

“I, uh —”

“The palace,” Rader repeated. “Now.”

“Of course.” The blue boy spun, his tentacles splaying like a whirlpool as he did. He started north, along the trench’s eastern cliff, a flurry of bubbles trailing in his wake.

Amused, Rader watched him for a moment — admiring the view.

Then he kicked his tail and left, sparing not even a parting glance for the red Trenchguard.

He caught up to the blue boy with effortless ease, pressed in close, and followed. The journey was quick. They swam along the trench until it split into two diverging branches. It was there, carved into the underside of a sharp-pointed plateau, that Rader spotted the Skaltressian Palace. From a distance, it looked like a spiraled amethyst shell protruding from the rock and viscera-red algae, encased within walls of pure diamond. Rays from the rising red and gold suns speared through the water, casting rainbow glints from the walls’ polished edges.

Impenetrable diamond at the front; solid rock at the back. An excellent defensive position.

Despite swimming so near the suns-warmed surface, a subtle chill had enveloped Rader, as if the trench itself was siphoning off his warmth. He dug through his travel satchel and pulled out the cloak he had purchased in Parel—the Emperion capitol—before departing on this technically “unauthorized” clan visit. Not that anyone would dare question an Emperion.

The cloak emitted a soft golden glow and a pleasing warmth as he slid into it. Which made sense. It was woven from Skaltressian tentacles, all plucked and shredded—made thread thin. Lifelight flowed through every strand. Warmth and time, taken from thralls, and repurposed as comfort and luxury for whoever could pay the price. Or whoever was willing to.

He pondered this for a moment, here in these Skaltressian waters, the reality he had never really considered before. Had never needed to.

Movement drew his attention as they neared the palace. He was happy to let it.

The trench rippled with life. Skaltressian Reeflords and Reefesses rustled about, all adorned in their cascading profusions of colorful tentacle-garments: cloaks, body-wraps, flowing gowns, each lightly weighted and glinting with diamonds, emeralds, or sapphires. Pearls circled their necks and dripped from their ears, while armlets of gold and silver gleamed in the sun.

Their attendants trailed in tow, at a distance. Most appeared pallid and lifeless in the eyes, as phantoms are. In place of cloaks and pearls, they wore woven tatters of kelp and seaweed, strings of shells. It was a starker difference than any of the other clans Rader’s assignments have taken him to. Yet he was not here to comment or pass judgement, only to satisfy his own curiosity.

Back in Parel, he had found a scroll slipped into his sleeping-anemone—a bold breach of his private chambers. Or a foolish one. He might have been furious, had he not been so impressed.

Rader chuckled to himself, recalling the scroll’s message:

Forgive me, Favored, my disturbing you,

but a most disastrous current descends upon our home.

I beseech you to come to the Aghata Trench,

for we are in dire need of that which only you can offer.

More, I dare not say — Eyes are watching…

We are unworthy, yes, as we are in need.

Please, Favored.

Come.

‘Come,’ written on its own line — practically a command… Amusement tugged at the corner of his lips. Typical, gutsy Tideress.

Had anyone else attempted to orchestrate such a scheme, he likely would have reported it to his superiors or come intent to reprimand rather than listen. Though, in the end, it was her why that intrigued him. This “disastrous current” she mentioned.

He set his eyes on the Skaltressian Palace, looming as he approached. Murmurs and gasps surrounded him, his mere presence a spectacle. Rarer than rare were Emperions beyond the immense, white marble walls of their capitol. Rarer still was the Emperion who traveled without the accompaniment of a vast retinue stringing along after them. Like fish shit.

Rader arrived before an archway carved from the diamond encasing the palace. A yellow Trenchguard raised her hand, signaling him to halt.

“W—welcome, Favored,” she said, “to the Skaltressian Palace. We… were not expecting you.” She bowed, and the other dozen or so Trenchguards followed suit.

“I can see that.”

A subtle disturbance in the water behind him. Rader glanced over his shoulder and spotted the blue boy, his hands and tail trembling. When the boy realized Rader was watching, he hastily crossed his arms over his shell-armored chest and forced his tail steady and straight.

Poor kid is wound up tighter than a Buroden Scenter’s braid.

Rader offered what he hoped was a placating smile. It wasn’t very effective.

“How impressive,” came a weathered voice—one Rader recognized even before turning back to face the speaker. “To approach my family’s home without drawing the attention of our Eyes.”

“Indeed, Tideress Fahvia,” he said. “I am.”

A creation long past her expiration, cloaked in a flowing shawl of emerald tentacles, hers was the presence of a glorious, dying tempest. Proud and dignified, despite the crack and pop of her every stiff movement. Yet those inky-white eyes still held that same indelible wit and warmth Rader recalled from all their few interactions over the years.

She bowed, or tried to. He didn’t mind, and offered a respectful nod of his own. A being such as her —lifelight dimming — was due a tender amendment in expected propriety.

Something, though, was not quite right.

