Five men’s heights below him, the ocean waged a battle as old as time. Wave after wave rolled up the cliff only to disperse like shattered glass, their spray hardly touching his cheeks as he stood high above and watched, and wondered. There was malevolence in the deaths that occurred here, the locals kept telling him. Too many young men had lost their lives falling down the smoothed rock, people of sound mind whose families swore they would never have even considered suicide. He knew better than to point out the many assumptions that had given birth to the ocean temptress. No words could convince the people of Lhan that the stunning woman—or fish, in some wilder versions of the tale—was not hiding from sight below the spume waiting for a lone visitor to catch sight of her, but was in fact not there at all.

Strands of hair lashed at his face, mere playthings of the wind. He looked at his watch. It had only been 17 frags since he started, not even halfway through. He wasn’t too comfortable, and his legs had already turned stiff, yet his spirits remained as solid as the rock beneath him. The locals thought him a weakling, he knew, and as long as they did, he had a chance to expel their fear. After all, if a weakling like him could resist the temptress, surely the brave people of Lhan could, too.

They were a peculiar folk, the Lhaninn. Proud, but passive, they posed challenges he had not faced before, neither as the Chancellor’s Stead nor as the Exotiquette’s man for everything. A misstep rarely brought on the wrath of the common people; if any, it was the upper class that liked to flaunt their signs and paroles, often drawing the ridicule of the silent majority. Also, the culture of Lhan proved permeable to the ways of reason and science, much more so than the other Allayn islands. They clung to their small superstitions, true—but those were rarely brought up with outsiders. He had had to command Sar Burren to fill him in, and even so, the young secretary had sworn him to secrecy before letting slip a word about the temptress.

Yet while their peaces came easy and lasted long, they were shallow at best. Nowhere was this more evident than in the case of one simple word: ’yes’. Saying ’yes’ on Lhan meant something else entirely than it did in Grale. More precisely even, it meant nothing at all. Pushed to a choice, the Lhaninn would give their verbal and written consent to anything the Empire desired. Construction projects, new taxes, the restoration of the coastal road system, there was a ’yes’ for all of them. A dance had to be performed first, sure, but the niceties were painless and the bribes only symbolic. And so the Empire built, taxed, and poured concrete into potholes, declaring all these efforts as successful.

Only what constituted success? A finished apartment complex was a success until not a single person applied to live in it. Taxes could be collected and liars prosecuted, only when the majority of the populace joined in committing fraud, you could hardly arrest all offenders. And long-term repairs to a road that the locals refused to use could hardly be sustained under an ever-changing budget.

Thus, his was a frustrating office at first. But it did not have to stay that way. Once you came to understand the limits of a ’yes’, there was much to be learned from the Lhaninn, patience in particular. You’d start to listen more, and find that oftentimes, the only thing that made them resist a demand was the demand itself. You’d find that communities wished to choose what architecture was added to their district. You’d find that the money the Empire needed could well be raised, only by taxing the right products and people—the rich, in more cases than not.

You’d find from a comment hushed between clerks that the roads were shunned not out of stubbornness, but fear of a make-believe fish woman that beguiled young men into a cold wet death.

Watching the waves, the cliff, the rough northern sea whose surface looked deceivingly calm the further he directed his gaze, he had already come to a deeper understanding of their beliefs. For whenever the spray subsided and a short peace between waves set in, there appeared shapes and patterns in the whites and blues of the water that did tempt him—only not to jump, but to study, interpret them. Study long enough, he reckoned, and one might well bow over the cliff just a finger too far and lose one’s balance. Who was he to claim that it wasn’t a magical woman, only a bunch of random shapes?

A traveler, was his best answer. For different shores showed different shapes, and although these were more complex and strangely familiar than any he had seen so far, their magic was reduced to mere peculiarity.

One of the waves rose above its brothers, thundering against the unyielding rock and wetting his face. He dried himself with his sleeve and checked his watch again. Still, only 17 frags had passed. How peculiar, Rannek thought.

A searing pain ripped him away from Lhan, forcing his eyes open. He reached for his shoulder and found the bandage under his shirt hanging by a strip of tape. The man sitting next to him folded his hands.

