The sea was too calm.

  Seraphine stood at the bow of the ship, her hands curled over the smooth wooden railing, fingers aching from the force of her grip. She hadn’t noticed how tightly she was holding on until her nails bit into her palm, leaving deep crescents in the flesh. Still, she didn’t let go. The water stretched endlessly before her, a glassy expanse that mirrored the slate-gray sky. Even the breeze had gone still, the canvas sails sagging in the eerie stillness. The ship rocked only slightly on the faint swells, its creaks and groans swallowed by the hush.

  Her reflection drifted below, faint and fractured by the occasional ripple. Her dark hair clung to her temples, damp from the sea air, and her lips, pressed thin, were pale against her sun-kissed skin. She stared at the water long enough to see her own face blur into something unrecognizable, distorted by the wavering current. She imagined slipping beneath it—imagined her reflection disappearing entirely.

  She exhaled sharply, breaking the illusion, and forced her gaze upward.

  The horizon bled into a smudge of gray. The sun was nothing but a faded smear behind thickening clouds, a pale memory of warmth. She dragged in a breath of salt-heavy air, her chest tightening against the weight in her throat. She heard the crew muttering behind her. Their voices were low, cautious, as if afraid to disturb the water’s unnatural stillness. She didn’t need to hear their words to know what they feared. The air was too heavy, clinging to her skin with a dampness that left no room for warmth.

  The storm was coming, but it wasn’t the storm that haunted her.

  Seraphine dug into the pocket of her cloak and pulled out the letter. She didn’t need to read it again; the words were already etched into her mind, each line a slow drag of the knife. Still, she unfolded the heavy parchment, letting the sea breeze tug at the edges.

  The signature at the bottom—her father’s—stared back at her with cold finality.

  You will do your duty to Solrien. You will honor this alliance and bring stability to your kingdom. Your marriage to Lord Kaelen is not a choice, but an obligation.

  Her eyes traced the elegant but unyielding scrawl. No tenderness. No affection. Just duty.

  She closed her eyes and let the letter crumple in her hands. When she opened them again, she stared at the horizon until the words burned away behind her eyelids.

  “Storm coming in,” a voice called behind her.

  She turned slightly, just enough to catch the silhouette of the first mate. His face was lined with salt and sun, and though his voice was steady, there was an edge to it—a subtle unease that tugged at her nerves.

  She gave a tight nod. He lingered a moment, as if debating whether to say more. When she remained silent, he returned to his work.

  Seraphine stayed at the bow. The sun dipped lower, the light thinning until the sea turned leaden. The clouds bloomed in the distance, heavy and bruised with blue-black thunderheads. The occasional flicker of lightning split the sky in a pale, skeletal branch, illuminating the roiling storm in brief flashes. The calm wouldn’t last.

  She welcomed the thought. Let the storm come. Let it rip the sails and splinter the mast. Let it shatter this ship on the rocks. Anything was better than what waited for her in Vessar.

  Kaelen’s face rose in her mind, though she had never seen him. She didn’t need to. She could picture him perfectly—the sharp-jawed, calculating nobleman her father spoke of so highly. His words about Kaelen’s lineage and influence were always spoken with thinly veiled reverence, as if he were describing a prized stallion rather than a man. A man who would own her, body and name.

  She tightened her grip on the railing. Her fingers were stiff and bloodless, her knuckles a stark white. She barely noticed.

  Her eyes drifted downward again, tracing the steady lap of the current against the hull. The water had darkened as the storm drew closer, the surface shifting in slow, lazy currents. She stared at the depths, losing herself in the rhythmic swirl of it, the gentle pull and release.

  At first, it was only a flicker—a darker patch against the black-blue depths. She blinked, convinced she was imagining it. But when she looked again, it was still there, moving against the current.

  Her breath caught. It wasn’t debris. It wasn’t a trick of the light. It was a shape, far too deliberate and fluid to be driftwood. It moved like something alive, but slower, heavier. A shadow.

  Her throat tightened. The shape slid beneath the surface with unnatural grace, keeping pace with the ship. She strained to see it more clearly, leaning further over the railing, her knuckles whitening against the wood.

  The crew shouted something behind her, but her ears were full of the hollow hush of the water.

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  The shadow drifted closer.

  Seraphine’s breath quickened. Her pulse thudded in her ears as the dark shape rolled with the current, its form just barely visible beneath the surface. Long, undulating limbs stretched and coiled, sinuous and slow, trailing behind the larger mass. For a brief moment, she thought she glimpsed the outline of a body—a chest, arms too broad to be human. Her eyes traced the shape of a face, pale against the gloom, with eyes like black glass.

  She sucked in a sharp breath.

  The shadow slowed, keeping just beneath the water, just beyond clarity, watching. She could feel it, even though she couldn’t see its eyes clearly anymore. Her chest tightened with something between dread and fascination. The longer she stared, the harder it became to look away.

