She was allowed to have her way. For a moment, the task, the will to win, receded into the background. Instead, Salia used the narrow window of opportunity to swim down to the spear in firm, taut strokes. The shield shimmered in dull surroundings. The magic that rested within it had to shine even in the darkest hour.

For an instant Salia tried to grab it, long before she reached the legend, but withdrew her hand in the last second. Her first touch wasn't to hold a shield. There was nothing she wanted to defend or protect. No one was waiting for her anymore. Her family was long dead.

Light as a feather, her bare feet came to rest on the uneven stone. Sand rubbed over her soles, lightness nestled against her body, and for a breath, Salia waited. Her eyes fixed on the spear – titanium, slightly curved, ending in a point of diamond. No gems. No adornments. Nothing that made it stand out.

And yet, behind it all, Salia thought she saw a soul that was closest to hers. A will that existed solely to bring war. Destruction and freedom, by rising and agreeing to bring the world to its knees. With this spear, it was possible. With it, she could make a difference.

Slowly, her hand reached for the cool metal, gripping the titanium as tightly as she could with one hand before taking hold of the heavy strap attached to the shield and pressing both pieces tightly against her body. Against her thin, brittle frame, which with all this was supposed to seem stronger than it was.

But even underwater, all that metal was hard to move. Winning against the siren using spear and shield remained but a distant dream. A mere idea that required her to decide. So Salia made a choice.

Her gaze turned back to the siren. Its shape in the middle of the water was like a painting – created from far away and forgotten dreams, just waiting to devour its victim late at night. If she wanted to win, she had to overcome all that.

She had to let go of the dreams.

The sea demanded all she had.

The shield slipped from her hands. There was nothing left to protect.

Sand swirled as the metal hit the bottom and fell over. It landed flat on the rock, rejected and unwanted, while Salia took the spear in both hands and straightened her shoulders. She had only this one chance. One shot to get what she wanted – what she deserved.

“So you choose to give your hatred a stage...” The siren's statement chiselled Salia's decision in stone; made it lift its claws and draw the water so deep into its lungs that the fabric in front of its face was pressed tightly against the crooked features beneath.

For a moment it seemed to cover an endless hole before hasty bubbles of air shot back into the sea on either side, lifting the linen. Gills appeared, only to be covered up again immediately afterwards.

It was like an invitation, a starting signal that Salia noticed as she tried to stabilise her position and become one with the water. She had to stay in rhythm with the weightlessness, had to resonate, let herself be pulled along. Unlike a normal fight on land, where she had never had a chance, this time it was the water that promised her possibilities. She just had to go for it.

The siren recognised the second part of its test as well, ready to put an end to all this. Its massive form turned. Then it sped down like an arrow. Claws raised on either side, it threatened to strike, crumbling the rock into thousands of chunks – and Salia waited.

The pounding in her chest had subsided and the restlessness that had been like a warning in her bones before, half-smothered and panic-stricken, had given way to inward peace. There were no doubts, no worries; only a goal to reach for while it was still visible.

Slowly she breathed the warm air over her lips, attention focused on the siren. The coldness of the water remained alien. The distance narrowed. Time threatened to stand still and trickle through her senses all at once. Nothing changed and yet everything threatened to collapse into itself.

Just at the last moment, as the siren's claws lowered and the rushing water echoed through the void between them, Salia pushed herself off the bottom. Dust swirled, stone cracked. A hiss, fading behind the rumble of stone, chased under the linen of her opponent's brittle lips. Dulled destruction gave Salia a lift, carried her upwards, far enough to meet the siren at eye level.

Her body reacted, acting on reflex as her opponent's head lifted and the cloth fluttered barely an arm's length from her. Salia's grip tightened. Her forearms tensed.

And then she thrust.

The diamond tip sparkled in the faint glow of the underwater world before disappearing into white cloth. The spear pierced through the fibres as Salia's body pressed against the titanium with all its might. Resistance held her back, only to give way barely a blink later.

The weapon penetrated. Blood spread on the creamy linen and the imperious scream that followed with delay vibrated through Salia's body. Her bones trembled under the pain of her opponent, threatening to tear the spear from her, so she ripped it back with force.

Thin threads of blood followed the way, washed out, refusing to become one with the water and yet fading a little more with each movement Salia's legs made. Simultaneously, the siren tilted its head back – the scream on its lips almost silent.

