Page 110 of In Rising Tides

Lyra’s heart slowed its racing. The sorrow that had begun to creep over her was washed away by the next wave that rushed across her skin.

Her mother, who had birthed her in this realm before vanishing.

Lyra was floating in the corner of the room, watching a woman in labor. She was beautiful even in pain.

Her red hair was as bright as the blood that seeped from her.

She was life.

But birth was more violent than Lyra thought it would be. The woman thrashed upon nets, screaming around a piece of driftwood she clamped her jaws down on.

Eyes of pure green stared right through Lyra, nailing her to the corner of the room.

A baby wailed.

And the woman slumped onto the bed as if her life were fading away.

Lyra tried to approach to get another look, but the scene disappeared like morning fog in the sun.

It wasn’t long before all seven seas saw a drop of magical blood from the Mharas and Na Tuinnes. But the power wasn’t enough for those who yearned for it.

Lyra was back upon the sand. She shifted, feeling it collect under her nails. She knew what was going to happen but was utterly powerless to stop it.

Ennosidas was mighty, but not as mighty as Tiandra. It was jealousy of her rule that propelled him to make a bargain with the Na Tuinnes. He promised them some of his magic, and in return, they would bring him Tiandra’s trident.

Lyra frowned as she put the pieces together. It all came down to the same two things: greed and power.

Time and time again, power corrupted minds and spirits.

She blinked, and a merman was slipping through the palace, this palace. Somewhere in the distance, a baby wailed.

A groan slipped Lyra’s lips. It was a legacy of murder and lies.

No wonder their magic had faded.

Ennosidas didn’t care about them. He had only ever cared about himself. Lyra opened her mouth, trying to speak, but nothing came out.

They destroyed monuments of Tiandra and temples built in her name. Murals were plastered over, and history books were destroyed. It was as if she had never existed. To speak her name was a crime punishable by death. In just two generations, no one even remembered that she had existed. Except those who keep stories.

Questions piled up like sand around her.

Story keepers?

Lyra shook her head, trying to force her mind and body to cooperate so she could get the answers she sought. But the sand didn’t move beneath her head.

It didn’t cling to her hair or stick to her wet skin. The ground was soft now, but it wasn’t ground.

The heat from the sun disappeared, as did the wind and the sound of the birds.

There was a thrumming around her. She tried to pry her eyes open to break free from sleep’s hold and awake. But it was futile.

There were sounds around her—voices.

She focused on those, latching onto anything she thought would pry her from sleep.

“Anything?” a masculine voice asked.

Lyra couldn’t be certain, but it sounded like Drystan.