Page 152 of In Rising Tides

He had been telling her the truth earlier. In his own stunted way, he truly thought he loved her.

Was willing to die for her right now.

Lyra shook her head, and her auburn hair waved with the movement. “You won’t survive a fight. But I know a place we can hide.” She grabbed his hand and attempted to take him with her.

He resisted. “I will not run from this. I will kill them and the merman behind this.”

Lyra opened her mouth to argue when Drystan’s gaze turned molten on whatever had appeared behind her.

“Aegir.”

She turned, watching as the shadows became corporeal.

They were acolytes.

“Then they’re here for both of us,” malice turning her voice brittle.

Drystan looked around and cursed under his breath. “We have no other weapons.”

Lyra didn’t feel fear anymore. The anxiety that had stilted her movements and stuttered her speech evaporated like steam.

All that remained was fire. Was rage.

Unending, unyielding wrath. It bloomed in her chest and seeped down her arms.

Lyra flexed her fingers, feeling her talons curl around the water. She would carve them up piece by piece.

The weight of his gaze pressed against her cheek, and she glanced sidelong at him.

“Whatever you’re planning,” his voice low, “don’t. Just go back to the palace. I’ll fend them off. Go straight to Fang and Angler; they’ll protect you.”

Although there was pure kindness in his words, they infuriated her.

She was sick and tired of being protected.

Sick of feeling powerless. Sick of not doing anything.

It ended now.

Lyra reached for the thread of gold around her heart with slow, sure movements.

She had observed from her lessons with Nerida that it only took a tiny bit of pressure to pluck the thread.

“Lyra, I know what you’re thinking,” Drystan began again. “No.”

It was too late.

She ran a finger across the thread, staring at the acolytes that closed in on them.

“Die,” she whispered.

But her fury rose like a rising tide and overtook her.

She was powerless against herself and succumbed to the passion of it, pressing harder against the thread. She imagined her talons pressing into their flesh, splitting their veins open, and watching their life force spill out of them.

Drystan watched in horror as the acolytes clutched their throats. Their blood spilled out in thick ribbons.

There were a dozen of them, and the water turned to chum in the blink of an eye.