“Someone’s missing,” he said, glancing past her.

The Tideress nodded.

“My apologies, Favored. My brother—”

“Is not who I was referring to.”

The Tideress looked long into Rader’s eyes.

“Cora will join us when it is time.”

What are you playing at, Tideress? That Twanderian is practically your eyes.

“I see,” he said. “It’s just… I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you without your… shadow. Not in recent years, at least.”

“Assistant,” the Tideress politely corrected.

Rader shrugged.

“Come,” she said, turning towards the palace. Then, as if catching herself, “If it pleases you, Favored. I would have the honor of showing you to your chambers.”

Rader arched his brow. “I never said I was intending to stay.”

The Tideress had already kicked off towards the palace. “You did not.”

He laughed, started after her, then stopped again as he entered the palace waters.

“You will join me,” he said over his shoulder to the blue boy. His tone brooked no argument from the Trenchguards, nor refusal from the boy. “I suspect this will be quite the education for you.”

He winked.

The bulge in the boy’s throat bobbed, but he followed.

Rader knew the boy’s kind: a low-ranking Shocker—young, yes, though undoubtedly already trained to kill. And most certainly never permitted access to the palace without a summons. He would learn much, indeed.

Especially once the theatrics are through…

The Tideress swam purposefully—if not glacially—through the palace’s wide doors. And Rader was welcomed with bows. Again, not quite the pomp he was accustomed to, but closer.

A stream of attendants swam in line behind him. Each carried offerings and gifts: shimmering jewels, tentacle-rich garments, or local delicacies, many charred or spiced. He slurped down a particularly plump snail and permitted an attendant the privilege of dabbing the corners of his mouth with a bit of kelp. He would leave most of these trinkets behind once his work was through. Whatever sort of work it turned out to be. But he could not refuse. This lavishing was how the lesser eight clans expressed their loyalty to Emperion-rule, while affirming their respective prominence within the inter-clan hierarchy.

In short, it was a tail-measuring contest.

The journey to his private chamber was long and disorienting. Corridors branched and crisscrossed, each one lined sparsely with crystal sconces, puddled with the quiet glow of white moonstones. Portraits of passed Tides adorned the amethyst walls; and in every entryway to every room hung colorful and bright privacy-tentacles.

And I thought the Imperial Palace was… excessive.

When they finally arrived, Rader and the Tideress waited in the corridor as the attendants deposited the gifts throughout his rooms. Once finished, she dismissed them.

The blue boy lingered nearby, his eyes wide and tracing every opulent detail of the majesty surrounding him.

“Wait here,” Rader said, gesturing beside the entryway to his rooms.

The boy obliged as Cora flippered out of the chamber and into the corridor, her shoulder-length green hair drifting around her face like a wild mane. The soft moonstone light reflected off her brown, turtle-like shell—the broad front fused to her waist, two green flippers sweeping from either side, and a small tail out the back.

“Favored,” she said, bowing first to him, then again to her Tideress. “I’ve just finished tidying your rooms. If there is anything you find yourself lacking during your stay, it would be my absolute pleasure to see it taken care of.”

“Hello to you, too.”

“Calm the boy,” the Tideress said, shooting a glance at the young Trenchguard. “Lest his racing heart spur a trickster-current to sully my halls.”

“Tideress,” Cora said with a bow, then kicked off to join the soothe boy beside the two Trenchguards who had earlier been assigned to Rader’s security.

He felt the urge to knock on her shell as she passed by, though resisted. His days of youth and whimsy had long set.

The Tideress gestured for him to enter.

He passed through the privacy-tentacles and noted that they were selected to match his own Emperion coloring—obsidian-black with occasional glowing streaks of gold and blue, a distinct reminder of what he was.

Favored by the gods.

There were three rooms in total: a bedroom in the far back, separated by another set of privacy-tentacles; a writing room directly overhead, designed so as to form a pocket of air where he could sit and write, unimpeded by the water; and the main room, overflowing with countless chests, all brimming with his offerings and gifts.

The Tideress rustled in after him.

“Again, I do hope you will forgive our lacking welcome, Favored,” she said. “Truly, we had not an inkling of your arrival.”

Now that they were alone, the deference in her tone was slightly unsettling; typically, the theatrics of politics only held so long as they were being observed. Or watched.

He recalled the note: Eyes are watching.

Then… even now we must play our parts.

“You wouldn’t have,” he said, playing along. “I’m here on reprieve, not officially.”

“Oh.” The Tideress feigned surprise. “Well, regardless, we are most grateful for your presence here, Favored. Though, regrettably, my brother has missed you by a day. He left with Risings Yu and Elihana for the Tethien Academy to—”

“Help her prepare for the Imperial Heir’s upcoming Showcasing,” Rader finished for her, waving a hand. “I understand.”

