He points a trembling finger toward the rusted stove where the forgotten pot of sea-slugs simmers. He brings his thumb and forefinger together, making a rhythmic pinching motion near his swollen lips.
Food.
"Food," Vaelis whispers, the word barely disturbing the warm water.
A sharp blue spark pops against the rusted iron. "Oh, thank the currents," Bolt groans from the copper cage. "You remembered the slime. I assumed you two planned to eat each other for dinner."
Heat floods my face. I let out a silent huff of breath.
Vaelis glances at the glowing eel. His golden eyes shift back to mine. A coy, knowing smile curves his swollen lips.
I meet his golden eyes and smile back.
My smile lacks all polite beauty. It's jagged, menacing, and silent.
But in the absolute dark of the Gray Wastes, it speaks volumes.
Chapter 13
The Monster's Mercy
Mira
Theycarvehismonumentfrom the most pearlescent stone in the city.
A single day has passed since the coward's retreat. The water in the central plaza tastes of raw fear and bitter exhaustion. Elite stonemasons strike pristine marble with iron chisels. They shape a towering, muscular fiction. They carve a hero gripping a heavy triton spear. The real Vaelis held no such weapon in the freezing trench. The Council built him to be bait, not a soldier.
I float in the shifting current, staring at the false statue.
My hands shake with a tremor I cannot suppress. I remain covered in dried battle-slime and the gray dust of the terrified retreat. I have not washed the stench of failure from my skin. I have not slept a single hour.
A voice travels through the heavy water.
"I have the final casualty report from the outer perimeter," a Vanguard captain states. His tone is flat. "We lost sixty Vael soldiers in the Gray Wastes. The swarm broke their defensive line."
Elder Soryn sighs. The sound holds no grief. It holds nothing but boredom.
"Sixty is an acceptable expenditure," Soryn replies. "They served their purpose. Clear their names from the active registry. Draft another hundred from the lower rings by the next Mourning Tide."
I freeze. My grip tightens on my iron harpoon. The Vanguard instructors swore the Council valued every life in the Reef. We bleed to protect the light. But Soryn speaks of the betta-mersoldiers like rusted, disposable spears. A cold, heavy knot forms in my stomach.
The captain bows and swims away.
Soryn turns. He hovers beside me in the water. He wears his finest ceremonial robes. He looks solemn. He looks satisfied.
"It captures his noble spirit. Do you not agree?" Soryn asks, gesturing to the marble.
I turn to face him. The faith I held in the High Council is shattered. I am a weapon, and I refuse to be a tool for a butcher.
"His spirit?" I ask. My voice sounds like grinding stones. "He is not dead, Soryn. He was taken."
Soryn sighs. The sound holds no grief. It holds nothing but boredom. "He fell in battle, Mira. We all witnessed the tragedy. The entire Red Squad was destroyed. The Great White took him."
"Another shark-mer took him down to the shelf," I snap, swimming closer to the Elder. "He didn't eat him. The strike was clear, but another monster grabbed him and dragged him into the abyss. I saw it. He is alive. He is a prisoner."
"And what if he is a prisoner?" Soryn asks in a low tone.
The harsh question stops the breath in my chest.