  A crack of thunder split the air.

  She gasped and jerked backward, her grip slipping on the slick railing. The sky fractured with lightning, the jagged bolt illuminating the sea in stark flashes. When she looked down again, the shadow was gone. The waves beneath the ship churned, black water swallowing the darkness whole.

  She stumbled back from the railing, her breath shaking. She glanced around, half-expecting to see the crew’s alarmed faces, but none of them had noticed. They were busy securing the rigging, shouting commands over the growing wind.

  The storm had arrived.

  Wind tore through the sails with sudden violence, snapping the canvas taut. Rain pelted the deck in heavy, stinging sheets. The ship pitched violently as the waves rose, crashing against the hull with bone-rattling force. Seraphine gripped the railing again, her breath shallow.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the crew. Their faces were strained but focused. They hadn’t seen it. None of them had.

  But she had. And somewhere in the storm-torn sea, it was still watching.

  Seraphine backed away from the railing, but her eyes remained fixed on the water. The shadow was gone. She scanned the surface, pulse still hammering against her ribs, but the sea was empty—just the black swell of rising waves and the silver chop of the wind.

  Her breath came fast and uneven. She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the erratic flutter beneath her ribs. You imagined it. That’s what she told herself, but she didn’t believe it.

  The rain came in a fine mist at first, a faint drizzle clinging to her skin. She should have gone below deck, but her feet remained rooted. She stared at the spot where the shadow had been, the faint imprint still vivid in her mind—the undulating limbs, the glimmer of pale skin, and the eyes…

  Her gaze swept the sea again.

  This time, he wasn’t a shadow.

  He rose slowly from the water, as if the sea itself were exhaling him. The surface tension clung to him, water sheeting from his body in long rivulets. For a moment, she thought he might be part of the current—a phantom born from the black tide.

  Then he moved. Deliberately. Fluidly. His eyes were black, depthless, and gleaming like polished onyx, they locked onto hers with a predatory stillness. They held no reflection of the sky or sea—only darkness, swallowing the light whole.

  The rest of him followed—a broad chest, lean and sinewed, the water trailing in rivulets down his skin. His hair, ink-black and heavy with brine, clung to his face, the tips dripping with saltwater. His skin, pale with a faint shimmer like polished pearl, was mottled with faint ridges that traced down his ribs and arms, subtle but unmistakable. The ridges pulsed slightly, expanding and contracting with the rhythm of his breathing—if it was breathing at all.

  Beneath the surface, something else moved—something darker.

  Her fingers tightened on the railing. She strained to see past the waterline, but it was too dark. Still, she could feel it. The shifting mass below him, coiling in the gloom, something far larger than the man who stared at her with those hollow eyes. His limbs drifted slightly as though the sea itself were part of him, moving with him rather than against him.

  Her breath caught. She should have turned away. She should have called out for the crew, but her throat refused to work. Her gaze remained locked on his.

  The ship groaned faintly beneath her, the wood protesting the stillness of the sea. He was too close.

  And then he moved.

  Not with the sluggish grace of the sea, but swiftly, too swiftly, closing the distance with an unnerving fluidity. One moment he was several meters away, his eyes barely visible through the gloom. The next, he was directly below her, his face a pale shape just beyond the hull. She could see the faint part of his lips, the inhuman sharpness of his features—the almost sculptural precision of his jaw and cheekbones.

  He’s too close.

  Her breath hitched. Her hands trembled against the railing.

  The shadow beneath him stretched unnaturally, tendrils of darkness unfurling in the water. She could see them now—the coils of inky blackness writhing just below the surface, their shape distorted by the waves but unmistakable. They trailed behind him like living shadows, moving independently of the current, reaching.

  The wind stung her face, but she barely noticed. She should have moved, but her legs were leaden, her limbs frozen with the certainty that if she turned her back, he would pull her down into the dark.

  The ship pitched slightly. The motion jolted her. She blinked, and he was gone. For a moment, she thought she had imagined him. She stared at the water, her breath catching in her throat. Her fingers were bloodless against the railing, and her legs felt unsteady beneath her.

  When she saw him again, he was further away, almost on the edge of the storm’s shadow. The rain had thickened into a steady drizzle, blurring the horizon into nothing. Yet she saw him clearly, drifting backward with the slow ease of something wholly at home in the depths.

  He was watching her.

  Her breath came in shallow, rapid bursts. The crew shouted somewhere behind her, but she couldn’t pull her eyes from him. For a brief moment, she swore she saw him tilt his head slightly, as though considering her. And then, with a flick of his body, he disappeared beneath the waves.

  Her stomach tightened, a twisting knot of fear and something she couldn’t name.

  Something that felt too much like recognition.