He flicked his gaze towards the entryway, partially to play the role the Eyes would expect of him, but also because he was tired, his tail throbbing for… relief. He was here for the Tideress’s benefit, yes. Just as any sympathetic acquaintance would. But after two weeks of lonely travel, he wanted it clear where his immediate focus lay—on one very specific, comely-faced blue boy.

The Tideress resumed, clearly cutting to the most prudent details, “Rising Dahvi will be gone for six weeks, Favored. A pity, really—that you won’t be here when he returns.”

Seems that’s my timeline.

“Indeed, it is a pity.” Another pointed glance towards the entryway.

The Tideress turned as if to leave, then turned right back, acting as if she had just remembered something.

“Pardon me, once more, Favored. I nearly forgot. Your sleeping anemone, I wish to ensure it is to your liking.”

Rader just stared at her.

Testing my patience now, are you?

Tension lined his jaw. “Of course, Tideress.”

He kicked his tail and swam towards the bedroom. Passing through the second privacy-tentacles, his gaze immediately fell upon the only noteworthy item there—the sleeping-anemone. It was impressive. A rare subspecies highly sought after precisely for its scarcity. And for its resemblance of glittery constellations strewn across a black winter’s night. Yet, of course, he knew there was more.

He swam up beside the anemone and slid his hand through the base of the tentacles until he found something tucked deep within.

Another note?

“Favored?”

“It’s perfect,” he said. “I will rest now. Leave.”

A brightness to her tone, “As you wish.”

He unfolded the note, written with Inkleon ink on a severed piece of a Dhargonian’s seaweed-like appendage, and read:

Find the twins, colored like gods.

Listen for their scheme, then stray not from the list.

Below that were names. Dozens.

Twins? He furrowed his brow. Surely, she isn’t referring to Serefians…

Regardless, with so many pieces now settled into place, he knew exactly how he wished to pass the remainder of his day.

Most certainly not here and most certainly not alone.

“Cora,” he called.

The Twanderian poked her head in. “Yes, Favored?”

“The Pleasure Rooms, please. And bring the boy.”

Thank you so much for reading the first three chapters!

If you like what you’ve experienced so far, check out the full book on Amazon here.

October 21, 2025
When Gods Feel (An Elspar Story)

It was a vicious summer-storm night when he swam from home. Not alone.

He carried the voices with him, prowling through his mind like an invasive species — wild and sharp of bite. Soon to overwhelm him…

Had overwhelmed him…

Their voices — resonant and cruel, contradicting and pestering. Unyielding.

So unyielding…

He gave himself to the waves. To their justified karmic thrashing as they pummeled against his tail and chest, ripping scales from his flesh. White-foam punches. Over and over. Beating him down. No reprieve — not even to breathe. Not that he deserved to.

Not for what he had done.

Sink it down, he thought. Gods aren’t supposed to… feel.

Lightning split the sky; thunder howled with the wind.

And everything hurt. He was grateful for that.

Another wave crashed down on him, like a verdict.

His vision blurred, and pain bloomed in sweet numbing.

The voices — finally — quieting…

Until…

A hand gripped his wrist and pulled him under. Deep, deep under.

Through slitted eyes, he glimpsed a familiar figure.

Ullian…? Damn. Thought I had escaped you…

He let himself be pulled, and sank.

Summer’s warmth was fainter here, in the darker, calmer deep — where the storm’s punches couldn’t reach. Typically, he didn’t mind. He often preferred the cold. Made him feel alert and alive. Powerful.

But those were all things he wanted no part in tonight.

Please, he thought, just one night away…

“What’s the matter with you, Revion!?” Ullian held him by the shoulders, his black-gold-blue marbled face twisted with fury — and something resembling concern.

No “my Rising”… hm? You must really be upset. Revion smirked.

As Revion’s Right-Hand — sworn to protect and serve — Ullian’s tendency skewed towards reverent formality. Something he rarely deviated from except for when his emotions flared, which was becoming more and more common lately. Almost like he cared…

Revion glanced surfaceward, choosing to ignore Ullian’s stern, nostril-flared gaze. He wanted to return to the surface, to his prior — and much preferred — predicament, being pummeled, punished, and bruised. The physical hurt less.

“Revion,” Ullian said, forcing calm, “what are you doing? It’s not like you to compel Reefguards and take off like this.” Then realization struck, and his fierce eyes narrowed. “Something happened…”

Revion grimaced, not wanting to remember.

No. Not at all. Just learned that I’d unwittingly shamed a general into sending two hundred new recruits to their deaths. You know, like some brain-slit cretin.

And worst of all — he felt. He just didn’t know what. Rage? Remorse? Pride? Even his siblings were roused to feel. Divided mostly. Their defining trait. Pim, his older brother and the reigning Emperion Emperor, had slunk from the haze of Pleasure Rooms to deliver a scalding reprimand so pointed and wrathful it burned itself into memory. Aleida, though… She says that’s just what Reefguards are for — to live and die in service to the empire. ‘Obedient and inconsequential.’

His hands twitched, and the voices warred like thunder.

