17. 17
seventeen
Orion
Ididn't understand what was happening until it was too late.
Sarah paced the room after I asked if she had told the truth about her training—her commitment to helping my kingdom. Her face had turned pale, the color draining completely. I thought it was from her admitting her nervousness.
It wasn't until she collapsed that I realized I was wrong.
I rushed to her, calling her name, but she didn't respond. I gathered her into my arms, shifted to my natural form and swam her across the hall to my chambers.
Her scales dried out. She was in her newfound form for too long. After a shift like that, especially without experience, the body reacts in unpredictable ways.
I remember the first time I walked the surface in human form.
The dizziness. The disorientation. The way every step felt foreign.
If I had not been trained to manage the effects of shapeshifting, I would've made the same mistake.
This is my fault. I should've warned her.
But when she shifted, her beauty hit me and nothing else crossed my mind.
In the quiet of my room, I lay her gently on my resting place, letting the water rehydrate her scales.
I didn't bring her to my chambers because I was ready. I brought her because I had to. Her body was shutting down, drying out in that cursed room. But now that she is here, in my space—it is harder to pretend that I only brought her to rehydrate her scales.
She looks so peaceful, minus the fact that I just witnessed her fall to the floor in the most ungraceful way possible, but I still find her incredibly attractive.
Her lashes flutter slightly, and her breathing has steadied, but I'm unable to sense her emotions through the water due to her unconsciousness.
My gaze drifts beyond her, through the towering arches carved into the palace walls.
Darkness stretches endlessly outside the barrier, broken only by the soft glow of Virellan below.
Lights shimmer through the villages like scattered stars resting beneath the sea, their reflections dancing across the currents that cradle my kingdom.
Without thinking, I turn the polished seashell over in between my fingers.
Smooth. Worn by countless tides. I grabbed it from Sarah's penthouse the day I dragged her from the surface.
It had been sitting among a collection of other shells in her kitchen.
At the time, I told myself it was proof of where this all began—a reminder of the impossible task forced upon me, of the human whose existence threatened everything my father had built.
My thumb traces its ridges. Now, it feels like a promise of the future Virellan's been given.
The preparations for the Wave Rite are nearly complete.
For once, something has gone smoothly despite everything else threatening to pull my attention in every direction.
The kingdom has endured uncertainty, anxiety, and fear, yet my subjects still prepare to honor Mother Ocean and give thanks for another year beneath her waves.
I find comfort in that. In the reminder that even through this storm of evil, some traditions can continue.
I plan to present the shell during the ceremony.
To return it to the ocean as a symbol of gratitude for bringing Sarah to Virellan.
But now, I want Sarah to be beside me to witness a part of Virellan that exists beyond duty, war, and the weight of a crown.
A part of my kingdom that belongs to my subjects.
A part of it that I have never had the chance to share personally with someone other than Nyxalene and my father.
But imagining her there pushes the darker thoughts surrounding our current situation forward.
What if she does not wake? The possibility behind the question catches me off guard.
There's still an underglow to her skin. Her scales, now a permanent addition to her sea form, though invisible when on the surface, catches the light, glimmering like those of a glimmerwyrm.
She reminds me of them, creatures of beauty and resilience.
She reminds me of so many things from my world.
Yet another reason I now know that she belongs here in Virellan—with me.
Minutes pass. Too many.
I pace through the water, gliding around my chambers, the calm I have tried to maintain unraveling with every pass.
I whisper a prayer to Mother Ocean, just as my mother once did when she pleaded for a child.
Mother Ocean holds endless life, yes—but endurance, too.
Sarah needs that now, more than anything.
If Mother Ocean listened once, maybe she will listen again.
Perhaps that is why Sarah is still unconscious.
Maybe there is something inside her that she refuses to let go of.
I stop pacing and lean against the pillar beside the open archway, watching as the kingdom stretches out below me. The day dims, and tidelets play in the distance as the light fades across their scales.
A subtle ripple caresses me from behind, grabbing my attention.
The ocean carries her emotions to me—cautious and hesitant. The weight of her glare buries itself into my back. I cannot see her, but I can feel her. It's the same pull I felt during the council meeting. A tangle of want and uncertainty, laced with the heat of embarrassment.