»Prefect Lorne, did I hurt you?« the guard asked. His face was a soft oval, squished together by the speakers of his headset. What was the soft-faced guard’s name again? Mal-something… »I shouldn’t have moved so abruptly. I’m sorry, sir.«

Rannek waited and let his senses adjust to his new surroundings. Where there had been the crashing of the waves, he now heard a machine’s continuous wail; where there had been the ocean, he found himself trapped in a narrow, sweltering metal box. As he was still waking up, he already yearned for the cool winds and soft spray of the Lhaninn shore. »… No need to apologize, private. I was the one who decided to travel with an injury.«

The guard smiled with relief. Mallaslyn. That was his name. »Happy to have you with us, sir.«

Rannek nodded, and went about fixing the bandage. Every touch to his wound still felt excruciating, but he had to subdue the pain. A grunt would sound perfectly crisp over the headsets, and the last thing these men needed was another complication to worry about. Some had looked shaken that morning after reading Wellan’s safety assessment. Bitaab was ripe with tension after the collapse, tension that few City Guards ever saw during their tour.  Some sullen, some focused, they sat through the relentless noise and heat in silence, staring into space.

He wondered how long he had slept, and peeked out of the window across from him. Jungle, still. Only the terrain had grown steeper. Abis and telahiems clung to the crags through a web of winding roots, kept out of the even terrain by the ever-dominant Tahori teak. He could see movement in some of the treetops, spotting birds and a tribe of monkeys. If they were already flying this close along the mountain range, it couldn’t be long until they’d arrive.

A messy head of hair obstructed the left part of the window, bobbing left and right trying to get the best view of the outside. Who’d have known. First time flying or not, he had expected Pen to refrain from showing any excitement, but instead, the girl was smiling non-stop. He couldn’t remember ever having seen her this happy. Even Glane seemed tamed in his obsession with her safety, letting her kneel on the bench belt-free after she’d nagged him, looking down on her with a solemn smile of his own. Faced with the happy pair, Rannek felt a rift go through his heart. He wanted nothing more than to be proven wrong about her coming along, to learn that it wasn’t the mistake he’d made it out to be in his mind, yet he needed more for that to happen than a couple of smiles.

Lying to Pen wasn’t easy. Before taking off even, he had nearly gotten exposed; luckily, the colonel proved as professional as he was cunning, acting like he’d brought her at a whim without Supreme General Ullston’s blessing. The concessions Syrkanan had wrung out of him were minor, and Rannek had been eager to comply. He hated being in that man’s debt. The  berating had been utterly unnecessary, yet he had himself to blame for expecting anything different. Expecting the colonel to just ask.

God’s Army never just asks.

Whatever idea Ullston had gotten into his head, Rannek had to assume the worst after the order came through. Had he declined, the Supreme General could have given Syrkanan the authority to barge right into Pen’s home and take her—assuming he got past Glane, whose loyalty to the beret was fleeting even on his best day. A frightening scenario. For five years he had kept her safe, from the Liberation, God’s Army, everyone, just to see her snatched away at the whim of an old man who didn’t even know her. He couldn’t let that happen.

A bitter thought crossed his mind. Old man who didn’t even know her—that may well be the description she would one day give of him. And she wouldn’t be wrong. He could only understand her to an extent, for her short life had already seen more tragedy than his. What he did understand however was who she was—not to herself, but to her people. Who she could become. He wasn’t opposed to her traveling per se, as travels built character, but into a crisis such as this? It was more than a challenge. This mission was a risk.

No wonder his dreams had brought him back to the shores of Lhan, his first office. The island had prepared him for Tahor in oh so many ways, and still barely compared. For one, the proud people there had learned lessons the Tahori had not. Not obedience, but rather effectiveness. Unity. Lhan and the rest of the Allayn colonies had their own history of splits and fissures within, but there were certain priorities. The fiercest battle of Lhaninn against Lhaninn would end the breath the Empire got involved.

Not so in Tahor; every day birthed new camps, new divisions within its people that pitted them further against each other. Lines were blurred beyond recognition. Most rebellions against the Empire met their end at what his superiors called ’the midland grinder’: a group split, then split again, until a dozen factions were trying to kill each other over who hated the enemy the most. In a way, it both justified and facilitated the Empire’s rule; in another, it made his job a living hell of uncertainty. With factions splitting, multiplying by the day, there was no way to keep track of what touched all the Tahori. What could unite them. These days, in his memories, Lhan often felt like a daylong dialogue; Tahor on the other hand was a forum of a thousand voices all yelling at each other at once.