Once more he flitted his eyes surfaceward. I just want to hurt so as to feel nothing. Nothing at all.

Because there was more.

Just before the storm broke, a report had come in from his rudimentary spy network. The boy who Revion had decided would be his future was apparently “emotionally entangled” with an Inkleon. A poorly-crafted, eight-armed poet — of all things! What does my love think he is, to sink so low? Autumn-rotted scum? Revion didn’t know whether to feel heartbroken, embarrassed — gods-forbid jealous! — or some sick warping of the three. It was all too much to hear. Too much to feel.

And the voices. Won’t. Shut. Up!

He said none of that, of course — honesty was unbecoming of the Imperial Heir. To anyone. Ever. His siblings’ one consensus.

Ullian maintained a vice-like grip on Revion’s shoulder as though he were some quiver-fish intent on slithering away, which wasn’t far from the truth. Revion wanted to get away. That’s why he left. To get away from the mind-whirling misalignment of values in his imperial family. Away from his failures and heartache. And away from himself — something he had no doubt another foam-fisted ocean punch could assist him with.

His problems were his to suffer. Alone. He knew that.

But I’m never alone. He peered into Ullian’s annoyingly attentive eyes. Not even when I slither and sneak like a cowardly eel.

“Don’t you ever want to slip away?” Revion asked. “Stretch your tail. Or test your strength against a storm?”

“That wasn’t strength I saw. It was surrender.”

That last word stung.

Revion curled his lips in a sinister smile, but his heart thumped with a sick desire — for the very thing he could never have.

“I’m a god,” he snarled. “Surrender has no place in my vocabulary.”

Ullian nodded, seeming appeased. Though, his grip didn’t lighten.

Not until Revion yanked himself free and rolled his shoulders back, head high, his tail stretched long. His whole body ached — he let none of it show.

A god? He thought. Or a performer?

“Shall we head back, my Rising?” Ullian asked with a bow, slipping back into formality.

Revion remained where he was, floating amidst the ocean’s steady sway.

I’m not ready. He chuckled to himself. All the power in the world, and there’s still so much I cannot do…

Cal’s blue moonlight spilled across the surface, high above. And cunning struck.

Revion could do nothing about the two hundred Reefguards — all of whom were probably already devoured and dead. Nor could he sever himself from the strangling snare that was his family.

But… he thought, a smile tugging his lips, I can remind my love of his worth.

“My Rising?” Ullian was respectfully insistent.

“We’ll start back, yes. But once we get to the palace, I’ll need you to send a Messenger for me.”

Ullian cocked his head. “Of course, my Rising. May I ask — where to?”

“The Inkleon Library. My future believes he can settle for amethysts before I’m able to offer him my sapphires…” Revion kicked his tail and started home. “So, to remind him who he is — and what he means to me — I’ll need to shatter that amethyst.”

The voices raged on in his mind, between demanding propriety and insisting on retribution. Yet his own purpose was anchoring enough to focus. There were some choices still left to him. Feeble graspings for control that his siblings would undoubtedly deem too petty and “inconsequential” to yank away or begrudge him for. One life was nothing, after all, when compared to two hundred.

And it’ll be fun — breaking all eight arms…

April 15, 2025
The Weight of Expectations (An Elspar Story)

White orbs, oblong—and not an option. Yet their soft shimmer calls to me. Captivates.

I lean closer, my nose nearly brushing their seafoam-fragile shells. And for a breath, I am weightless—adrift in the cool hush of the cavern deep beneath my family’s palace. Weightless, like a decision made. A calm surety—something I’m not sure I’ve ever really known…

Then—

“Tristyn!” my sister calls. And doubt rushes back in. “Come away from there, please.”

I linger a moment longer, swaying with the water’s gentle tide. Then I kick my tail lightly, and swim away—the weight pressing in once more.

The cavern is tight, its walls craggy and pocked with dozens of small holes. Each one vanishes into the extensive tunnel network the ancient Hinni Snails call home. A handful of them slither about, nibbling at the algae clumps nestled in the cavern’s crevices—their cleaning a salty, slimy feast. Bright red-gold sunlight filters into the cavern, washing dim their already soft, colorful bioluminescence.

It’s the eggs, though, I find more striking. Four large clusters hug the walls, each with the pulsing glow of a thousand tiny lives. All eager and waiting to hatch.

Yet today, only one life will twine with mine.

I hope we can become friends. Whoever you are…

Once at my sister’s side, she takes my webbed-hands and squeezes.

“There is no wrong choice. Okay?” She offers me a warm smile. I feel only chills.

But there is. Just nobody will say it.

I resist the urge to glance back at the cluster of white snail eggs. It’s hard, like trying to ignore some extension of myself.

Such a fool for hoping…

We turn as one to face Syllis—a wizened black Hinni Snail, dappled with small purple spots and large enough to fit comfortably in my palm. Perched on a narrow ridge halfway up the cavern wall, her long antennae-eyes sway, assessing us. It is her duty to oversee the pairings, to ensure her kin are paired with responsible Dhargonian matches.

