Reaching the bottom step, the stairwell yawns into a vast cavern ...
I could wash in my room, but I much prefer it down here in Puddles—the communal bathing chambers.
Sconces cast the wet stone in a gilded glow and illuminate mineral fangs that hang from the ceiling, reaching for a dozen steaming springs, some with no more than a thin vein of rock casting them apart from their neighboring pool.
Each is filled almost to the rim with water that looks like black ink in the low light, a rich contrast to the haze that whorls off them in ghostly wisps.
The springs are big enough to house over ten people, but are always empty at this time, a luxury that allows me to strip.
My pants and panties go first, then my muddy, paint-stained blouse, before I get to work unbinding my breasts. Every untwist of the stretchy bandage allows me to breathe a little deeper, but even as I let the material flutter to the ground, my skin still feels too tight.
Always.
Stretching my arms this way and that, I tiptoe toward my favorite spring at the far end—the one pressed against the wall. I edge down toothy steps, letting the water scald my bristling skin. After a few seconds, the burn yields to a restful numb, and I dip further ... further ... until the floor gives way to the endless deep.
I’m not sure how far it goes, or if it even has a bottom. But the deeper you dive, the hotter the water, as if it spawns from the belly of the earth.
Hair dragging behind me, I tread toward the far side.
This spring doesn’t have the most comfortable sitting spots, butthisspring ...
It’s my guilty pleasure.
Reaching the wall, I ply my fingers between a crack and grip hold, peering down to where years of erosion have worn a hole through the rock. A hole that allows the faintest flow of water to push and pull from whatever’s on the other side, like it’s sharing breath with a separate spring not caught inside the chamber of Puddles.
I dove deep and explored the breach once—felt its jagged edges, as if someone kicked it into existence. I tried to see what’s on the other side, but it’s dark down there. Gloomy.
Still gripping the rock, I rest my forehead against the wall and close my eyes.
A rich, leathery musk perfumes the air, making me moan. I empty my lungs before drawing them full, holding onto the ambrosial breath as if it alone could sustain me for eternity.
Feed my hungry heart.
The reason I love this spring so much—the reason I bathe here rather than relying on the convenience of the tub in my tower—is because sometimes...
Sometimes the water smells likehim.
The ocean here is ice cold and always still, as though the wind is afraid to ruffle its surface.
Dead End. That’s what I’ve heard some topsiders call this part of The Shoaling Seas. But to me, it’s not a dead stillness.
It’s awaitingstillness.
I skirt around the edges of a turquoise iceberg so big it’s hard to see where it starts. Where it ends.
Bodies are trapped within, locked in a catatonic eternity—creatures who did not get the chance to decompose before the ice caught them.
Hundreds of these bobbing graveyards litter this part of the ocean, immortalizing a great deal of things I’d rather forget.
I push on, hands speared at my sides, churning my tail in a slow, rhythmic dance.
I’m not here to dwell on the past. I’m here because myhoardingdrako decided there’s a corner of our trove that could do with a little extra sparkle.
‘Almost there. Set Zykanth free.’
He’s pushing at my skin from within, making it itch, threatening to shred it apart. My jaw aches, as if it’s about to pop from its hinges—
‘Stop it. You’re too big. She’ll see.’
