Exile had come after everything had already been lost.
Resurrection had been grueling. A thing he'd clawed from noxious currents, from the hands of murderous kings.
But rebirth had come from a woman he'd saved and destroyed. A creature who'd rebuilt him, just as surely as he'd created her.
And now his father dared to lounge inhisthrone as if awaiting tribute. As if he had earned the right to so much as breathe in the poisoned tide without Nyxarion's explicit permission.
Two scholars of the Deep Court drifted behind Nyxaroth's shoulder. Painted in shades of gloomy Abyssari blue, their faces slack with something worse than curiosity.
Hunger.
Their eyes found Kore and stayed there, tracking the shimmer of her belly with flat, reflective eyes.
A low, grinding snarl turned the water around Nyxarion foamy with fury.
Keening, Kore pressed against his spine, her fingers curling into his scales as she cowered in his shadow. He felt her pulse quicken, tasted her fear when it bled through his gills.
Without conscious thought, one arm swept behind him.
The motion was pure instinct—territorial, possessive, almostviolentin its gentleness because his precious living flame was frightened.
And for that…
… his father would pay.
Keeping her pressed to his spine, her belly warm against his skin, Nyxarion's lips peeled back to expose his teeth. Spines shivering as he postured. Defending his bride.
His child.
Shifting his bulk, Nyx spread his fins wide until the membranes blocked Kore from their sight entirely. His tail swept in a slow arc, positioning itself between her body and the throne. Every ridge of scale along his spine lifted—a deadly display.
Venting heat, agitating the bacteria living in the grooves between his scales until he glowed brighter than he’d ever done before.
But he could not hide what she was.
That her scent was electric and bright. Unmistakably Siren.
And he could not stop her ethereal biolume from bleeding around his silhouette.
A sunset after a storm.
Warm light and impossible color.
At the sight, Nyxaroth's pupils contracted. Lips peeled back in a sneer of pure disgust. Uncoiling a loop of his tail from around the base of the throne, the old king shifted.
The movement was deliberate. Absent haste.
Pure obsidian without Nyxarion’s indigo undertones, his father’s scales were black enough to swallow Vorynthar’s glow. Tracking his son’s defensive flare to the glow bleeding past his fins, cold eyes grew slitted and narrow.
And then, reeking of something sinister, Nyxaroth’s lips curved.
It was a wretched thing to behold.
"So," his father said in a voice oozing thick globs of condescension. "It appears the exile succeeded at last." He flicked his spines, an arrogant summoning gesture Nyx had long since grown to hate. "Let us see it, then."
Summoning the Deep Court had been a mistake.
He knew that now.