13. Where I Belong
Where I Belong
Valerie
The Great Hall of the Abyssal Fortress hums with the overlapping voices and laughter of three hundred deep-sea dignitaries.
Blue and green bioluminescent flora lines the massive walls, casting a soft glow over the rock floor.
Merfolk delegates float in small clusters, their jewels catching the light.
The immense scale of the room dwarfs me, exactly as the open ocean does.
But the merfolk around me simply drift through it, completely at ease.
I stand near the grand entrance, pressing my spine hard against the cold stone of the archway. Holding myself perfectly still is the only thing keeping me from crossing the room to him.
Across the hall, Sigurd waits by a towering basalt pillar.
He’s wearing a dark, meticulous suit. His tentacles remain perfectly still behind his back, stripped of their usual restless energy.
He keeps his distance, and every inch of it feels deliberate.
He stays away to protect me, convinced I’m not strong enough to handle his life in the abyss.
But I refuse to spend the evening tucked into the corner of a gala just because my lungs need pressurized air.
My fingers catch the smooth fabric of my midnight-blue dress. The material slides over my skin, a physical reminder of the armor Madame Eleni crafted for me on the surface.
I smooth the fabric down my thighs and force myself to look anywhere but at Sigurd. I focus instead on the attendants and the mingling factions around the room.
A rhythmic, sharp clack cuts through the murmur of the crowd. Solveig sweeps across the stone floor. The kraken matriarch wears a severe gown that mirrors the blue of her skin. Her cane strikes the stone with every step, and the wealthy monsters part before her, offering respectful bows.
Solveig stops beside me. Her glowing eyes scan the crowded hall. She doesn’t look at me.
“The ambient lighting in this hall is always insufficient for a proper gathering,” she says. “But we must make do.”
I square my shoulders to match her imposing posture, refusing to shrink. “The flora provides enough illumination, Madam,” I reply.
Solveig finally looks at me. A few weeks ago, her scrutiny would have terrified me. Today, it feels exactly like dealing with the head of the city council right before an annual budget review.
I know the rules of her House. I spent weeks studying the ancient, water-warded tomes in her archives. She wants to see whether the human librarian cracks under the social weight of abyssal high society.
I hold her gaze without blinking. I won’t fail her test.
“The delegates are arriving,” Solveig says. “Sigurd is brooding, which makes him a terrible host. You will receive them.”
I glance across the room. Sigurd remains tethered to his pillar, apparently oblivious to his mother handing his diplomatic duties to a surface-dweller.
The fact that she trusts me with them steadies something inside me.
“Of course, Madam,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I assume the standard protocols of the Southern Current apply to their greeting?”
Solveig arches an eyebrow. A flicker of approval softens her glowing eyes as she leans slightly on her cane.
“They do,” Solveig says. “Do not offer your hand to the ambassador. They consider it an insult to their fins.”
Rules, protocols, historical precedents. Those I understand. I have spent years managing archives where getting one detail wrong can matter far more than anyone expects.
“I remember Chapter Four,” I say, lifting my chin. “I’ll handle the introductions.”
I step away from the archway and cross the hall to stand directly in front of the grand entrance. The steady hum of the Great Hall swells as the guests nearest the doors step back to clear a path.
A shadow falls over my left side. Bastian, the moray eel majordomo, halts a respectful distance away. The massive creature keeps his hands clasped behind his back, his needle-teeth glinting under the blue light.
“The Southern delegation is approaching the threshold, Madam,” Bastian says. His voice carries a low, guttural click that resonates against the stone floor.
“Thank you, Bastian,” I say, keeping my gaze fixed on the entrance. “Stand by to escort them to the residential wing.”
The great steel doors swing wide. The merfolk delegation glides into the hall. They are shifted into bipedal forms for the gala, adorned in shimmering scaled armor and dripping with chains of raw pearls. A wave of cold air washes over the room, carrying the sharp scent of deep oceanic brine.
The ambassador is tall and thin, moving with a liquid grace I’ve only ever seen in sea monsters. He halts three feet in front of me. His pale eyes rake over my exposed arms and throat, searching for gills or scales.
He smiles. It is a cold, rehearsed expression.
“And you must be Sigurd Eiriksson’s new human mate,” he says. His voice echoes with the slick, shifting cadence of a predator. “What a pleasant surprise. We’d heard of your unusual claiming at Rakan al-Rashid’s wedding.”
He waits for me to flinch. He expects embarrassment, or at least enough uncertainty to make me shrink under the scandal of my claiming.
Maintain eye contact, I tell myself. You’re speaking as Sigurd’s mate.
I don’t offer my hand. Arms at my sides, I execute the precise angle of the Southern abyssal bow. I incline my neck exactly fifteen degrees and hold the posture for a strict count of three. This way, I’m acknowledging his deep-water rank without surrendering the authority of the host.
I straighten and meet his gaze.
“I consider myself blessed to be part of the deep now, Ambassador,” I say, keeping my tone crisp and level. “I’m sure you must concur. Please rest assured that throughout your stay, you’ll be under the best of care.”
The ambassador blinks. His cold smile slips when I don’t falter.
