Chapter 50 - Nerina
Nerina
Skeldrhall, Ymirskald
The halls of Skeldrhall had gone quiet since Yule ended. Where there had been music and mead, garlands and laughter, now there was only the low murmur of distant voices and the hollow echo of boots against stone.
I was heading for the sunroom—as I did most afternoons—to sit with my thoughts and test the edges of my magic in the thin, pale light.
It wasn’t until I neared the council room that I heard it. Not laughter. Not celebration. Not the clatter of mugs and teasing the way it had been while wreaths were strung and feasts were planned. This sound was sharper—voices raised, overlapping, urgent.
I slowed, pressing my palm to the cold doorframe as I crept closer. The door stood cracked, a wedge of light spilling into the corridor. Shadows paced within.
Eira’s voice cut through the din—iron and unyielding.
“The scouts from the southern currents confirmed it. The shimmer is failing in places—whole stretches of reef laid bare to the human eye. If it continues, the Veil will collapse before the end of Morsugur—the deep winter stretch. Days, not weeks.”
Another voice—ragged with exhaustion—answered. “The healers are already drowning in the wounded. They cannot keep pace.”
“The Tidekeepers promised the Veil would hold,” someone snapped. A heavy silence followed.
Then a voice—bitter, accusing. “And yet their Veil fails. Do they let it falter? Or are they simply too weak to sustain it?”
The Tidekeepers. My mother. Why wouldn’t they fight?
The question burned hot in my chest. Meris commanded tides that could shatter mountains.
The Tidekeepers held enough magic between them to create the veil and sustain it this long.
Why would they drop it now? Were they stretched too thin—forced to choose between holding the shimmer and tending the sea?
Or were the poachers armed with something worse—nets laced with toxins, weapons that chewed through magic before it could take shape? Or—
Was their silence not weakness, but choice? The thought bloomed, dark and dangerous.
I wanted to believe they were faltering.
That their strength was fraying under pressure.
But another part of me—harder now, less forgiving—whispered of motives I couldn’t yet name.
My stomach twisted as a storm churned inside me: fear, rage, betrayal.
Did I care if Meris’s fate was tied to this? Did I care if the Tidekeepers fell?
No. Not after the lies. Not after what they’d stolen from me. And yet—
Only they held answers. Who I was. What I was. If poachers gutted them before I could demand those truths, then I would never know.
The chamber simmered with discord, voices colliding like waves against stone. I lingered in the archway’s shadow, careful to stay unseen.
“They are not to be trusted,” Veyrion’s voice cut through the chaos. “The Tidekeepers cloak neglect in ritual and arrogance in law. I will not watch anymore innocents suffer for it.”
Silence followed—taut and wary. Even the fire seemed hesitant in its crackle.
His words caught on something inside me, a thread I hadn’t expected.
Veyrion—who had threatened and bargained, cornered me until I’d bared teeth—speaking with such fierce certainty about protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves.
It shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have moved me.
It was easier when I thought he was only monstrous.
Easier when I had nothing to question but myself.
I pressed my forehead to the cold stone wall, pulse thundering in my ears. I didn’t want to go back—not yet.
What if I’m not ready? I didn’t want to face Meris—not after the betrayal, not after the hollow comfort of her lies.
The thought of looking into her eyes again, of hearing her voice, made me nauseous.
I’d wanted to have all the pieces of the crescent before I confronted them—undeniable proof of what they’d taken, and no space left for them to deny it.
Another voice, deep and rough, spoke over the table. “And the poachers are already moving in. They’re circling the reefs, dragging nets. They can sense the weakness.”
“Merfolk have already gone missing,” a third voice added, dread weighted in every syllable.
My stomach lurched. Faces flickered through my mind—neighbors, friends, children I’d known in passing. Maliea rose there too—soft and unguarded, eyes bright as tidepools. And behind her, all the others who would be caught alongside her, tangled and helpless.
The winter solstice had just passed. I could picture it as clearly as if I were there—garlands of kelp strung through the arches, shells chiming in the currents, voices lifted in song as newborns were welcomed into the sea.
Every year, the solstice brought new life—fragile, untested.
So many babes would have been born in the last few tides, their scales still soft, their songs barely begun.
What chance would they have against poachers’ nets?