Salia watched it happen. She absorbed the seconds, observed how the torment broke through every bone of that gigantic body and horrified the whole of Aywotoc. All through the tip of a spear whose sturdiness would survive even Couvia's armies.

It was a hopeful thought.

Barely noticeable, Salia's breath rushed faster across her lips. Her fingertips pressed firmly against the titanium of her weapon and as her shoulders tensed, the world seemed to fall at her feet for a split second.

The smile on her features grew wider, brighter, more honest. She felt the tugging of her skin against her cheeks and yet she couldn't suppress it. Instead, a laugh escaped her. Relieved, completely detached, as if she had already made the leap over the fire. Yet her journey had only just begun. It was just about to reveal itself.

But she had taken the first step, put a siren in her place and –

Her thought broke off as her body pressed violently to one side. Her previously stiff shoulders threatened to press against her chest and laughter choked somewhere in her lungs.

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Then the water chased past her like a storm.

The siren moved away, a little way into the background, until Salia crashed back-first against the rock of the bottom. The water didn't cushion her; it didn't make the impact any easier, and the sharp stones digging into her haggard body elicited an unwanted gasp that filled her lungs with water.

Instantly, she let go of the spear to clutch at her throat. The oxygen was missing.

“It's a beginning ... really the beginning of something perhaps fascinating.” The siren had regained its posture. The cloth on its face was almost completely drenched in red and a thin scrap of cloth that didn't belong to it hung from one claw.

It took no further thought to understand that it came from Salia's garments. This creature had attacked, and it had hit her in the triumphant moment of a silly girl.

With difficulty, she tried to hold her breath, to gain composure. But her body yearned for oxygen, for rescue, for help she couldn't ask for. Instead, her limbs twitched. Her body writhed. Fingertips tore at the skin of her throat, twisting it, squeezing it, stripped of all control.

Help! All that remained for Salia were her thoughts. But the siren's body remained fixed.

“Were you not willing to give up everything for your revenge?”

Everything but my revenge itself! If she died, who assured her of a new life? The spear in her hands had been hope. Who knew what her next life would be?

She was ready to sacrifice any life to come in order to take advantage of this one. This time she wouldn't sink, wouldn't settle for doing more next time. She wanted more than that, wanted to see this moment go up in flames. The water was supposed to evaporate and her opponents fall to their knees.

She had been so close.

But the blackness that reached for her made no exceptions. The twitching of her body became meaningless, stopped entirely somewhere between perception and oblivion; and when Salia closed her eyes, knowing she would not be helped, she was left with only one certainty.

Next time, that siren's head would roll.

----------------------------------------

Salia's body sped upwards as her senses were shaken by a harsh cough. Her throat burned, not allowing the coughing to subside, squeezing her chest so tightly she thought her ribs would break.

She arched her back, tapping her chest weakly with a trembling fist until her cough subsided to a pitiful clearing of her throat. Each successive breath whistled in her ears.

The tremor of her shoulders clung to her whole body, reaching to her fingertips barely a few minutes later. Her toes were blue. Her teeth were chattering. Her surroundings didn't matter, beaded against the emptiness of her senses as Salia drew her knees up to rest her forehead on them.

What followed were whimpering breaths. Endless. Helpless. Abandoned.

Until alien warmth settled on her back.

Instantly, Salia jerked her head from her knees and looked around. She didn't get far before she met dozens of eyes. Two that could have belonged to a human and yet sat in a face with thirty more, barely larger than a copper coin.

“Are you feeling better?” The stranger's soft voice brought calm with it, settling on Salia like a shroud, making her quivering shoulders slump. The small eyes blinked unevenly. “You must have died twice today.”

“Have I?” Compared to the stranger, Salia's voice rasped – in her throat as well as her surroundings. It was so unpleasant that she immediately closed her mouth again and twisted her lips.

“For sure, and somehow ... not.” A thin smile settled on the other's features before she finally removed her hand from Salia's back and stood up. It was only in those seconds that Salia realised she was resting on a low bed. “I am Vix.”

Salia could only bring herself to nod bluntly as she followed Vix with her eyes and yet didn't stick to her. Her surroundings crashed down on her too clearly for that.