“The pressure and salinity in your delegation’s quarters have been adjusted to match your home current,” I continue, loud enough for his entourage to hear how thoroughly we prepared for them. “Bastian will escort you.”
The ambassador shifts his weight and glances toward Bastian. Whatever response he had prepared seems to disappear.
“Ah. Yes,” the ambassador says, offering a curt nod. “That is… highly accommodating. Thank you, Madam.”
Bastian steps forward, indicating the far corridor. The delegates fall into line, the sharp tang of the deep trenches trailing them as they leave the entrance.
But the ambassador isn’t the true threat today, and in my heart, I’ve known it for days.
“You look incredibly tense, Valerie.”
The voice cuts through the low chatter of the room, bell-clear and flawlessly practiced. Maren Dahl steps away from a cluster of siren dignitaries and approaches me. Her gown shifts and catches the green light of the flora with every step. She carries a glass of nectar, wearing a tight smile.
“Make sure to breathe,” Maren says, stopping uncomfortably close. “We wouldn’t want you passing out in that silk. It is a long evening.”
“I’m breathing just fine, Maren,” I reply.
The overpowering scent of her floral perfume masks the natural salt of the room. The concern in her voice is so obviously false that it barely qualifies as an insult.
“I suppose orchestrating the tables is exhausting work,” Maren says, waving a hand toward the center of the hall. “I can tell you’re trying so hard, Valerie. But placing the Northern delegates next to the coral displays is a terrible faux pas.”
I follow her gaze. Across the room, a large table sits flanked by enormous anemones and imported coral formations.
“They despise shallow-water flora,” Maren continues, taking a delicate sip of her nectar. “They consider it common. You really must pay attention to the aesthetics of these old bloodlines. If I were you, I would move them to the basalt pillars before anyone important notices.”
I almost laugh at her. On the stage, in beauty and talent, she may have me beat. But in terms of knowledge, I’m the winner. I don’t know how it’s possible, but Maren clearly hasn’t bothered to read the actual rules of the House she stands in.
“Actually, Maren,” I say, “under the Treaty of the Third Trench, Northern delegates require coral placement to signify neutral ground during visits to fellow abyssal courts.”
Maren pauses, her glass halting halfway to her lips.
“Placing them by the basalt pillars would be a formal declaration of hostility,” I say. “I think I’ll leave the tables exactly where they are.”
“That is an archaic rule,” Maren replies. “Nobody enforces it.”
“Solveig enforces it,” I say.
The conversations of the surrounding guests thin out. A few nearby dignitaries turn toward us, their scales glinting in the blue light. Maren catches their attention, and her manufactured smile falters.
“You may want to familiarize yourself with the current protocols before offering the host advice,” I say, taking another sip of water. “Enjoy the nectar.”
A flush creeps up Maren’s pale throat. She stares at me, her eyes narrowing into a furious glare. Her mouth opens, but apparently nothing useful presents itself. She turns on her heel and disappears into the shimmering crowd.
Solveig steps up beside me, taking Maren’s place. She doesn’t look at me immediately. Instead, she watches the silver flash of Maren’s gown vanish into the outer corridors.
“She’s heading to the outer terrace,” Solveig says, her voice a calm, even rumble. “She’ll need a moment to recover her complexion.”
I shift my weight, holding the glass close to my chest. “The terrace will do her good. It’s quieter out there.”
Solveig turns her head and looks down at me. “Maren Dahl has not been rendered speechless since the sixteenth century,” she says, resting both hands over the carved handle of her cane. “That was an efficient maneuver, Valerie.”
“She thrives on making people feel inadequate,” I reply. “I provided her with a factual alternative.”
Solveig doesn’t offer a dry retort or tap her cane against the floor to dismiss me. Instead, she reaches out and rests her palm on my shoulder.
I freeze. Solveig has corrected my posture often enough that I expect some adjustment, some new test. None comes. She is simply holding me.
“I believed your humanity made you a liability,” Solveig says. Her voice is low, meant strictly for the two of us. “I assumed you would break under the pressure of this House. You have proven me wrong. You are a formidable woman.”
The tension I have carried since walking into the Great Hall finally begins to ease. She means it. Somehow, that surprises me more than the praise itself.
I spent weeks studying her world because I thought I had to prove I could survive inside it. Yet everything that mattered tonight came from skills I already had long before I ever reached the abyss.
“Thank you, Madam,” I say with a genuine smile.
Solveig squeezes my shoulder, holding my gaze. “You will drop the formal title. From now on, you will call me Móeir.”
Móeir. Mother. I almost can’t believe my ears.
Solveig withdraws her hand. The sudden absence of her touch leaves a phantom cold against my skin, but the weight of the command stays with me. She turns, her cane clicking against the stone, and departs to greet the ambassador.
I watch her cross the hall, and for once, I don’t feel like an outsider standing in somebody else’s world.
Sigurd remains standing near his pillar, staring at me.
I meet his burning gaze and acknowledge him with a nod.
I still don’t know what to think and feel about him.
But one thing is certain. Our connection has long since stopped being about any contract.
Maybe, against all odds, this is where I belong.