Against hooks, Silver Salt, and barbed steel?
I couldn’t abandon them. Even if it meant walking back into the very lies I’d tried to escape.
The realization hollowed me. I pressed closer to the door, desperate, leaning into the shadows could pull me nearer to the sea.
Eira slammed her hand on the table. The crack of wood echoed through the chamber.
“We cannot afford to waste time bickering over blame,” she snapped. “Whether it’s the Tidekeepers’ neglect or something else, the Veil is failing. Thalassia is unguarded for the first time in centuries. Without the Veil, the reefs become open water—visible, reachable, harvestable.”
“We do not have the forces,” someone said.
Silence fell—heavy and grim. It was too much.
There was no time to sit around a table arguing over maps and blame, deciding who should act and when.
The Veil was failing now. Every hour wasted here was another net cast. Another child dragged screaming from the reefs.
Thalassia was more vulnerable than ever. I had to go back. Quickly.
But how? Swimming would take too long. Even if I pushed until my fins tore, I’d never cross the distance in time. And the waters surrounding Ymirskald were brutal—ice-laden currents that would sap my strength and freeze me solid before I made it beyond the fjords.
No. I needed another way.
My thoughts snagged—unbidden—on sails, rigging, the crack of canvas in the wind. I’d spent enough time on the Black Marrow to learn a ship’s rhythm. To watch how a crew moved like one body—every knot, every line, every turn of the wheel keeping her alive.
I had never set sails myself. Never took the helm. But I had watched.
Learned. Absorbed. Now I would have to make do.
Veyrion’s fleet sat moored at the port—Covenant ships feared across the seas, serpent prows cutting the fog, sails marked with the wolf sigil of his house.
I could steal one. No—borrow one. The thought made my pulse thunder, equal parts terror and exhilaration. A single woman, doing what usually took dozens.
Alaric would say it was too dangerous. He always had.
Stay back. Don’t risk it. Don’t—
His words were meant as comfort—safety—But they caged me tighter than any bars.
And Veyrion? Infuriatingly calm, glacier-eyed, patient to the point of cruelty—he’d tilt his head and tell me to wait.
To trust his timing. His control. Would he still be calm if I stole one of his ships?
If I took a serpent-prowed Covenant vessel right out from under him and sailed it back to the Veil?
The thought almost made me smile.
What other choice did I have?
My hands trembled. What if I failed? What if the sails tangled, the ropes shredded my palms, the ship refused to answer? What if I sank before I’d even left the fjords?
But what if I stayed? If I did nothing, Thalassia would fall—and I would have to live with the knowledge that I’d stood idle while innocent people were gutted piece by piece. Whatever power they had stolen from me would go with them.
If I had to tear my hands bloody on the ropes—if I had to wrestle the sails alone—if I had to steer by stars I barely understood—I would.
If I hesitated—if I waited for the council to agree on a course of action—Thalassia would be lost.
I turned from the door and moved down the corridor, each step quicker than the last.
Back in my chamber, I shut the door fast and leaned against it for one trembling breath before I forced myself to move.
I would only take what I could carry.
I gathered the crescent shards and tucked them carefully into my satchel, fastened my dagger to my thigh, and swept my cloak around my shoulders before turning to the final pieces.
Strapped across my back now were the axe and shield Veyrion had given me during Yule.
At the time I hadn’t known what to make of them—a jest, perhaps.
A gesture. Now their weight steadied me.
A reminder that I wasn’t completely helpless.
That I wasn’t only a girl fleeing in the dark anymore.
I pulled my hood down over my brow, slung the satchel over my shoulder, and pressed my hand to the latch.
Everyone was distracted—the council still locked in argument, the docks half-deserted in the deep winter hour, watchfires burning low. I had to move now, before anyone noticed. Before anyone could stop me.
I eased the door open and peered into the corridor. The voices from the council room still rose and fell in waves—clipped and angry—filling the halls.
Perfect.
I slipped into the shadows. Every step was measured, my pulse a drum in my ears.
I thought I heard footsteps behind me—an echo too deliberate to be the house settling—but when I glanced back, the corridor was empty.
I quickened my pace. Boots whispering on stone.
The axe’s handle knocked lightly against my shoulder.
At last, I reached the doors that opened onto the path winding down toward the docks.