36. Citrine
Citrine
About damn time!” Fergal’s voice carried over the docks, loud and easy.
He stood near the railing of the Mara’s Mercy, one hand on the rigging, the other raised in a lazy wave.
The morning sun caught the edge of his grin.
He looked like he belonged there, boots braced, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
Wind tugged at his sandy blond hair, pulled back from his face.
He couldn’t have been more than his mid twenties, but there was a steadiness in him, the kind that only came from time at sea.
Sorcha watched him from the dock, just for a moment longer than she meant to. She adjusted the strap on her bag and kept walking.
The four of them crossed the dock in silence and made their way up the gangplank. The ship rocked beneath their steps, boards warm from the sun, sails pulled tight and ready. The Mercy creaked like she was stretching her bones.
Behind them came the steady rattle of a handcart over the planks. Aiden pushed it toward the ship, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat, sleeves rolled high. The cart was loaded with what they’d need. Bundles of dried meat, loaves of dense bread, cloth-wrapped fruit, and rows of canteens.
“We’re going to be at sea for a while,” he said, nodding to the stack. “We’ll need every bit of it.”
Fergal hopped down to meet him, grabbing the edge of the cart.
“Help get it below,” he called over his shoulder, and one of the crew moved fast to obey.
Fergal leaned against the railing, watching as the cart disappeared below deck. A few moments went before he yelled.
“Alright, lads!” he called out, voice lifting over the creak of the deck and flap of sails. “Get up here and meet the people we’re sailing with!”
Five men made their way over, moving with the kind of confidence that came from real time at sea. Their boots hit the boards hard. Rolled sleeves, worn weapons, sun on their faces. They looked rough, capable, and at home on the ship.
“These are my people,” Fergal said, glancing at Sorcha, Kyron, and Maelan. “Crew, fighters, and some of the best bastards I’ve ever bled beside.”
He pointed first to the broad-shouldered man already resting against the mast. His fiery auburn hair was messily tied in a bun on the top of his head, some of the strands falling across his face. Scars adorned his skin, he had seen many a fight, and it showed.
“That’s Aiden. Strong enough to carry a cannon if he wanted to. He’s the quiet type but don’t test him.”
Aiden said nothing, but gave a slow nod.
“Eoin,” Fergal continued, motioning to the youngest of the group, lute slung across his back, a cheeky grin already forming. “Cook, supply master, and gods help us, our entertainment. You’ll either love him or want to toss him overboard.”
Eoin gave a dramatic bow. His sun bleached hair fell over his eyes and as he brushed the hair back, he exposed lapis blue eyes that sparkled with trouble “Usually both.”
Fergal shook his head but smirked.
“Lorcan,” he said, nodding toward the man with thick arms, a leather wrap around one wrist, and an old scar slicing across his jaw.
“Blades, fists, knees, elbows, you name it. He’s dangerous with all of it.
” Lorcan didn’t bother to respond. He just rolled one of his shoulder and kept chewing whatever was tucked in his cheek.
“Kael,” Fergal said next, turning toward the quietest of the group. “Best navigator I’ve got and smarter than the rest of us combined.”
Kael gave a smile, his walnut brown hair was moving with the breeze as his brown eyes locked on Sorcha a moment before back to Fergal.
“And that,” Fergal said, with something a bit softer in his voice, “is Conor.”
Conor stood a little off to the side, resting one hand lightly on a blackwood cane.
His eyes were a deep emerald, startling in contrast. He was devastatingly handsome, not in a boyish way, but carved by conflict, the kind of face that drew attention even in silence.
He wasn’t leaning much on the cane. The limp in his step was barely there but just enough to notice.
The right leg of his pants was torn across the knee, and through the gap, a brutal scar twisted over pale skin.
Without a word, Conor spun the cane in his grip and drew the blade free.
It was long and narrow, forged from a dull silver steel with faint runes carved deep into its surface.
The symbols curved like ocean currents, and even in daylight, they shimmered with a cold, blue light as It hummed faintly.
He turned it once in his hand with ease, then slid it back into the cane until it locked in place with a click.
That wasn’t just a hidden blade. It was a Circle-forged conduit, designed for elemental channeling, specifically water.