Around her, the sea still reigned. The darkness was lit by the faint shimmer of the surface and bathed in colour by wobbly figures with long legs. Hope, which was nothing but a deceptive glow on the surface of the sea, made her chest heavier.

The only thing that kept her from drowning another time was an invisible, shiny skin that reminded her of a soap bubble. Part of her was already rousing herself to touch it, but the rest of her was considering safety. So her gaze wandered back into the room.

“How did I get here?” Her attention clung to the bed she had been resting on, without blankets but with a soft feather pillow. Her clothes were missing. Pulling her legs further up, Salia wrapped her arms around her chest to keep her shame low. “And where are my clothes?”

“You mean the scrap of fabric they left you before they threw you into the sea?” Vix didn't even turn to look at her. The flowing black hair, its violet glow enchanting the room, brushed the middle of her back in a steady beat as her head swayed back and forth. A rusty knife in her hands let her cut a fruit on the only table in the middle of this bubble. “Threw it away.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” She shrugged. “That's why I left you something else. It should fit ... even if you are a little meagre.”

Salia raised her brows in disbelief before looking around. Besides this bed, this table, a few cushions in isolated corners of the stone floor and some fabrics, a neatly folded pile of clothes had been placed at her feet.

Another glance at Vix revealed she was still busy with her fruit. So Salia took the moment to reach for the clothes. “You saved me.”

The knife slammed down on the table. Vix paused in her position for a moment. “I think if I had saved you, you would be dead now. But Mireille told me that ...” She sighed as she picked up the knife again. “You've reached the beginning of the end.”

Salia's legs slid awkwardly into the blue jeans that had been laid out for her. They were baggy in places, didn't fit properly, yet fit well enough not to slip down on her hips. Immediately afterwards, she tucked her upper body into a plain vest before throwing on the dark blue jacket, which could only be buttoned up to her hips. The rest of the fabric reached her knees.

“What do you mean?” she inquired, finally surrounded by warmth that had become almost foreign. Pleasant calm that made the hatred fade into oblivion.

“What I mean is you have chosen to take revenge. I can't say I agree with that, but it's been out of my hands for a long time to do anything about it.” Without further ado, Vix put the knife aside and turned. Her eyes blinked again, and this time Salia admired the flawless, deathly pale patch of skin that drew a line three fingers wide through the middle of her face.

Vix, meanwhile, brought her a plate, carefully topped with the strange-smelling fruit that had seemed so stubborn before. Its orange flesh was reminiscent of something Salia had once seen in a book – long before she had understood that it was a book of ancient things who had once existed.

“These are oranges,” Vix elaborated. “From an island far from here.”

Salia's eyes went round as a ball. “There are islands out there?”

“They've always been there. Just ... they come and go, depending on how we treat them.”

Slowly, Salia brought her nose up to the fruit, inhaled the sweet scent and let herself be carried away for a moment. The unexplored world out there held things long forgotten in the seven kingdoms. It was like a dream she hadn't even known existed.

“Will you tell me about it?” Again she turned her attention to Vix, who had settled herself in front of the bed. Despite the black dress against her body, she sat cross-legged. “Of the world outside?”

“No,” Vix returned. “That is something you may, one day, find out for yourself. It's more important for you to learn what happened back then, and also to realise that Mireille's anger and your hatred aren't everything. That you don't have to keep acting if you don't want to. I mean ... how old are you? Fourteen?”

“Sixteen,” Salia replied. “And who is Mireille?” She shook her head. There were too many unanswered questions for her to skip. “And anyway, who are you?”

“Mireille is the siren whose eye you cut out.” Propped up on her hands, Vix leaned backwards. “And I ... am the first of our kind. The first, the heroine, God, whatever they call me. I ... am the girl who wanted to make things better back then.”

It took a moment for Vix's statement to click into Salia's head. “You ... are the one who is responsible for all this ...”

“I am.” Her interlocutor's gaze lowered. “And by God ... all I had ever wanted was a little more peace in the face of cold society and a lost future.” When she looked at Salia again, it was dozens of black eyes seeking forgiveness in the glare of this bleak world. “I wanted ... love. Forgiveness.”

“Then why all this? Why are we being hunted? Why do we live like this?”

Vix's lips twisted.

“Because all I found was hate.”