All I know is how to be “responsible.” There was never another option…

When she realizes she has our attention, Syllis begins flashing her purple spots to communicate: Welcome Tideress Orawyn. Rising Tristyn.

We both nod politely.

Will Tidal Elwryn be joining us? Excited flashes.

I bite my lip to keep silent, tension lining my jaw.

“I’m afraid not,” Orawyn says, obviously wanting to make light of our brother’s absence. “Resolving disputes in the outer territory.”

It’s not every day a Rising chooses his Hinni-match. The slow rhythm of disappointment.

“He would be here if he could,” Orawyn adds, her tone placating.

Would he?

Syllis’ eyes narrow and glance at each other before focusing on me.

I trust you understand the significance of this day?

“I do.” My voice cracks. Heat flushes my cheeks and I tuck my chin to my shoulder.

Syllis flashes joyously. This is a special time in any Dhargonian’s life, young Rising. There is no shame in growing older—time comes for us all in the end.

I manage a nod, still looking away.

We are four. Syllis’ gesture to each cluster in turn with her antennae-eyes.

I know their kind well.

There are the blue-spiked protectors, I think, eyeing the pulsing blue cluster—fearless, focused, routinely temperamental, like Elwryn’s companion. The green-spiraled nurturers. I glance at the soft green glow behind Orawyn’s ear, where her companion tends to perch. Caringly assertive, patient, always meaning to be supportive, but… Then there are the purple-spotted tradition-keepers—like Airyn’s companion, before she passed and Elwryn ascended the throne. Clever, methodical, almost bitterly stern.

My gaze settles again on the white cluster.

And then there’s you guys—the white-splotched academics, like…

I sigh.

No one.

Leaders act. That was Elwryn’s lesson—his scolding, still fresh, thunders through my mind. We do not laze about, cowering behind scrolls, or lose days to wasteful ponderings, as you seem so aggravatingly prone to do. We are to be focused and committed. Decisive. There are wrong choices in life, brother. But it is a leader’s commandment—one that will one day irrevocably become yours—to make as few of them as gods-willingly possible. Understand?

I had understood then, just as I understand now.

And while most Dhargonians view choosing a Hinni Snail companion as a symbolic rite of passage, in my family, the long-standing—and suffocating—belief is that this choice reveals the callings of our hearts and defines the kind of leader we are meant to become.

And consequences ripple through every choice…

Take your time, Syllis flashes. But do be attentive. As we are deep in spring, many eggs have already begun to hatch. And while we believe the choice should reside with your kind, we connect with him whose face is first we see. So, consider. And hurry.

I nod with a smile, then take a deep breath. Once more, my gaze drifts between the four pulsing clusters—all the countless snails waiting, my decision weighing…

And, mind blank, I hesitate. Considering.

Hinni Snails live for decades—longer even than we Dhargonians. And they can reincarnate. Fragments of their past lives cling to them like stubborn barnacles, granting them insight, memories, and invaluable perspective.

That’s the true weight of this choice.

I’m not just choosing a companion—but a mentor, an advisor, a guide. Specialized by lifetimes of honing the skills they know best.

We give them the world beyond their cavern. In return, they give us what time would otherwise forget.

There is no wrong choice.

But there always is…

I glance again at the blue-spiked cluster, my heart heavy with Elwryn’s absence.

Maybe if I chose one of them, he and I might finally have something in common. Or at least, maybe I wouldn’t miss him so much…

The sincerity—more than the thought itself—catches me by surprise.

If he were here, he would just pick one for me. Wouldn’t that be so much easier?

Orawyn rests a hand on my shoulder, rousing me from my thoughts.

“This one”—she directs me to a black egg with purple spots like fluffy clouds—“reminds me of Airyn’s companion. The pattern is just like hers, don’t you think?”

I nod, but say nothing. There’s no spark, looking at the egg. No fascination or intrigue. No connection. Just that heavy weight pressing against my chest.

That one’s not for me…

The thought feels ungrateful, but feelings are what they are. Sometimes they carry their own truth.

My mind returns again to the white-splotched cluster.

To the Hinni Snail academics.To my own bright experiences sifting through scrolls in the family library, the lectures I’ve attended, the curiosities that have stirred through my mind for as long as I can remember.

They are what steer me.

Seeking answers…

But what room is there for dreams and curiosity in the life of a leader? I wonder. We’re supposed to be focused. To know everything—or at least conduct ourselves as if we do…

A faint clicking from behind startles me.

Without thinking, I spin around, my long seaweed-like appendages—one of either shoulder blade and another two low on the base of my back—rustle through the water as I do.

And my eyes meet another’s.

Glorm.

The name appears in my mind like the popping of a tiny bubble.

Orawyn gasps. “Tristyn, turn away from it. Now!”

Syllis is silent, one antenna-eye on the Tideress, the other on me. Observing.

