Chapter 9
Kore.
Vorynthar stank of her.
Sweet. Citrus-bright.
The scent of need.
It coiled through the budding reef, a promise clinging to Nyx’s tongue. Painting his gills with every breath he drew.
The color along his spines flashed with an erratic burst, mirroring the depths of his rage.
He needed her.
Every pulse of his heart echoed in his vent, where his sack had grown heavy. Ripe. The memory of her milking him dry, begging for more, it… it haunted him.
But Thalos had ruined everything.
The Spiral.
Called for a Siren.
Not to fight for breeding rights.
No.
Thalos meant to extinguish her—and with a dose of venom like the one he’d just given, he might have already succeeded.
Howling his impotent rage, Nyx sent his fist through a column of ancient basalt.
It wasn’t the dose of a mate, but the measure of an executioner.
Thalos had driven a barb between her ribs, emptying his venom sacs into the cavity surrounding her heart.
Kore.
His precious, living flame.
The way she’d arched, agony evident in her every line, with Thalos' barb slipped between her ribs. Mouth falling open, a silent scream making the veins in her throat bulge as Thalos pumped her full.
A killing dose.
Deliberate.
Claws gouging the basalt, Nyx snarled. Spines fully bared. Ready for battle.
Utterly unable to claim her. To attend her suffering or ease her pain. Guide her through the agony. Breathe for her, if he must. He was helpless but to let her suffer, unable to take her place, for if he tried—if he dared to touch what he had claimed—the Tide Mother would hand her over to Thalos.
Her right by law.
And then he’d be forced to watch her die.
A witness when Thalos opened her belly and scattered her across the seas. An example made from something precious and rare.
Serakh approached, the only one of his people brave enough to do so. Fins fluttering as she clung to the gentle currents, her silver eyes slipped over his body, the damage he’d done to ancient stone.
And then, “He poured his venom straight into her heart,” Nyx snapped, gills flaring crimson as he wrestled with the rage.
Serakh lifted one elegant shoulder. “She’s not dead.”
Teeth bared, Nyx hissed, “She should be. Even a pureblood would struggle to survive that dose. No”—his breath hitched—“No human could.”
Serakh offered a silent acknowledgement in the blink of clear, nictitating membrane. “She’s not human.”
Turning to eye the Virelii who’d been with him since before Threnakar had fallen—his father’s court, all but turned to rubble at Thalos’ command—Nyx inspected the female who’d stitched his fins after the skirmish in the kelp flats.
Remembering the way her hands had been steady as she threaded needlefish bone through his flesh.
Never flinching.
Steadfast. A brilliant tactical mind. One he cherished.
Kore was nothing like her.
Where Serakh was all sleek muscle and trench-born sinew, Kore was softness. Curves and pliant flesh. Her flimsy scales held the sun’s memory, where Serakh’s drank the dark and swallowed the light.
And Sera's scent… it was… nothing to the perfume of a Siren.
His Siren.
The thought sent a surge of possessive rage pounding through his body, and his vent throbbed, the slit parting as his cock pressed against it.
Kore was a tempest, a storm of citrus and lightning. A single breath of her essence, and Nyx was prepared to drain the trench to retain his claim to her flesh.
There’d been Virelii before, of course. Trench-born females who knew the weight of a king’s knot, who could take his seed and sing his name into the dark.
But he’d bred both kinds of female, now.
And Kore?
The thought sent a shudder through his frame. Spines twitching where they lay flat against his scales.
Kore broke around him.
That tiny human cunt sucked at his cock even as her mind and body fought the stretch.
Serakh’s voice pulled him from the memory. “Breathe, you fool. Her heart still beats.”
Tail flexing, Nyx twisted in the heart of his kingdom—a seat of power he would happily return to barren rubble, if Kore was taken from him. “Thalos is trying to kill her before the Gauntlet even begins. He pushed more venom into her veins in one breath than I have yet spilled.”
Again, Sera shrugged. “Then he failed,” she replied, her voice dry.
Nyx hesitated, and then, "I didn’t expect him to call the Spiral," he admitted, voice low and rough. "Not for a Siren. Not after the Accord."
For a moment, Sera's expression softened—a rare sight that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"The Hollow Court fears what she represents.
A Siren threatens everything they've built.
" Sera paused, then. Hesitating as she spread her spines and let the current drag her out of his reach.
And then, "Thalos will win the Gauntlet. "
Nyx's gills flared with controlled rage. "He will not—"
"He will," she stressed, her biolume pulsing bright and certain. Overpowering his denial. "If you continue with temper instead of strategy, you will lose your bride and condemn all Abyssari to death."
