The girl blushed fiercely and kept her eyes fixed on the display of bread as she swept the coins into her palm. “It’s in the center of town,” she mumbled, pointing vaguely over her shoulder, “but it’s closed for the season.”
Collin thanked her, quietly amused by her shyness. Outside, he lingered a moment, glancing in the direction of the workshop. He’d assumed Gravis would return to Nereid for the winter to stay with his uncle Titus, but perhaps he’d gone to White Wood instead—to see Sky.
His thoughts were soon interrupted by the call of the coast.
The wind carried the sharp scent of salt, undercut by the warning tang of distant rain. The clouds loomed low and ponderous, and while it might not fall today, the sky made no promises about tomorrow. The prospect of working through acold deluge did not thrill him—but he’d signed on for the season, and he would see it through.
The Mermaid’s Tale lay several miles from the village. With the breeze stiff against him, the walk was brisk and far from pleasant. But when the cliffs finally emerged from the mist, Collin stopped, struck by their grandeur. Against the deep gray of the sky, the carved figure of the mermaid seemed alive—arching upward into the clouds, her enormous tail caught mid-splash in a sea of roiling heavens.
He spent hours along the shoreline. Despite his mixed feelings about the months ahead, it was hard not to be moved by the stark beauty of the place. The coast unfurled endlessly before him, sea and sky braided together in a thousand hues of blue-green, like the inside of an oyster shell. Now and then, sunlight pierced the cloud cover, igniting the pale sand until it shimmered like fresh snow.
Whatever storms lay ahead, Collin let himself enjoy this one still moment before the tide of duty rolled in.
Sure enough, rain greeted Collin’s first morning on the job. He and his housemates stirred before dawn, shrugging on damp coats and sloshing through puddles on their way to the docks. The wind whipped cold spray off the water, and the clouds hung low enough to brush the roof of the fishing hut.
He was assigned to dock duty—a small mercy, really. The sight of the tiny fishing boats pitching on the storm-thrashed waves made his stomach lurch. Just watching them tossed like driftwood made his knees feel slightly untrustworthy.
The work was immediate and unrelenting. Net after waterlogged net was hauled from the sea, and Collin joined the chain of hands dragging the heavy cords onto the dock. Within minutes, he was soaked through—salt and rain seepinginto every seam—but the exertion kept him warm, the kind of warmth that came from steady motion and sore muscles rather than the sun.
With each haul, he learned the rhythm: untangle, lift, sort. The first time he reached into the writhing mass to separate species, he hesitated—then grimaced and got on with it. The sea offered up its riches with a kind of ruthless generosity: silvery mackerel, slabs of glistening cod, and even an octopus or two. Some would stay in Nereid; the rest were destined for the summit, where fresh seafood was a winter luxury. They packed the sorted catch into crates lined with chill moss and loaded them into wagons bound for the winding road up the mountain.
The hours blurred—tide after tide of work, shouted instructions over the rain, aching shoulders, windburned cheeks. Yet somehow, the day slipped by quickly. The final net was heaved in just before dusk, and within the hour, the last wagon trundled away, creaking under its salted cargo.
Before heading in, Collin joined Logan to complete the roster. They double-checked every moored boat, called each team by name, ensured the oars were racked and the slips secure. It was meticulous, repetitive work—but strangely satisfying. There was a kind of comfort in making sure nothing and no one was left behind.
By the time he returned to the lodge, Collin was hollowed out by fatigue and hollowed out by hunger, simultaneously. He nearly collapsed into his seat at the table, but the fish stew tasted better than anything he'd eaten in weeks. His body ached in ways he hadn’t known it could, and he suspected tomorrow would introduce a new catalog of soreness—but his spirit was buoyed.
Somewhere between the crash of waves and the steady press of labor, the knot in his chest had loosened. He had contributed to something real. Fish that he had helped pull from thesea would soon be part of someone’s winter table—maybe his friends’, maybe a student’s.
When he finally crawled beneath the covers, too tired even to read, an odd sort of pride settled over him like a second blanket. He still had a great deal to learn—but maybe, just maybe, he was right where he was supposed to be.
In the weeks that followed, Collin threw himself fully into his new life along the coast. The first mornings were brutal—his muscles rebelled with each haul, and his joints creaked like an old dock beneath him—but soon his body learned the rhythm. Blisters gave way to calluses, and the early sting of cold sea spray became a bracing welcome rather than a shock. He grew faster at sorting the catch, faster still at pulling in the nets, no longer hesitating when a crate needed lifting or a stubborn rope needed untangling.
With time and quiet competence, Leif entrusted him with more responsibility. Collin took to closing out the day: checking boats back in, confirming names against the roster, ensuring each vessel was moored with care. He’d walk the length of the dock at dusk, lantern swinging in the mist, feeling not just useful—but trusted.
On calmer days, when the sky was kinder and the waves less brutal, Leif sent the newer recruits out to sea. It was exhilarating, to learn how to set the lines and feel the current tug against their weight. Rowing on the wide ocean was nothing like gliding over the familiar current of the North Town Lake. Out here, the sea had moods. It tossed and tested him, demanding more than strength—it required instinct.
His first few outings left him gasping and drenched, arms trembling from the effort, his balance upended by the roll of the boat beneath him. But the veterans coached him with patientgrins and sharp instructions, and slowly, their knowledge sank in. He learned to listen—to the current, to the wind, to the birds wheeling overhead in anticipation of the catch. He learned when to lean into the oars and when to let the sea carry its own weight.
And somewhere in that spray-slick blur of nets and salt and shouted warnings over the water, Collin began to understand not only how to endure the ocean—but how to read it.
Icy rain streamed from Collin’s hair, traced his cheeks, and dripped steadily from his chin. The downpour hadn’t let up in hours. It seemed impossible the clouds hadn’t emptied themselves yet. He jogged along the slick dock planks, boots slipping more than once as waves slammed beneath him. Just one more boat left to check in, and then he could send the crew home.
But at the far end of the dock, Hayden and Jonah were preparing to push out again.
Collin quickened his pace, lifting his oil lamp high through the stinging rain. “Where are you going?” he shouted, voice barely audible over the storm’s howl.
“We’ve got one last net to secure!” Jonah called back, water sluicing from his soaked curls.
Collin dropped to his knees and caught the skiff’s bow before it could lurch away from the dock. The boat rocked violently in the swells. “I think that’s it for today,” he said, trying to steady both his voice and the vessel. “The storm’s getting worse.”
“We’ll be quick,” Hayden assured him, planting an oar against the dock to stabilize the skiff. “We’ll be back before you’re done with the rest.”
“No worries, boss!” Jonah added with a grin. “We’ve seen worse.”
Collin kept his hand on the slick hull, his breath caught somewhere between authority and doubt. He was the one in charge—Leif had left him to make the call. It was his job to protect the crew. To call it quits. To keep them safe.
But these were seasoned men, and the confidence in Jonah’s voice reminded Collin just how green he still felt. He hesitated a second longer—then gave the skiff a push.
