Page 93 of Brine and Bone
Adjusting his grip, heart thundering behind his eyes, Nyx did as he had done when he'd first drowned her.
He sealed his lips across that pretty mouth and breathed for her.
Careful exhales.
Filtering the toxins in the anoxic tide, he flooded her lungs with life.
Without a word of argument, Thalos followed. A pale, silent shadow, matching his pace.
And when Vorynthar materialized from the dark, neither slowed. They sailed past the sweeping architecture, snaked past sentries who went rigid at the sight of the Siren hanging limp in their king’s arms, and ignored the reef breakers tending the Raskoril looming in the dark.
Each and every Pelagorn who witnessed that grim procession froze at the sight.
Horror rippled through the heretical reef as they passed. Fins pressed flat, jaws clenched.
One sentry made a sound Nyxarion had never heard from an Abyssari throat. A keen. High and thin and wounded as he saw the color of Vorynthar’s divine flame.
But no one spoke.
No one dared.
Nyx dove into the corridors that would take him to the throne room, seeking shelter. A fortress he might defend against attack. And the instant the antechamber opened around them, he spun, turning on Thalos, with a clipped, "Get out."
Going still, the Shallow King stopped. Fins flared to catch himself in the current. Palms flashing a pale surrender. A bidfor peace. Reason. And then, carefully, he said, “What if she's dying?"
"She isnot?—"
"What if she needs what only I can give her?" Thalos said, interrupting in a tone utterly devoid of threat. It was beseeching. Infuriatingly reasonable. "She needed my venom to stabilize the child. What if I can offer something you cannot? This is thereasonwe’re negotiating the Covenant. I’m the Anchor.”
Bristling, spines lifting in a deadly fan, Nyx’s lips wrinkled around a snarl.
But Thalos was right.
Damn the slippery, silver-tongued prick to die beached on land, baked in the heat of the sun.
A growl built in his chest, but he made no move to open Thalos’ throat and feed his corpse to the Raskoril.
Because the Siren in his arms was grey.
"Shut your mouth." It was a plea, a desperate flailing attempt at control. One he couldn’t be bothered to mask. Not now. "Just… shut up,” he hissed, and turned to the throne.
The bowl of her seat, the cage where he’d remade her, the bones of the first fool who’d threatened her. Every iteration of that cursed structure had served his precious Siren bride. Cradled her, supported the precious thing he’d fought an ocean of predators to claim.
Careful, watching her every fluttering breath, he laid her into the bowl.
It happened in an instant.
From one blink to the next.
Bleaching.
A colorless tide that raced through the Raskoril's veins. Bleeding the reef of every drop of color. Blue faded to grey before it washed away to nothing.
The throne drained first, then the floor, then the walls—death’s pallor spread through Vorynthar's bones in waves.
The entire reef was bleaching.
"No." It was a whisper. Something horrified and quiet, the devastation spilled from his lips in a breath.
