Sera grinned.
But Nyxarion turned back. Eyes seeking the flickering ember glowing in the dark.
And chose her.
Chose to let Vorynthar fall, if he must. Let Threnakar swallow every corridor and claim every bleached bone. Let his father's army pour through the passages and find him here, blocking this door with his corpse if it came to that.
He would not leave Kore to die in her nest.
Not even for a moment.
But it was then, as he watched his bride in her quiet tomb, the crush of death’s sweet tide closing in around him, that Nyxarion felt it.
A hand.
Strong fingers closing on his shoulder.
Fins flicking, Nyxarion stilled. But the Trident reflected his surprise, flaring white-hot as he twitched, for there hadn’t been a whisper. Not a hint of someone close enough to taste what the Trident held in check.
Thalos.
Invisible under his camouflage.
Steady and silent.
And with him, Cymareth. The Waveblade. Swift and just as deadly as the ancient javelin clenched in his fist.
Nyx didn’t turn or shift. Did not betray so much as a twitch of his jaw that might suggest anything had changed.
One fin flicked.
A single lateral adjustment that tapped Thalos’ unseen scales.
That hand on his shoulder squeezed, claws dimpling his muscle.
And then Nyxaroth penetrated the throne room. “Ah,” he crowed, flanked by enormous Abyssari warriors. “Nyxarion. The exiled prince. My deepest shame.”
“Father,” Nyxarion returned, lifting one great shoulder. Fingers wrapped around the Trident’s hilt. “You’re looking sickly. Was the travel difficult?”
The old king sneered. “Silence,” he spat, fins spreading wide. “You have invited war into the seas with your impiety. Violated the Accord that has stood longer than you’ve been alive.”
The litany of accusations filled the throne room. Rolling over Nyx without touching him.
He blinked.
Fingers tight where the Trident seethed.
And that unseen hand on his shoulder held him in place.
“You endanger us all in service to your cock. To breed a creature the sea rejected generations past.” Lifting his tail, Nyxaroth flicked his tail and approached the thrones. Relics of two kingdoms. Bones already taken by the parasitic reef and remade. His lip curled. “You chose a human over your own kind. Your own blood. And for what? Another failed attempt at breeding a Siren?"
Nyxarion’s eyes narrowed.
Muscles tightened, readying to defend his bride—their unborn child from such vile slander.
“Steady,” Thalos whispered, a ghost of sound. Lips moving against his ear with the quiet authority of a king who held secret leverage and knew just when to pull the handle. “Wait.”
Teeth bared, the Trident frothing in his fist, Nyx shivered. Vibrating with the burden of violence scarcely restrained, desperate to reject that whispered temperance and slake his bloodlust.