She’d seen them before. Weapons like that weren’t handed out for skill alone.
They were given to Circle mages who had done something heroic.
Something that marked them in the eyes of the Elders.
Whoever Conor had been before, he had earned that blade.
“Ex-Circle,” Fergal said. “Knows how to get through places most men wouldn’t survive, “he’s also a show off”.
Conor glanced at them, then at Sorcha, and chuckled.
Fergal clapped his hands once.
“They’re loyal and they’ll fight to the last.”
Then he turned toward the helm, voice rising again as the sails shifted above.
“We leave in an hour. Get yourselves ready.”
Fergal disappeared below deck to run final checks.
The rest scattered across the ship, each drawn in their own direction.
Niall slipped off toward the galley, already asking too many questions.
Kyron made his way to the weapons rack, inspecting the blades.
Maelan paced the deck quietly, running his hands over the rigging and checking the sails without a word.
Sorcha moved alone toward the top deck. The wind was stronger up here, pulling at her hair, colder than before.
She walked to the bow and climbed onto the railing, sitting with her feet hanging over the sea.
The ship rocked beneath her as she leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning the open water.
Below her, the ocean stretched wide and endless. Near the ship, it was a deep green, shifting with the light. But farther out, it turned darker swallowing color as it went.
A soft warmth curled beneath her skin. She looked down at her arms. The markings, usually faint, began to glow.
It was subtle at first, then stronger and pulsing.
She started scanning the area when she suddenly she heard an odd noise coming from below.
It rose up from the depths, faint and melodic.
Not a voice exactly, It was a low hum. Notes without words, drawn out and drifting to her.
She leaned farther over the edge. The ship, the wind and the others all faded.
Her breathing slowed as the sea moved in slow motion.
She stared into the waters searching for whatever was making the music when two yellow eyes deep in the water appeared.
They glowed like polished citrine, the gold unnaturally bright against the dark.
The longer she looked, the clearer they became. Her body kept leaning forward, as if the ship itself were tilting. The eyes grew larger and closer. Her runes flared again brighter now when Something yanked at her.
Her foot slipped and her hands missed the railing but before she could fall, a hand clamped down on her arm.
Aiden’s grip was iron. He pulled her back in one swift motion, steadying her before she even had time to react. Her boots hit the deck hard. She stumbled slightly, breath caught in her throat.
“You almost went over,” he said, voice low.
She blinked, eyes snapping to the sea, but it was just water now. No glowing eyes and the song was gone.
“I thought I saw something,” she said, barely more than a whisper.
Aiden looked at her for a long moment, then turned and walked away without another word.
Sorcha stayed where she was.
A moment later, footsteps crossed the deck behind her. Kyron and Maelan stopped on either side, eyes scanning her face, then the water.
“What just happened?” Kyron asked. “Are you alright?”
Sorcha nodded slowly, though her pulse was still uneven. “I think I just saw the Merrow,” she said. “Or Kelpies. Maybe both.”
Maelan’s jaw tensed. Kyron looked out at the sea, watching it with new caution.
“They’re in Glenn na Mara,” he said, voice low. “We know that much. But maybe there’s more of them than we thought.”
Sorcha swallowed, eyes still on the water.
The wind shifted, brushing her hair across her face.
Her mind pulled her backward remembering the night Eirin and Emry were nearly taken.
The sudden cold in the air, the water surging, the empty stares.
Riona’s screams as she pleaded and pulled.
The way the song had wrapped around them, pulling, twisting and breaking their sense of what was real.
But Sorcha hadn’t been touched by it then, just Eirin and Emry.
Her runes had flared, and the magic inside her had burned straight through the spell.
But now… this time, it had sung to her. She looked down at her arms. The runes had faded again, but her skin still tingled.
What if they weren’t pulling people at random?
“What if they’re choosing?” Sorcha blurted out.
Kyron and Maelan looked at each other.
“Working together?” Kyron asked. “How would they even know who to choose?”
Maelan didn’t answer right away. He stared out over the railing, voice quiet when it came. “It would make sense.”
He didn’t turn around as he spoke. “What if they’re working with Bres and Vaelric?”
The thought sent a chill through him. He tapped the railing, the wood echoing faintly beneath his fingers.