Moreover, with a lack of colonial experience came a broad distrust of all things Gralinn. He had to learn the intricacies of the Tahori language to understand the codes used to talk about his people. Pale, they called him, but what they meant was ’stranger’, the deepest sense of that word, one that customs, tongues, even blood couldn’t bridge. Twelve years after starting his research for the IET in Tahor, five years into his prefecture, he feared he was still as much a stranger and no closer to convincing his constituents that he had their best interest in mind as on the day he’d gone ashore. Lhan had been simpler not only because its people were united. Their codes, though they sure were vulgar, did not rely on appearance as much as on a man’s intention.

The pilot spoke to them, slurring and speeding. »Flyer 2, confirm that. Colonel won’t be happy—coin toss who tells him?«

»Beg your pardon, captain?« Rannek asked. He thought he’d heard the man gasp just then.

»Please forgive me, prefect Lorne. Wrong channel. It won’t ever happen again.«

»No problem. Are we on schedule?«

»Affirmative. 20 frags at best. I will keep you updated, sir. Again, a thousand apologies.«

»Much obliged.« What did Syrkanan do to instill such fear in his men? It had to be more than push-ups, Rannek reckoned. No wonder most of the incidences in Koeiji involved patrols under his command; their fear left little space for concern about the lives and feelings of civilians. The City Guard was as stark a contrast as could be found anywhere in the Republic. The chronically understaffed force of a few hundred men had blossomed under Wellan’s leadership, and was nowadays capable of keeping the inner city safe without more than peripheral support by the colonel’s troops. Whereas base Klinngen was a place of fear, Wellan had his men’s respect, and though the black berets took every opportunity to show their disdain for their light blue brothers, it was obvious to Rannek that deep down, they envied them.

The messy head in the window turned and gave him a salute, trying not to smile.”G’day, sir.” 

”Private Pen, I see you took your scouting duties to heart,” Rannek returned. ”Happy with what you’re seeing?”

Pen tilted her head as if to say ’so-so’. ”Lotsa jungle. Looks suspiciously like the one we have back home.”

”It does? I don’t remember the jungle there being so far below us. Commander Sersinyn, do you?”

Wellan did not look up from the ledger he was writing in. ”I do not. Resume scouting, private Pen.”

Pen raised her hand to shield her face from Wellan, and made kissy lips pointing at his ledger. Rannek smiled. There were few moments off-duty that the Head of the Guard did not spend writing his wife under the threat that otherwise, she would visit again.

More than anything, it was good to see Pen have fun. He wasn’t off the hook for letting her come, not before they would touch down on the base again, but perhaps, the leash he had kept her on had been too tight. It wasn’t too late for her to have fun once in a while. Be a child.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

”Your Tahori is… commendable,” Ibiko said. The young man was staring at him like at a never before seen animal even though they’d spoken before. Rannek bowed, and allowed himself a moment of pride.

Pen scoffed. ”Don’t teach him any new words, he’ll smother you with them.”

”Thank you very much,” Rannek said, nodding toward Pen. ”But all honors go to my teacher, young Penroe-sima. Your language is hard, but fascinating—just when I think I have everything covered, a new saying or dialect pops up. Have you ever spoken to someone from Syat?”

”I’ve tried to,” Ibiko said. ”Sounded like no language I’ve heard before.”

”Thank the allfather, I thought I was alone.” They shared a chuckle. ”Wellan’s not bad either, but he likes to make people think he is. In fact, I once spotted a book of your country’s most commendable poetry on his desk! The Guoboro, wasn’t it?”

This seemed to interest Pen even more than the young man. ”Oh, really now?” She yanked at Wellan’s shirt sleeve. ”I’d love to hear some.”

The head of guard did not slow his writing hand. ”A gift for the wife. I have not read it.”

”As if. C’mon, please?”

Pen kept tugging his shirt to no response. Rannek looked around at the soldiers, some of whom now wore a smile just like the girl’s. Respect or no, they surely wouldn’t mind their superior belting out a stanza or two. Ibiko too was smiling, though his eyes never connected for long, a tic Rannek had encountered many times before. The Gralinn in the young man’s life had likely been less open. Less chatty. They could have been cut from the same cloth as Syrkanan’s, or worse. It was a kind of distrust no words could put to rest; only time, and calm, and patience.