“He’s so small…” I say, leaning in. “A hollow pearl would suit him like a palace.”

“Tristyn, please.” Orawyn swims up behind me, rests her hand on my shoulder. “The longer he sees you, the harder it will be for him…”

I swallow, chest tight, my heart growing numb.

But then I really look at him. This adorable, tiny snail.

And that weightless feeling returns—slow at first, then all at once.

The numbness fades.

A spark flickers within.

Calming.

Exhilarating.

Decided.

I turn back to Syllis. “What would happen to him—if I chose another?”

The old snail’s eyes glance at each other, then back to me.

He will live, she flashes. And he will hurt. We’ve never managed to figure out why, but the connection is stronger in us than in you.

She hesitates.

You would not be the first to deny one of us… choosing one of you.

I look to Orawyn. Her face is scrunched. Even her own companion—green antennae-eyes peeking over her ear—is flashing frantically.

“What would you have me do?”

She flits her eyes between Syllis and me, then says, almost begrudgingly, “Abide by your values.” Tenderness in her eyes, a tightness in her lips. “If this is your choice, then commit.”

I turn back.

“Glorm…”

The tiny white-splotched snail flickers wildly.

Glorm am I.

I exhale. Laugh.

“Yes you are,” I say, bending down and offering Glorm my finger. “Yes you are.”

You… accept his choosing? Syllis flashes, curious and slow.

“I do.”

Then, before Orawyn can object, I add:

“A leader protects those who choose to follow him—Elwryn’s words.”

Wonderful! Syllis flashes, a flurry of bright excitement—she’d jump, if she could.

I smile up at Orawyn, anxious, yes, yet giddy as Glorm slithers up my arm, leaving a trail of warm tingles as he goes.

She says nothing at first.

Her face is stern. Her hand still lingers on my shoulder.

I brace. Expecting a lecture. Or an argument. Or… something.

But all she says is:

“Wise words to quote. And a wonderful choice, indeed.”

Her tone is polite, yet…

If you really mean that, then why is your grip so tight?

Gently, I shrug Orawyn’s hand off and focus on Glorm—so new, so full of potential.

And mine.

My choice.

My truth.

April 15, 2025
Rising Arrogance (An Elspar Story)

This was Oming’s moment—like every moment was. To win.

He tore through the kelp-forest like a comet through the night, pulsating and alive with lifelight. The tall summer-green stalks lined the raceway on either side of him, all dancing to the ocean’s sway, many subtly obscuring the twists and turns meant to trick and confuse him. Hooh. Huuh. But winning was like breathing. He was crafted for it. Perhaps that’s why he found this first race so comfortingly easy.

His every muscle sang with thrill and strength as he slithered and wove through the final few turns, then straight on towards the finish-line. Yesss! So much better than combat training! He was alone, the other racers all trailing far behind him. But this wasn’t about them. He dug deep, gave all he had. Strain screamed across every inch of his body, tight and burning, evoking the most glorious elation.

Almost… An exhale.

He won, a blur shooting past the finish-line to thousands of rapturous cheers and a mass rain of praise. He needed a moment to reign in his speed and slow himself before he could nonchalantly swoosh back towards the crowd and revel in his victory. But, as he slowed, so did the cheering.

Huh?

Murmurs trickled up from the spectators, with everyone looking at one another—but not at him.

Oming swam back, glancing around at the crowd, nonplussed. He spotted his eldest sister, Feii, easily enough. She floated high above the spectators, poised and regal in a tail-length cloak woven of black and green seaweed, her hands and ears and neck all weighted with jewels, and her ink-black hair restrained in a single long braid. She looked down at Oming, expressionless.

That bad, is it?

The race judge flitted his eyes between the two of them, his thick neck disappearing into his scale-flecked shoulders like a turtle cowering under the weight of some great uncertainty. His prolonged silence indicated that he expected his Tideress to make the call herself. But Feii gave no gesture and made no pronouncement. Only observed.

What’s the big deal? It’s just a race.

There was another shift in the crowd. All the murmurs had become notable grunts and groans—especially from the foul-faced Racing Guild masters, all exchanging furious glances with one another.

Oming crossed his arms over his chest, tension lining his jaw, shoulders bristling.

He met Feii’s gaze once more and, masterful concealer of feelings that she was, Oming just barely noticed the slight flaring of her nostrils. And he knew.

By Cal’s light! What is it this time?

A different sort of ruckus broke out in the crowd, and Oming jerked around to face it. Floating far in the back were a few of his rowdier older brothers, all accompanied by their friends, paramours, and Bonded partners. The whole colorful cloud of them cheered and beat their fists against their chests in clamorous celebration. Reluctantly, the other spectators joined in, and that’s what decided it. Oming had won. He had won the race he was never supposed to enter. For no one would dare dispute the emphatic decision of any Tide.

