The sea frothed like a rabid animal. It was stained pink like fermented pomegranates; every white beach on the Isle of Silthia was a stew of sweat and blood, and mangled limbs enmeshed in seaweed.

Calls of agony warbled throughout the night, and at dawn, the maidens left from the castle with Princess Alanis at their head, descended the rocky cliffs bearing in hand cotton bindings and medicine. Behind them, came her grace's personal guard, ready to defend the women should any unsavoury creatures attempt to ravage them.

But the efforts of the women were too late.

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During the night, the opposing forces of Merfolk must have crawled their way onto the beach with knives. Not one of the creatures washed ashore was left with an unslit throat.

Alanis took great care not to tread on any of the fallen, but as the bodies were more numerous than the grains of sand, she found herself walking in the shallow waves, still crimson in colour. The sea was still frothing desperately, as if it were choking on the foulness of war and foaming at the mouth.

For hours, they searched to no avail. There was not one faintly beating heart along the beaches, not one small voice that cried for liberation of pain, not one shallow breath that could be rescued from the clutches of death.

"It can not be." Cried Alanis in distress. "If I can save but one!"

But her lament was cut short by the excited cries of her maidens.

"Your grace!" They shouted, near a small cove isolated by rock pools and heavy winds. "Your grace, come quick! We have found a survivor!"