For a moment, Nyxarion watched her. And then, sending a breath through his gills, he flattened his spines. And nodded. Listening to her counsel.
"The Thalassari have undeniable advantage," Sera hummed. "The Gauntlet of Tides is designed for them, by them. As this is a dispute between sovereigns, you will be permitted to wield a weapon of your choosing—"
"The Trident will lift the Deep," Nyxarion snarled, sweeping his arm wide.
In response, his fledgling reef pulsed. Lighting up the cradle where the trident was buried in silt, as if slavering for the taste of carnage.
"And you will lose," Sera bit back. "Thalos will undoubtedly carry Cymareth. He will carve through the Gauntlet like it's nothing but open water," Sera continued, her silver eyes narrowed. "The Waveblade is all but weightless in his hands. A perfect extension of his will."
Nyxarion's tail lashed the water, sending ripples through the living reef around them. "The Trident is my birthright, Sera. My strength, and Cymareth’s equal."
"And it will doom you," Sera snapped. "If you drag the Trident through the Gauntlet, you will watch Thalos breed your bride after you've lost the first trial, drowned by your own arrogance."
Rage twisted Nyxarion's features, but beneath it—a flicker of fear. The thought of Kore beneath Thalos, her body taking another sovereign's seed... His claws scored deep grooves into his palms.
"You know I speak truth," Sera pressed. "The Gauntlet favors speed and agility.
Everything the Thalassari cultivate. And yes," she hissed, "Cymareth is no better than the trident.
They are different weapons. But in a contest of speed?
The trident is an anchor. Anything gained in wielding it is lost in carrying it. "
Nyxarion stilled, his gills pulsing with controlled fury. He circled the perimeter of the chamber, muscles bunched beneath midnight scales.
"The shallows breed grace and speed," Sera said, following his movement with careful eyes. "But the deep breeds power. Raw, unfiltered power."
His resonance hummed through the water, making the coral tremble. "I am stronger than he could ever be."
"Yes. But even without the Trident weighing you down, even surrendering the advantage over currents it gives you," Sera's voice dropped lower, "Thalos is incredibly fast. And only one trial of three is suited to Abyssari might.”
The admission hung between them. Blood in the water.
"You've seen him move," she continued. "The way he slips through currents without a ripple."
Nyxarion's jaw worked as he considered her words. The possibility that he might lose the Gauntlet was very, very real. He'd seen Thalassari champions slice through tide races that drowned Abyssari warriors.
But Thalos was not merely Thalassari—he was their sovereign.
"If I lose the first trial," he said, voice rough with suppressed fury, "Thalos claims her for one tide."
Sera nodded once, her expression grim. "And if you fight the Gauntlet with pure strength instead of strategy, he will.”
"You expect me to watch Thalos breed her and do nothing?" Nyxarion's voice dropped to a dangerous rumble, the water around him vibrating with barely contained violence. His tail lashed, sending smaller coral formations trembling in his wake.
Sera's expression shifted—the hint of a smile curving her lips. Not a gesture of comfort, but of calculation.
"No," Sera said, and that smile grew teeth. "You'll watch him try."
Nyxarion turned to face her, then. Massive bulk coiled, and rigid as he cast a shadow across Sera’s face.
A predatory grin touched the edge of her lips.
"The Gauntlet is built from vibration. War-song," Sera continued, moving closer as the barbed hook of her strategy ensnared him properly.
"Both choirs, blended to sing in opposition. They’ll carve the maze with their voices.
" She paused, letting the weight of her words settle in the fine silt.
"What if the Thalassari choir never finished a verse? "
Understanding bloomed in the dark. And with a hiss, Nyxarion’s gills flared. Gaping. “A trap.”
Offering a single, sharp nod, Sera’s eyes gleamed.
“The Abyssari choir is unpracticed. Far from the equal of Thalassari voices. We shouldn’t bother conquering the Gauntlet.
Not truly. Instead, we’ll break them.” Drifting closer, her voice a hissed whisper, she said, “An undertow. While the Thalassari focus on building perfect currents, we shall build what lies beneath.”
"They'll feel it coming," Nyxarion objected, but stilled.
"Yes," Sera admitted. "But by then, it will be far, far too late.” She paused, fins flicking in a delicate shrug. “We cannot stop Thalos. But the Thalassari choir themselves?”
Flashing his teeth, Nyx let his spines flare. “The Deep itself will be our weapon.”