Another racer shot past the finish-line. Oming knew who it was before they even reigned in their speed, though he couldn’t recall the racer’s name. The racer panted, his gills fluttering, his face long with exhaustion. Another racer finished soon after, then another. Each one in a similar weary state as they exchanged brief and breathy congratulations. When they spotted Oming and swam to present themselves—their expressions cold, their bows rigid—not one offered a kind word to him, their crown-Rising.

Oming had sense enough to suspect that the racers were entitled to their displeasure, and so offered them each a congratulatory nod, thus releasing them to enjoy the celebrations. But, one by one, the racers swam off. Towards their lodging quarters. Shoulders slumped and looking more like deflated puckler-fish than the proud, high-placing racers they were.

What’s got everyone’s tail so twisted?

Oming glanced once more at Feii.

She gave a discreet gesture, and two of her personal Reefguards swam swiftly towards Oming.

“Shall we return to the palace, my Rising.” asked the long, slender Reefguard, clad in armor cut from the earth-toned shell of a burrower-crab.

“Whatever.” Oming scoffed. “It was just a race.”

They swam surfaceward along the tall sandstone bluff that loomed over the immense kelp-forest below. Oming glanced over his shoulder to admire the raceway—from the finish-line under him to the starting-line far, far beyond the curve of the ocean-floor. For the average Serefian—a Dhargonian (with their seaweed-like appendages), a Skaltressian (with their dainty tentacles), or any of the others, really—traversing the distance of the raceway would have taken days of steady swimming, no breaks. But for Oming and the other Buroden racers, all with their gods-gifted speed, they had covered that same distance in just a few hours—Oming fastest of all, of course. Not that anyone seemed to care.

More racers crossed the finish-line as Oming neared the wide opening carved into the bluff. A few dozen more racers would filter in over the next few hours. Oming had hoped to stay and watch and offer them each his congratulations—usually such a gesture from a crown-Rising meant a lot to the commonkin—but, if the crowd and the earlier racers were any indicator, he supposed it was best to remove himself.

Why would I want to linger around such sore losers anyway?

They passed through the opening and entered the expansive carved-out cavern that was the Buroden Capital. His palace stood at the cavern’s heart, plainly visible even from the city’s entrance. Its grand sandstone walls, all richly colored with murals depicting the various heroic tales of his lineage, towered above the meager orange and brown crystal homes and establishments of his commonkin. White moonstones—property of his family, of course—glowed brilliantly in the glass-covered indentations that lined the cavern’s walls and domed ceiling. It was a quick, quiet swim to his home as many of the city’s residents were still gathered for the race.

Feii’s Reefguards escorted him to the grand hall and there they waited, floating just above the green marble floor.

Oming wasn’t usually one for nerves. He’d had most of them beaten out of him during the first brutal years of his speed and combat training. But there was some strange slithering sensation along his spine that almost made him long for another bludgeoning from his trainers. He couldn’t recall the last time he lost a match, but the old eels were sometimes still slippery enough to land an enlivening blow now and again. There was a pleasure in physical pain. Oming understood it, he could learn from it. And he much preferred physical pain to the razor reprimanding Feii seemed so Lais-lovingly intent on lashing him with every time he so much as slid a scale out of place.

So, when she arrived at the palace, not alone, but accompanied by the most prominent Racing Guild masters, Oming almost managed to convince himself he’d slipped the grip from the tirade he had been expecting.

Composed and steady, Feii was a waveless spring morning engulfed in the blustery crosswind of the Guild Masters’ as they bickered about “lost winnings” and “racers’ ruined retirements.” Their pouty lip-flapping persisted until Feii assumed her place at the end of the great hall—then immediate silence. There was no disrespecting a Tide’s authority while in the position of presiding. The white moonstone light gleaming in their glass sconces shone on Feii, glittering across the scales of her tail and highlighting their myriad shades of brown and green. Like a polished emerald, her bright calmness filled the room—even soothed the tension in the Guild Masters’ shoulders. Though, contempt still brimmed their dark, beady eyes every time one of them met Oming’s gaze. He still didn’t understand their discontentment, but some voice deep in the recesses of his mind chided that their sneers were likely warranted.

Feii was still and quiet, contemplative perhaps. And when she waved Oming to her side, he went with a pit of dread in his stomach. She wouldn’t reprimand him in front of the Guild Masters, but he knew his sister for the schemer she was and despised being used in her politicking. Combat was his language. Not petty words and placations.

“My dear, sweet brother,” Feii said, taking hold of Oming’s hands, “Such joy I feel for your dutiful and selfless display of unyielding love and commitment to our commonkin.” She turned to face the Guild Masters, many of whom still wore displeasure despite intently leaning in. “When our devoted crown-Rising came to me to express his immense respect and adoration for our most renowned Racers and asked for the honor to bear unique witness to their unparalleled determination and skill, well, it was a proud and humbling moment, indeed.”

Oming had to suppress a laugh at how she beamed with such pompous radiance. Though, he couldn’t say it wasn’t convincing. Least not for the fools who knew no better.