One face alone was a frown, causing Rannek to tap the massive knee across from him. »What is it, private Kirhonen?«

Glane kept his composure, though he clearly was caught off-guard. »Nothing, prefect.« He looked at Pen and her tugging hand. »I am familiar with the Guoboro, is all.«

Pen’s head shot around instantly, eyeing him with disbelief. ”No way.”

”There is way.” His chest swelled, and his back straightened. ”I found book under couch.”

”Prove it.”

Pen, Ibiko, Rannek, even Wellan looked up at Glane. His frown had gone, making way for a faint smile as he relished the attention. After taking another long breath, he spoke.

”In the mists of home and yonder,

Daylight breaks to light anew

Hills and valleys ripe with wonder,

Lands that weep a glist’ning—”

His voice drowned in the snorting laughter of Pen, who nearly fell off her bench. Glane hid his shame behind a piercing glare, which spared her and instead veered towards Ibiko. The young man waged a battle just as old as the oceans’ trying not to laugh. Glane had defiled every verse, every syllable, and most of all the pacing with his accent. It wasn’t without a second jolt of pride that Rannek noticed he could discern this.

When the laughter calmed down, Pen patted Glane’s high shoulder and sat back up, her breath still hectic. »I’ll—I’ll make it up to you. Wanna hear a Hirklen psalm?«

That wiped the glare right off Glane’s face. »It would be a pleasure, young miss.«

Now Pen took a breath, and cleared her throat before starting to recite.

»Lo the men who practice justice,

Lo their wives who—«

Pen’s voice vanished while her lips kept moving, playing before Rannek like a silent motion picture. All he heard was the turbines’ muffled screeching. Wellan looked at him with alert eyes pointing at the cockpit door. Was he experiencing the same?

»Prefect Lorne,« a voice called out to him. The pilot. »Commander Sersinyn, can you hear me? Sirs?«

»Affirmative,« Wellan muttered, so the others wouldn’t notice.

»So sorry to disturb you, but we’re seeing something here… Talk at the base was, there’s more shipments coming to Bitaab after we’ve reported back. Is that correct?«

»Yes,« Rannek said, curtly.

»Going by truck?«

»Yes,« Wellan said. Next to him, Pen was still going with her psalm, stirring Glane to a point where he had to wipe a tear off the tip of his mustache. »Get to the point.«

»… It won’t be possible, sir. The bridges are gone.«

»What do you mean?« Wellan asked. »Destroyed?«

»No, just gone. Deconstructed, seems like, there’s literally nothing left. Two of ’em we wouldn’t even have noticed if it weren’t for the maps. They’re just not there.«

»That doesn’t make sense. Have you—«

»Patch in mister Yairo,« Rannek said, only to hear the pilot draw a sharp breath. »Now.« Promptly, Ibiko began looking around the cabin. ”Stay calm. The captain up front tells us the bridges on the way to Bitaab are all gone. Deconstructed.”

”They’re what?” Shock ran across the young man’s face. ”That’s… that’s impossible! Do you think the Liberation—”

”The Liberation moves in silence, but they strike loudly,” Rannek said. ”There’s no trace left. Why would your people remove them now that they need our help more than ever?”

”We—” Ibiko composed himself. ”We didn’t, I swear. My father would never let that happen. It must—” His gaze wandered off, and he covered his mouth.

”What is it?” Rannek asked. He suddenly noticed that all eyes but Ibiko’s were staring at him. Pen’s lips were moving, but in bursts; she wasn’t reciting anymore. »Captain, open our channel.«

For a breath, he thought he’d have to repeat the order, but then, Pen’s voice came to his ear. ”— going on? Can you HEAR ME?”

”Too well. Relax.” He cleared his throat and looked at the guards. »The infrastructure between Koeiji and Bitaab has been compromised. We’ll have to scout the area for possible terrorist activity, but our mission stays the same. Rescue and pacify.« Then, Pen. ”The bridges are gone. Please don’t ask what I mean, they just are. Can you make Ibiko tell me why?”

Pen turned toward the Bitaabi sitting on the opposite side of Glane. He had burrowed his mouth and nose in his palms, and was staring at the ground. His eyes were wide and white. ”Are you okay?”