It was like a light had sparked and suddenly, it all started to make sense.
Sorcha stood still, her thoughts spiraling back across the last six months.
No, longer than that. Nearly a year’s worth of signs, and she’d missed the pattern.
The attacks on the libraries. The missing hunters and Circle members.
The sudden spread of blight, plants blackened, animals twisted.
It wasn’t random, it was a strategy. Starve the people, strip their lands, rid the ones with power to break their defenders.
Every move had been made to weaken them from the inside out.
“Aye, get ready to set sail!” Fergal yelled, cutting through her thoughts.
The crew began moving at once, hands working quickly to unfurl the sails.
Mooring lines slipped free with a groan, snapping back like snakes.
Above them the sails bloomed as the wind caught hold.
Sorcha stood at the rail, watching as the dock slipped away, shrinking with every swell of the sea.
Kael moved below deck, chart already in hand, laying them across the nearest table as the ship pushed forward, finally free of land.
They drifted for hours. The coastline was long gone, lost to the haze where sea met sky. The sun sat heavy above, casting hard light across the deck, and the ship creaked as it rocked in the deepening swells. Maelan leaned over the rail, pale and motionless, his hair plastered to his forehead.
Kyron wasn’t faring any better. He sat with his back against a barrel, elbows on his knees, eyes shut tight as he muttered curses between clenched teeth.
“By the gods,” Kyron groaned, “how is this normal?”
“It’s not,” Maelan muttered, voice hoarse. “This is hell.”
From the helm, Fergal let out a laugh loud enough to echo off the sails.
“First-timers,” he said, shaking his head.
Niall grinned and tossed an apple core overboard. “You want to keep your guts? Don’t look down.”
Sorcha stood beside Maelan and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It gets better,” she said quietly, though even she wasn’t entirely sure that was true. “Just… don’t fight the motion.”
Maelan cracked one eye open. “I hate this motion.”
Fergal called over again. “You’ll live.”
Aiden, passing by with a coil of rope, didn’t even pause. “Next time, pack a stronger stomach.”
Kyron groaned and turned his head, barely lifting it. “I will set this ship on fire.”
“Not before you throw up again,” Niall quipped. “And I’d prefer you aim over the side this time.”
Sorcha pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. She helped Maelan stand a little straighter, shielding him from the worst of the sun. The sea stretched around them endless and shifting. And the journey had only just begun.
By nightfall, the sea was calm and black, the stars above scattered wide like shattered glass.
Kyron and Maelan had stopped retching, though neither looked fully convinced the worst was behind them.
A bit of color had returned to their faces, and both sat near the central deck fire, shoulders hunched but no longer miserable.
The fire crackled low inside a sunken pit lined with old, heat-darkened stone that was built directly into the deck. Its smoke rose in a soft curl toward the open sky.
Around it, the crew had gathered. Boots stretched out, backs leaned against barrels or the low railings. The mood was quiet but easy. Someone passed around cups of water and a bottle of something stronger.
Eoin had cooked, it was some kind of fish stew with thick bread and salted fruit.
Fergal and the others traded stories between bites, laughter breaking in waves as they mocked each other for old blunders and close calls.
Then Eoin shifted in the firelight, wiping his hands on his pants.
He reached behind him, pulled the lute from where it leaned against a crate, and settled it in his lap.
The talking died down with the first pluck of strings.
He played slowly at first, his fingers light, coaxing a melody soft as wind over the water.
Then he began to sing and as he played, the air changed.
Smoke curled upward and began to take shape.
Shadows flickered through it, curling into outlines.
A hunter in the woods. A woman made of flame.
A battlefield filled the clash of swords.
Maelan leaned close to Sorcha and whispered, “He’s a bard and that is a magical lute. ”
She turned to him, and he nodded toward Eoin’s hands. “Look at the runes.”
She looked closely. Faint light pulsed from the carved lines beneath his fingers. The wood seemed to hum as they reacted to his touch. The images moving with the music, living stories told in the firelight. And in that moment, the ship, the sea, even the stars above felt like part of the story too.
“Land!” Aiden yelled from the bow, the cliffs and twinkling of Firelight coming into view on the horizon.