Do you even know what you’re saying?

“As the imperial heir’s Showcasing—” the word from his sister’s lips sent another slither down his spine, “—imminently approaches, my brother grows ever more committed to forging himself into a representative and a symbol worthy of the gods-crafted strength and indisputable brilliance so bestowed upon us all of the most enviable and beautiful Buroden commonkin. As ever and always, our humble family is most assiduously devoted to the wealth, the safety, and the interests of all over whom we so graciously have the privilege to represent and preside.”

Feii remained smiling her prettiest smile, and Oming was certain he had not understood but half of what his sister had said.

The Guild Masters all looked around at one another until the largest of them turned to Feii, bowed, then said, “Indeed, my Tideress, we are moved by our crown-Rising’s… adoration for the racers whom we represent; it is, however, his manner of witnessing the race that yet leaves some… curiosities lingering in the mind.”

Feii pursed her lips in a manner of contemplation. Fake as ever Oming’s seen.

“Curiosities?” Her tone might have sounded patronizing had she not spoken so softly. “What is so curious about a spectator exalting in the thrill of observing a race?”

The largest Guild Master held Feii’s gaze for a moment, appearing to consider her words. “Indeed, my Tideress.” He bowed, smiling. “Nothing curious at all.”

The others followed suit, though Oming spotted one or two nonplus expressions in the bunch.

Feii squeezed Oming’s hands and glanced quickly at the Guild Masters—all of whom were now staring at him—a clear indication that she expected him to offer a few words of his own.

What do you want me to say? I don’t know this arena…

He opened his mouth, closed it again.

Feii’s top lip started to twitch as his silence dragged on.

Uh…

“Prior to the race,” his sister squeaked out, only a drop of disappointment in her tone, “My champion brother expressed his wish that the winnings from our family’s bets be donated to support the racers and their families in their retirement. And as it was he who selected Binnen to be the royal racer, who did so masterfully win the race, my brother would like to personally double his winnings as a token of his admiration and well wishes for Binnen’s remaining racing career.”

Would I?

Still, the Guild Masters stared at him. It was most unnerving, as if the oceans themselves would never dance again until he spittled some banal response past his lips.

“Yes,” he said, practically hacking the word out like an urchin’s quill. “I… that… is my wish.”

“So generous,” Feii said.

Appearing mostly satisfied, the Guild Master offered their parting curtsies, then left.

“Swim with me, hm?”

All Oming could do was sigh. “Sure.”

They swished towards the main corridor that branched off from the left side of the great hall, towards the royal family’s private chambers. Scenters floated along the wall interspersed every few meters. Each emitted from their body a soft white glow imbued with a sweet sunweed aroma. Oming scrunched his nose at the sheer weighty offense of the scent.

“Are you really this stupid?” Feii asked.

Oming bit his lip. He knew better than to speak when she got like this.

She would scold him a while to let off some bubbles, then slither off to her private chambers to slurp down three or four ink-bubbles before berating the staff with half-slurred grievances about some decorative family heirloom being left askew. Despite all of Feii’s elegance and grace when before the eyes of the court, Oming knew his sister. Knew her well. And as much as her pressures and pummeling expectations of him were often a strangling at his throat, he felt some kind of way about her. A bit bitter. And sad.

“There can be no more of this, Oming. None.” She stopped in the center of the corridor, not even bothering to look at him. “You couldn’t think of anything to say? Not a single kind nor composed thought. Nothing. The others can be fools—gods-know they already are, cheering like younglings of poor crafting. But not you. You are on the precipice of attaining the highest responsibility of all the nine clans, and yet you have not an inkling of what it is to rule. The imperial heir would have to be an imbecile to choose you—and he is not. So neither can you be.”

“It was just a race,” Oming said, his hands clenched at his waist. “And that ‘highest responsibility’ you’re so fixated on is just to squander myself as a glorified piece of arm jewelry and–” he gestured to his whole self, “I think I can handle that.”

Feii turned to him and something sinister flashed across her face. For the first time ever, Oming almost thought she was going to hit him.

“Feii, it was just a race. All I wanted was one race.”

And I’ve never been able to talk like you can…

“Do you understand the disregard? The selfishness? The callousness of what you did to those racers? Those racers who spend their short, bleak, miserable little lives bleeding their lifelight to speed my messages, your messages, all messages across the empire?” There was a fury in her eyes Oming had never known she could muster. “There’s no competing with us, Oming. There’s no competing with you. You don’t bleed your life away like they do. You can’t not understand this by now.”

I do. I do… I just wanted to feel what it was like. To speed like that…

Feii looked like she wanted to say more, but said only, “The imperial heir’s portrait arrived for you today. I had them take it to your room. Go… disappoint me someplace else. And perhaps… Just once… Think.”

She swam off down the corridor, leaving Oming to his “thinking.”

And to that eerie slithering sensation down his spine…

April 14, 2025