A while passed before he moved, turning slowly toward her, then Rannek. A staggered sigh escaped him. ”The ground… it swallowed the bridges! That’s the only explanation. It wants us dead, I saw what it did, the way it split and pulled everything down, all of them, in a— Don’t look at me like that, I’m not crazy!” His hands shot about wildly, gesturing. ”Penroe, please, tell them!”

”… I can’t—”

”If the ground ate them, there’s nothing we can do,” Rannek said. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard Ibiko trail off into ramblings; likely, it was just the trauma. Neither were his fault, however they also weren’t of any help. ”If there was any possible reason the people of Bitaab were to take away the bridges, what would it be?”

”There isn’t!” The young man was pleading, hands folded.

”What about the Liberation?” Pen asked.

”Doesn’t make sense. They blow up bridges, they don’t carefully disassemble them. And even if that was the case—the mine’s completely destroyed already, and won’t be rebuilt any time soon. All they’d gain by cutting off Tahori miners is bad press.”

Pen looked at him undecidedly. She was far from convinced, but judging from her frightful eyes, perhaps part of her wanted him to be right. He wanted it himself, as any sane man would. Getting the bridges repaired alone would be a headache. The Liberation, up here in his prefecture, that was plain—

Her lips moved, but again, he heard nothing but the screeching silence. Rannek sensed something in that moment, subtly, escaping Pen’s attention and the guards’. They’d begun rising.

»Captain?« he heard Wellan ask.

»… We just passed the watchtower south of Bitaab,« the pilot said. He sounded pressed, busy, a tone that he’d come to fear in soldiers. »The man inside was wearing our uniform, he was standing in the shadow. The antenna, I saw the reflection only for a second, but—«

»The point, for fuck’s sake!” Wellan bellowed.

»His skin,« the man said feebly. »It wasn’t ours.«

A second later, the voices of Pen and Ibiko returned to his headset, one pressing him to respond, the other mumbling to himself. But he couldn’t make out the words. She wasn’t strapped in. Before he could reach over, Wellan had already pushed Pen back against the seat and grabbed her buckles, and she fought back, unable to understand. Rannek leaned in and held her shoulders in place. »Pen, everything’s gonna be fine. We just need—”

An immense blow tilted the floor and knocked Rannek’s head back against the metal hull. Gravity and inertia and a dozen other forces pulled him left, right, up, down in rapid succession. Belts cut into his skin, forcing all air out of his lungs as the lashing winds taunted him. Rannek blinked, his vision blurred, making out a sphere of perfect blue where the loading ramp should have been. The back of the Krissin was gone.

He looked to the seat opposite his fearing the worst. After putting his cracked glasses back in place, he found himself facing a massive beige shape and realized it was Glane. His hands clenching the bench, the Cursed kept his body covering Pen next to an unconscious Ibiko. On the other side, Wellan kept his face covered with his hand, red trickling down between his fingers. The window behind him was crushed, showing an eerily tilted vision of the jungle. They were diving straight for the ground.

A collage of rustling, screeching, shouting, clanging metal, and a painfully high beep rose up in Rannek’s ears, soon becoming deafening. He reached for his headset only to find it missing, glancing blood on his fingertips where he’d touched his head. He searched for the audio cord, found it, and pulled until the headset came back to him. As he slid the cushions over his ears, hands trembling, the floor slowly started evening out. Suddenly, he was plunged into a new hell of sound.

Half a dozen men were screaming in his ears, among them Wellan, whose face was painted in blood and somehow sparkling. Rannek heard men begging, cursing, wailing in pain, crying, only not the girl. He bowed over making his shoulder feel like it would tear any moment, and reached around Glane. His hand found hers and she grabbed it tight. Between the screams, the pilot’s voice rattled off numbers and letters at light speed.

»—weapons be alert repeat KN 31-03 Flyer 1 critical turbine failure at 6-42 frags enemy presence send reinforcements to quadrant B-H—«

»Captain, what’s the damage?« Rannek shouted.

»One of four dead, a second’s dying! Same side. We’re lucky if I can bring us—Flyer 2, no! NO!«

Rannek braced himself for an impact, but only the faintest of thuds sounded in his ears. »Speak up, man!«

»We… we lost the other Krissin, sir.« He paused. »And they’re not—«

The machine made a hard right turn pushing Rannek’s face into Glane’s back. Pen’s hand was still there, enfolded by his. How long could the giant hold on like this? When Rannek looked up, an odd thing shot by the long low window—a skewed pillar of gray whose edges merged with the blue of the sky. Smoke.