I smile, refusing to move. She thinks I haven't noticed.
“Orion—” She pauses as I turn to face her. “Where are we?”
“My chambers.”
Her cheeks flush almost instantly, shifting her body as if to get up.
“You probably shouldn't move,” I say, holding her gaze. “At least for the night. You passed out, and your scales were severely dehydrated. Being in your room that long, in ocean form . . . It took a toll.”
She falters at that and her gaze drops. Her fingers brush lightly across her stomach, maybe to inspect the state of her skin.
“You'll recover faster here,” I add. “There is no rush to shift back—unless you would prefer to return to your room. But that would mean learning how to shapeshift properly, and after everything today? I feel we are both running on empty.”
“I definitely don’t have much energy,” she admits, “but I’ll need to go back to my room by morning.”
She pauses again as she brushes her fingers along the edges of my resting place. “Also, if I’m in your bed, where exactly are you sleeping?”
“I can take your room across the hall if that makes you more comfortable,” I offer, keeping my tone steady. “Or, if you're all right with it, I can sleep here. The kelp cushion alcove near the archway is more than enough.”
I gesture toward a long, coral-framed seat built into the curve of the wall—woven with living kelp that slowly shifts with the current, its surface soft and buoyant. The design conforms to the sleeper’s shape, a luxury often reserved for royalty.
“Not exactly a hardship,” I add, with a faint smile.
“You can stay,” she says softly, her eyes shifting away. “I’m not the type to kick someone out of their own room.”
Her words are composed, but the water between us betrays her. I feel the ripple of emotions stirring beneath her voice. A flicker of conflict as her emotions battle each other. And for a brief, foolish moment, I wonder if it is because of me.
I glance away, my tongue forcefully rubbing against my teeth. She has no idea I can sense her feelings—and I have no idea what those feelings actually mean. However, the thought still lingers. The water between us is laced with something, unspoken and persistent.
“Is there anything you want to discuss?” I ask, careful to keep my tone light, like I don't already feel it pulling at me through the current.
She doesn't answer right away. Just traces another slow, absent line along the edge of the bed beside her.
“It’s stupid,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know I need rest, but . . .” Her shoulders shift, tension rippling across her skin. “I hate not knowing how to control it . . . the shifting. Would it be possible to try once before I sleep?”
That honestly was not what I was expecting. Are my senses off, or is Sarah just that hard to read?
I smirk, letting a softer edge slip into my voice, forgetting the concern of fully understanding her right now.
“We can try however many times you want, Snapdragon.”
She's been trying to shift for hours now, well into the sea’s night.
Below us, the Pearlguards have made their rounds twice, their silhouettes gliding through the palace currents like silver shadows.
I tried suggesting a break, but she refused. She has managed to shift the scales from her hips to just beneath her ribs, but the rest above her chest resist change. Each attempt brings her closer, but the tension in her brow grows stronger with every failure.
“Sarah,” I say gently, moving toward her. “You're trying to bend it to your will. That's not how it works.”
She doesn't answer, just exhales sharply and flexes her fingers.
“You cannot command magic like it is something separate from you. It is you.”
I coil my tail and drop down beside her, voice lower now, softer—like speaking about something sacred.
“You have to listen to it. Call to it, yes, but not with force. Let it rise. Let it speak back. Then guide it, not with control, but with trust.” Her gaze flicks to mine as she wrinkles her forehead.
“You're not pulling the ocean,” I continue.
“You're moving with it. Let your thoughts shape the current, but let your heart set the rhythm.”
She swallows hard, nods once, and tries again.
In one swift motion, she draws in a deep breath. As she exhales, a soft glow builds at her fingertips.
She lifts her hands slowly, fingers trailing up along her torso. The scales shimmer beneath her touch, then recede, dissolving into light.
The glow follows the path of her shift—up, over her abdomen, her ribs—fading gradually as the transformation completes.
“I did it!” she gasps, breathless with disbelief and pride.
And that is when I notice.
Oh. Oh.
Her chest is completely bare.