A force began pushing him back now, everything for that matter, as the ship started to rotate. Pen’s hand was ripped away from his, and there was nothing he could do. The machine spun uncontrollably. He wanted to scream, but only a hoarse whistle came out. »Can’t you stabilize?«

»Only safe way would be straight and up, we’d be too easy a target!«

»Do it,« a thunderous voice said, cutting through the noise.

»Up?« the pilot asked. »Are you crazy?«

»DO IT!« Glane knelt away from the girl and closed the last buckle of her belt. Trembling, he resisted the outward force holding himself by the stands of the benches. His eyes shot to Rannek. There was no fear in them. They could never outrun a missile, not even the giant’s speed would change that. So why did he look so sure?

»Do it, captain,« Rannek said.

For a moment, there was no voice, only the whimpering of men and short breaths. The hole in the Krissin’s back suddenly turned green, showing two more pillars of smoke shoot by alarmingly close, and over a dozen gray buds stirring all over the jungle. Missiles. They could never evade all of them. The force pushing Rannek back grew weaker as the machine stopped spinning. Instead, the ground in the hole began to pull at him with inconceivable weight, turning the edges of his vision dark. He kept his eyes on Glane, who remained kneeling. The Cursed looked shortly at Pen. Nodded. Her hand kept clutching the collar of his shirt.

And then, she was clutching air. Glane had vanished without a sound. Rannek looked down the gangway toward the green, and his breath stopped as he couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing.

For a second, he saw only a blot of beige shrinking rapidly into the endless greens. Then, the first flower blossomed. Petals of bright violet sprung fourth, blinding him, and soon the second one branched out, the third the fourth, all over the jungle. A garden of flashing lights and colors lit up from one breath to the next, their budding resounding as muffled thuds in his ears. It made his eyes tear, and he closed them. When he dared to look again, Rannek knew that Glane had done it. A gray fog covered the air above the jungle, smoky remnants of the short-lived garden of Ore. The Cursed had destroyed all missiles, however in the ten hells that was even possible. They couldn’t be hit blindly, not this high up. They had a chance to escape.

Pen’s wails registered with Rannek just as the pilot started cursing. There wasn’t a thing he could say. Glane was fast, but heavy, and still subject to gravity. He was dead. Rannek fought through the pain in his shoulder and reached out his hand a second time. She pushed it away, tears running down her nose and cheek flying sideways toward the distant ground.

»Shit!« the pilot yelled, hitting something. »Don’t don’t do—« A clank sounded, and the polyphonic screeching around Rannek suddenly lost a voice. Pen struck his arm, her nails leaving scratches in his skin that somehow felt cold.

»Make sense, captain, for goodness sake!« Rannek yelled back. »What is it now?«

»We’re not spinning, but we’re not flying anymore, either!« When he spoke, a cacophony of beeps and alarms sounded behind him. »We’re going down, sir. I’d tell you to strap in, but… you’d do better praying.«

He grabbed the girl’s hand, resisting her nails, her kicking, and locked eyes with her. Whatever she saw made her stop struggling. He took Wellan’s hand, too, and united the three of them. His lips formed words they could not hear over the noise. How sorry he was. How this was not what they deserved. Pen cried, and Wellan kept dripping blood through the fingers of his other hand, covering the right side of his face. For once, he’d give everything to see the two of them blame or taunt or criticize him. But they just looked at him in pain.

As the hole turned blue again, Rannek realized why Glane had looked so content with his chosen fate. He didn’t have to watch her, watch Wellan and Mallaslyn and the other guards, watch a sleeping Ibiko plummet to their death around him feeling more powerless than ever. Slowly, the window filled up with green from the right, its angle barely changing.

Someone said something in his ears, but the blanks could not be filled in before a darkness swept over him. There was no pain anymore. All there was was a distant sound, a mocking sound. As he heard the waves crash far below him, coming closer, he saw the old dream for what it really was.

A warning. He wouldn’t be saved this time. His fall back then had robbed him of the courage to ever look at the foam of the waves again. He’d never dared to expel the nightmares from his sleep, shapes of white and blue, luring him in, inviting him to search for the temptress. He should have learned his limits. He should have learned to steer the others away from the cliff. Instead, he’d led them right up to it.

Rannek squeezed the hands holding his and prayed.